Habit

Chapter 2

Camila walked out of the janitor's closet stealthily, trying not to draw attention to herself. This was how she did it; she took whatever boy who took interest in her-and by interest, she meant lust, desire-and pulled him into whatever small space was closest to them, and let him use her for her body. It was her dirty little not so secret secret habit, and she hated every minute of it. She hated the way they touched her; she hated the way their fingers were rough, crude, using. She hated how it felt to open her body to guys whose names she did not know. She hated the meaningless looks they gave her when they told her thanks and walked out, pulling up their zippers, and with that, Camila's pride.
But none of these things did she hate most.
What she hated most was herself.
Maybe if he hadn't thought it'd be so easy to use her, she wouldn't have this habit. This was true enough. Maybe if she would have pushed him off, told him no no no like a good girl's supposed to, she wouldn't have this habit. Maybe if she'd been smarter, she wouldn't have this habit.
But now, walking out of this janitor's closet, wiping her mouth off with a napkin she'd found on the ground, she realized she needed this habit.
No matter how disgusting, no matter how ridiculously belittling, she needed it.
She needed it to feel like she couldn't and wouldn't die of shame from what he put her through. Even putting her mouth on enough guys every day to fill a football team was less shameful than letting a guy she didn't want touching her touch her because he knew two things: 1. He could, and 2. She couldn't stop him. Giving free blow jobs and distributing her sexual organs felt better than remembering how she let him touch her. Her habit reminded her it was okay to say yes, and never okay to say no. And that's what helped her sleep at night.
She didn't say no that night; she should have, but she didn't. And because of that night, now she has a nasty, nasty habit that would soon kill her.
Lauren was right.
She is a slut.
It was written across the faces of all the people who passed her. Camila could be as secretive as she wanted to be; people knew where she was, what she was doing, but they didn't know why.
They didn't know it saved her in a sick, twisted way. They didn't know she was desperate to wipe the sick feeling away, the sick feelings she possessed for girls the way she should have for guys. She shouldn't be attracted to girls, much less Lauren Jauregui. Lauren hated her more than Camila hated herself, which was saying something.
Camila would do anything to change that.
There was something about Lauren that intrigued her, made her want to explore what could be possible between two teenage girls, one too popular, one too slutty. There was something eminent there, something necessary to at least find, no matter how hard. Camila wanted to do things with Lauren she didn't seek with the guys she seduced. She wanted to touch Lauren in innocent ways, in ways that were freeing-soft, careful touches that would bring the two of them together in a way nothing else could.
And all of those wants and needs for Lauren Jauregui scared Camila shitless.
She knew from the start-girls and boys were supposed to be together. Not girls and girls. She'd learned from her mother, from her father, grandparents, and friends from the church which she no longer attended on a regular basis. She knew these feelings for Lauren were sinful, and even if she didn't go to church, even if she gave her body freely to any man, she wouldn't and couldn't be with another woman. It was unacceptable, socially worse than anything else Camila could do.
This leads to two conclusions.
Camila Cabello was a whore because she knew sex would find her peace for a mistake she made years ago.
Camila Cabello was a whore to find peace in knowing she wasn't a "homosexual"-or, in latent terms, a faggot.
These two things were true, and they existed in Camila's world as a barrier for what sex could and could not mean.