She'll Take It by Mary Carter

every kid secretly dreams of narrowly escaping a speeding train.
    But now that I know the feeling, the fantasy is gone. It’s none other than raw dread. I can feel it in my bones. I’m on the tracks and the train is coming. I have one last chance to hide. One last little chance to throw my body flat against the retaining wall, taste the bitter bite of concrete, feel the sun on my shoulders for the last time, and most likely pee my pants as the tracks start to vibrate from the force of steel hurling toward me at eighty miles an hour. “What is the Web address?” I groan as the train streaks by. “What’s the fucking Web address?”
    Not only am I locked in a tiny room with no windows and a psycho file boy, I’m also sans computer. I have to see the Web site. Why in the world would I be on a Web site? I peek into the hallway. It’s as quiet as the desert. I head down the hallway back toward the reception area and enter the first office I come across. This is more like it. This office has gleaming hardwood floors and floor to ceiling windows with a great view of the Empire State Building. There is a leather couch and chair, a bamboo coffee table, and a mahogany desk. The walls are adorned with black-and-white photos of New York City from the twenties to today. I like the person who lives here and I wish I had more time to snoop around, but Steve Beck is going to be back from lunch any minute now. He’s the type who will finish ten minutes early just so he can catch you doing something wrong, and it’s obvious that he’s Trina’s little pawn.
    The computer is right there on the desk. I have yet to move past the entrance. So far, I’m safe. If anyone came by now, I’d say I was just admiring the photos from afar. I could even claim to be a bit of a photographer myself. Aren’t we all? The computer may be password protected and it will be a mute point, but I still have to have a story in case someone sees me. Think, Melanie. What is a good excuse? Why would I be snooping around on a computer my first day here? If someone comes in, I’ll have to make up some kind of e-mail emergency. It is now or never.
    The computer is already logged on and I am relieved to see an AOL icon on the desktop. I sign in as a guest, log in my screen name and password, and within seconds the cursor blinks in the http address line. My hands shake as I type in the Web address, fuming at the title. Shemalediva.com .
    I wait another few seconds and then suddenly the entire screen is filled with a picture of the ugliest woman I have ever seen. She is on her knees and her mouth is thrown back in ecstasy. Strangest of all, she looks like she has a large wooden penis. Her hands are wrapped around it and she appears to be masturbating. And, if you’re not yet completely horrified—here’s the part I really can’t swallow. Here’s the part that has me bolted to the spot, staring in slack-jawed, nauseating terror. She is me.

Chapter 7
    I can’t stand. I sink into the leather desk chair and continue to stare at my image. From the looks of my hair, the picture must have been taken toward the end of the evening. I was deliriously drunk and madly in love with Ray. We had just made love in Trina’s bedroom under a pile of coats and purses. In fact I had even managed to collect a few postcoital trinkets (a tube of ChapStick, a magnet that said ARE YOU A BITCH OR DO YOU JUST LIVE IN NEW YORK , and a pack of Camel Lights that I later give to an anorexic model).
    After we made love, Ray went to get another beer and I ran into my friend Tommy in the dining room. Someone cranked Kiss, and Tommy and I started doing our crazed rocker impressions. I didn’t want to be outdone by Tommy, who was gyrating like a tornado in his tight, red leather pants, so I mussed up my hair, fell to my knees and screamed like Keith Richards for a small but appreciative audience. Then someone handed me