The air hangs about in a stuffy haze. The fluorescent lighting irritates the eyes, but the gentle buzzing make me feel less alone. I paint my lips fire, and darken my eyes with night in the small dingy bathroom. Music reverberates through the walls and gently caresses my ears. I pull my stockings up higher, put my heels on my calloused contorted feet, expose my breasts a little more, and lift my skirt to a level that makes men do anything. I walk out of the bathroom just before my shift begins. The man gathers us around him.
“Are you ladies ready tonight?” He spits through a faux British accent. “I want you to be on tonight. I want you to make me some money. You got it?”
His aged lips move and his wrinkled face appears to crack more with each syllable that he chomps on with yellow crooked teeth. I am disgusted by him, we all are. He looks like a walking cliché from a 70s cop flick. His orange hair thinly covers his head, and his drug snorting nose covers most of his face. He’s a sick troll of a human.
“I want you to take money from every man you see tonight. I want you to do whatever it takes. If they don’t want to buy, make them want to buy. Convince them they need it. Make them think that you love them. You’re better than their girlfriends, wives, mothers. You’re what they need. I don’t care if you have to show more skin, brush your tits against them, get a little more than flirtatious with them, just get the job done and make me money.”
We all stand around watching him. We can’t let him down, he gives us our livelihood. Some of us have thought that we can do this on our own, but we’re not smart enough. As much as we hate him we need him. He pays my bills, he fills my cup, he puts food on my plate, he keeps me inside at night.
As the words of gross inspiration ooze out of his mouth like a perverted football coach us girls look at one another. We all look the same, looking at any of them is like looking into a mirror. The only difference is that we all have our own gentle nuances of how a slut should dress to accentuate our individual qualities. Like sad clowns we stand on thin legs in thin clothing looking interestedly disinterested.
With each girl I look at I grow more disgusted with myself. In them I see my own blackened sickened soul that comes from living a life in the world of money. With each fake fingernail I see a tear wells in my eye. With each inch of cleavage pushed into my face my legs tremble in shame. With each bright pair of panties I see exposed through the bottom of short skirts my heart pumps pity into my veins. With each strand of dry damaged bleached blonde hair my stomach churns upon itself. With each unsubtle paint job of thick matte makeup I come face to face with my soul drifts further away from me.
“I can’t do this! I can’t do this for another night! This is disgusting! I can’t even look at you people! Have you no shame? How can you prostitute yourselves like this?” I scream through tears.
Everyone looks at me stunned.
“You’re all disgusting! Wake up! Think of what your family must think! Are your daddies proud?!” I spit and snivel.
With that I leave. I kick off my clicking heels and turn my back to them all, and my sick past. From the distance I can hear his mouth. I hear his unscrupulous words bounding towards the other girls.
“Alright then, now that that’s over, let’s get busy. I want to see you all on your best game tonight. Let’s get some cash from some sad lonely chaps. We’ve got a business to run.”
My heart lifts more and more with each step. I look down at my wrist, and think that if I hadn’t made a stand I’d be back there with those girls peddling flesh, sex, and carnality. I’d be with them all waiting to open up American Apparel. I’d be no better than them, or any other prostitutes.
