The cool night air blows past like a whisper, and I know I won't be standing at this street corner for much longer. Already three reckless teenagers have driven through and stopped for a flirt. Snobby, livin-offa-daddy's-money boys that I loathe, but hey, if its more money in my jar....
An engine revs and the squealing of tires has me looking up at the street.
"Called it." I throw this over my shoulder at Layla- short, raven feather hair and inky brows, way too many piercings, but she gets around- and she scowls at me, extinguishing the end of her cig on a nearby lampost defaced with graffiti.
"What's your name?" The cocky teenager has a toothpick poking out the side of his mouth and he winks mischievously.
"Whatever you want it to be," I vocalize seductively and then I'm in that Ferrari 288 GTO and he's slamming so hard on the gas and I feel almost alive with all that wind blowing me like crazy.
The hotel is one I have been to often. The men who are married take me there so their wives don't find out, and the men who aren't take me their so that the world doesn't find out. Its not the nicest of places- better than the one with old man winkle yesterday. The rooms are sub-par but what do I care?
He's kissing me all crazy-like and gripping at my hips, pressing himself against me, I can taste the alcohol on his breath. And then I'm on the bed and everything is going like it usually does. He's kissing and grabbing, yanking, pulling, biting and pressing on me everywhere. I'm just shutting it all out like I usually do; trying instead to think about what I want to treat myself to tonight. Friday is always the day I let myself go all out on the food. Maybe tacos or italian? Chinese?
And then, in one instant nothing is the same.
He is gripping my wrists so tight that it feels like my bones will shatter and his hands on me don't feel right. They pull and press too hard and the mouth bites my mouth; my lip tears and blood dribbles.
I push, push, push at the pain, but he won't get off and now
now
now he is roughly grabbing at my most intimate of places and he is
not
not
not getting off.
I find an opening and I go for it; Pulling back I scream in protest
Crack. Searing pain lashes my cheek and I cry for the first time since forever ago.
"STOP!" I bellow and pound on his chest for all that I am worth.
Which apparently is nothing.
"YOU DIRTY FUCKING WHORE! YOU'RE NOT WORTH A PIECE OF SHIT!"
"Stop." My voice is hoarse now and my fists are numbed with pain.
"I will treat you the way a whore deserves to be treated."
And I know it.. I know I'm a whore- but no one has ever clear-cut it like this for me and now I feel dirty.
But then anger gets the best of me, and he is on the ground and my boots are on and he is down down on the floor and this time he screams, because I cannot stop the connection that my boot-heel makes with his head.
And I'm out- down the flights of stairs that I hardly noticed on the way up- past the doorman in his brown suit with lackluster copper buttons. And I'm gulping in fresh air because I couldn't breath up there, under him and my wrists feel limp and there still isn't enough air- can't breath
can't breath
can't
breath.
But I know I shouldn't stop moving. I want to get as far away from that asshole as possible.
So I do what any prostitute on the side of the road next to a dumpy hotel would do- I tug my boots off and fold them into my black shoulder bag and then I take off. My feet pound the concrete relentlessly, and even though I'm wheezing- man, I need to stop with the smoking- it feels good, so so good to run
SMACK
I fly backwards and bust my ass on the cold hard concrete.
