And in the beginning … or is this the middle?
I am nobody. Just a girl. Just a girl that nobody really gives a shit about, not even my mother. She wouldn’t care if a cop showed up on her doorstep to tell her that her only daughter is dead. And that’s kind of where I’m headed. One can only do so much dope, fuck so many guys and live the life I live before karma catches up and puts their ass in the meat grinder.
Ask me if I fucking care. Go ahead, ask me. Okay, fine, don’t ask. The answer is going to be the same each and every time—I don’t care. There isn’t a whole lot these days that can make me bat an eyelash twice.
I’m the girl that nobody thinks twice about. I’m the girl that will lay on my back, part my thighs and let you take what you want, as long as I get something in return. Usually money, but sometimes a place to crash or some food.
That’s probably why my mother doesn’t want shit to do with me. Who wants to admit that her only daughter is a used up whore who isn’t even twenty-one yet? Probably not too many people, huh? Calling her for bail after getting picked up for hooking in the middle of the night was the last straw. It’s been six months since I’ve even heard my mother’s voice.
Over the last month, I’ve been dancing—I use that term liberally—at a strip club off the highway. Don’t get it in your head that I’m some glorified stripper strutting my stuff in my finest lingerie, six-inch platform shoes, hair perfectly curled, makeup to the nines and glittered head to toe. No, this isn’t that type of club. My attire usually consists of a matching bra and panty set from Wal-Mart and a pair of black pumps.
I actually just stumbled onto this job and it seemed logical to take it. What better place to find men that want to fuck for money and never get caught by a suspicious girlfriend or wife? The strip club—where the ATM withdrawal on your bank statement always reads some sort of sporting goods store. Nobody asks for your number for a second meeting and you can get in, get off and get out in a matter of twenty minutes. Wholesale pussy, right?
So for the last month or so, that’s what I’ve been doing. Fucking a new guy every night, in the safety of a club with bouncers and witnesses, seems better than just finding random guys on the street. At least I have some kind of protection. It’s the payout that kills me. On the street, I keep one hundred percent of the money. Here? That’s a different ball game. These fuckers take almost half of my money, usually leaving me enough for a dollar menu meal from a fast food spot, a roach infested motel room and a few quarters to wash my ‘uniform’ so I can work the next day.
Here I stand in the dressing room—which is more like a dingy high school locker room—staring at myself in the mirror. My limp blonde hair hangs past my shoulders, lacking any signs of life. The blue eyes that stare back at me lost their sparkle a long time ago, probably with my innocence back in high school. What I wouldn’t give to have the fair, flawless skin I had before I started this escapade. Looking at the all of the blotches and acne is just another reminder that not only did I not take proper care of my skin – I didn’t take care of me. Period. I wouldn’t screw me, but I’m not here to judge.
That’s the funny thing—I know that I was beautiful before all of this happened. I could have any guy I wanted, and even funnier, I never did. I was all about preserving myself and waiting to marry my Prince Charming before having sex for the first time. Leave it to my mother’s shit stain of a husband to steal that from me, just like he stole everything else.
I wonder if ’step-daddy issues’ is a real thing. It has to be because that’s when my life started to spiral out of control. I started drinking before I went home after school, staying out later so I
I am nobody. Just a girl. Just a girl that nobody really gives a shit about, not even my mother. She wouldn’t care if a cop showed up on her doorstep to tell her that her only daughter is dead. And that’s kind of where I’m headed. One can only do so much dope, fuck so many guys and live the life I live before karma catches up and puts their ass in the meat grinder.
Ask me if I fucking care. Go ahead, ask me. Okay, fine, don’t ask. The answer is going to be the same each and every time—I don’t care. There isn’t a whole lot these days that can make me bat an eyelash twice.
I’m the girl that nobody thinks twice about. I’m the girl that will lay on my back, part my thighs and let you take what you want, as long as I get something in return. Usually money, but sometimes a place to crash or some food.
That’s probably why my mother doesn’t want shit to do with me. Who wants to admit that her only daughter is a used up whore who isn’t even twenty-one yet? Probably not too many people, huh? Calling her for bail after getting picked up for hooking in the middle of the night was the last straw. It’s been six months since I’ve even heard my mother’s voice.
Over the last month, I’ve been dancing—I use that term liberally—at a strip club off the highway. Don’t get it in your head that I’m some glorified stripper strutting my stuff in my finest lingerie, six-inch platform shoes, hair perfectly curled, makeup to the nines and glittered head to toe. No, this isn’t that type of club. My attire usually consists of a matching bra and panty set from Wal-Mart and a pair of black pumps.
I actually just stumbled onto this job and it seemed logical to take it. What better place to find men that want to fuck for money and never get caught by a suspicious girlfriend or wife? The strip club—where the ATM withdrawal on your bank statement always reads some sort of sporting goods store. Nobody asks for your number for a second meeting and you can get in, get off and get out in a matter of twenty minutes. Wholesale pussy, right?
So for the last month or so, that’s what I’ve been doing. Fucking a new guy every night, in the safety of a club with bouncers and witnesses, seems better than just finding random guys on the street. At least I have some kind of protection. It’s the payout that kills me. On the street, I keep one hundred percent of the money. Here? That’s a different ball game. These fuckers take almost half of my money, usually leaving me enough for a dollar menu meal from a fast food spot, a roach infested motel room and a few quarters to wash my ‘uniform’ so I can work the next day.
Here I stand in the dressing room—which is more like a dingy high school locker room—staring at myself in the mirror. My limp blonde hair hangs past my shoulders, lacking any signs of life. The blue eyes that stare back at me lost their sparkle a long time ago, probably with my innocence back in high school. What I wouldn’t give to have the fair, flawless skin I had before I started this escapade. Looking at the all of the blotches and acne is just another reminder that not only did I not take proper care of my skin – I didn’t take care of me. Period. I wouldn’t screw me, but I’m not here to judge.
That’s the funny thing—I know that I was beautiful before all of this happened. I could have any guy I wanted, and even funnier, I never did. I was all about preserving myself and waiting to marry my Prince Charming before having sex for the first time. Leave it to my mother’s shit stain of a husband to steal that from me, just like he stole everything else.
I wonder if ’step-daddy issues’ is a real thing. It has to be because that’s when my life started to spiral out of control. I started drinking before I went home after school, staying out later so I
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