I hate the old ones.
The men that smell of mothballs, sweat and sag everywhere. The ones that could be my fathers.. grandfathers.
This man sweats all over the place and has a terrible stutter. When he is finished, he rolls over snoring and wheezing and sounding an awful lot like a train. I tug my black lace pantyhose back up my legs and adjust my little black dress; this time I don't forget the little pearl snaps in the back.
I settle myself on the edge of the bed and slip on my knee-high, trademark "whore" boots as Layla would say. When I am done dressing, I tug the slightly crushed cigarette package from the elastic band of my undies and light up a Malboro.
I know, I know. Smoking is a terrible habit for a young person such as myself to get into yada yada etc. etc. Well, so is being a hooker; I don't pretend to be an angel because I know I'm going to take the fast track to hell anyways.
Getting off the bed, as quiet as can be, I tiptoe over to the grubby mirror in the corner and take a look at the damage. Smeary mascara fills the bags under my eyes and runs in streams down, down, down my cheeks; I look like some sort of villain from a comic. My lips are chapped and my hair is a birds nest.
But I've been worse. The first time I did this, I cried the whole time, even though I chose it willingly.
The second time I cried again. Not as much, but still. By the third and fourth times, I was okay and since then, they've all kind of just meshed together into a sort of collage of the men I've screwed.
I may sound pretty blunt to you, but that's just who I am. Fairytales and Happily Ever Afters are stuff of dreams, and dreams are not for girls like me.
