I sit on my bed, cross legged, writing and smoking a cigarette, smoke blowing out of the window because they don't allow smoking at my dorm. I think about Christian ethics and African American literature and private universities and reputations of nice Christian girls and how my voice sounds when I have sex. It sounds...better.

I'd like to think I'm a nice person, but I know that a lot of my energy seeped from my pores and into the sweat on the bed. Not like that, pervs. No, I stayed in my bed for nine months, curled up in a blanket, staring at the red light lit on my phone that meant that I had a voicemail I never checked. I stayed like that for nine months and all of that energy took everything I had, to get up, to pretend and then to become what I had pretended: okay.

So after that, I'm not so nice. I want to be. I smile and make people laugh and give money (never loan) and answer texts and phone calls now. I just have ceased giving a fuck now. I lay on my back now and the only time my voice is soft and I mean it is when I'm complimenting his (or her) sex. I say that it feels good, I ask how they do it, ask why they chose me, say I don't deserve it. Depending on the person, I'm gutteral or cooing. Depending on the person, I ask questions and wait for the answer or I ask the ceiling or ask myself or just ask thanks. Everyone wants to feel appreciated; they don't come to me for beauty (superfluous) or to brag on the bang or anything. They just want someone grateful.

And so I'm nice, and I am grateful. Honestly happy to be pushed and pulled and tugged and flipped and pinched and caressed and kissed. My school doesn't allow this, though. At first, I just snuck the boys through my window and back out. Then I decided that girls needn't sneak and could come through doors so I traded. The sex was inconsequential. Just liked having a reason to smoke and think and be nice. Make someone else feel nice. Since I can't. Not yet, not anyhow.