75 Shades of Jenny

There's a difference between being noticed and being seen. I've been noticed my whole life-by teachers who liked my grades, by neighbors who said I was "such a well-behaved girl," by my mother who only looked up from her phone long enough to remind me to keep my knees together and my opinions quiet. But being seen? That's different. That's dangerous At seventeen, I've mastered the art of being invisible in plain sight. I wear my school uniform like armor, I say "yes ma'am" and "no sir" like a script, and I smile just enough to pass for normal. But under all of that? I'm restless.

I want to feel something more than safe. So when I kissed Ryan Blake behind the gym last spring and let his hand wander under my skirt, I didn't feel dirty. I felt alive. For once, I wasn't just Jenny Walker, the good girl. I was something more. Something real. And that was just the beginning. I want something more than just being known as the good girl I want... The rumors started three days later. Not about me-of course not. Girls like me don't earn whispers. We earn silence, pity, or worse, polite applause for staying in line. The whispers were about Ryan. About how he'd "conquered another one." Like we were mountains. Or trophies. Or scars. He didn't even look at me in the hallway after that. Not once. And I didn't expect him to. I wasn't in love with him. Hell, I wasn't even sure I liked him. But I did like the way I felt that night. The power of it. The heat of it. The danger. That's when I realized something important: No one was coming to teach me how this works. Not the teachers with their faded posters about "abstinence = success." Not my mom with her warnings and wine bottles. And definitely not the boys who wanted what I had but never asked who I was. So I decided I'd teach myself. Not with a textbook. Not with shame. But with experience. That's what 75 Shades is. Not some dramatic confession. Not a diary full of regrets. It's a record. A map of moments. Every choice I made-good, bad, and everything between. Because if they're going to write my story for me, I might as well beat them to it. It happened at Nate's party. One of those Friday night things that felt like a scene from every teen movie ever made-red cups, half-lit basements, music vibrating through the floorboards like a heartbeat gone too fast. I wasn't planning on doing anything. Okay, maybe that's a lie. I wore the skirt I knew made me feel dangerous and lip gloss that tasted like strawberries and rebellion. Lex found me in the kitchen, standing in front of an empty bowl of chips like it had the answers to life. "You look bored," he said. I turned. I knew who he was-quiet, art kid, dark curls that always looked like he'd just woken up from a dream he couldn't explain. He wasn't the type I expected at Nate's parties. "Maybe I am," I said. "You?" "I like watching people pretend they're not pretending," he said, and took a sip from his cup. "It's fascinating." We talked for twenty-three minutes. I counted. He didn't ask if I had a boyfriend. He didn't glance at my legs. He didn't talk over me. And when I kissed him, it wasn't to prove anything. It wasn't even about power. It was about curiosity. About wanting to know what it would feel like with someone who didn't look at me like I was a prize to win. His lips were warm and uncertain. He tasted like mint and mystery. When we pulled apart, he just looked at me-really looked at me. "You don't do this often," he said softly. I smiled, but it didn't reach my eyes. "You'd be surprised." He didn't ask what I meant. He just nodded. And for a second, I thought maybe someone finally saw me. Not Jenny the good girl. Not Jenny the wild card. Just... me. We didn't hook up that night. He didn't push. He just asked if I wanted to see his sketchbook. And I did. And for the first time in a long time, I felt something I couldn't label. Something scarier than sex. Connection.