I was frozen. Even as the morning sun's scorching blaze sizzled dangerously at my windows, even as I was halfway through a sexual intimacy; as almost though the body of a fully grown man wasn't thrusting his cold, helpless, horny desire against the groin of my fifteen year old physique. Almost.
Absolutely nothing ran through my mind on that occasion. Well, perhaps only the foul smell of whiskey on his breath and that familiar vague expression within his eyes. That expression very familiar indeed. Occasionally the punters may posses a certain violent sneer, but those usually don't pay me a visit again. Either the use of a girl like myself just happened to be a dirty little one off, that, or they were arrested. Besides, many of the men using my type of girls' services turn out to be of a somewhat aggressive nature anyway, usually this is very apparent during the intercourse: very apparent indeed. The unfortunate reminiscence of smashed larger bottles, shabby hotel bedsheets, of course combined with the..let's just call it the one and only use of my service..my service being a powerless one at that, but under these circumstances a disastrously petrified one. Even if I was used to it, nothing prevents the alarm of sheer fear(especially when you're fifteen years of age)
So, what were you doing at the age of fifteen? Perhaps you are fifteen? Coasting your school years away? Lolling around in your elaborately decorated bedroom? Out with friends just like yourself? Maybe the odd party now and then? I bet some of you even say you loathe your life, well here's a tip for you, hunny, none of you know what true loathe is. However, I do. The voracious desperation of a man's climax seemingly the only meaning of life, of my life anyway. Of our life: me and the girls. I say that like we're all good friends, companions, blow up dolls sticking together, but sadly, even within ourselves we are nothing but virtuousless object of sex. That's all, that's all we'll ever be. Meaning we barely discuss our working wage, let alone the extent to which our young bodies go to earn it. Besides, some of us can bearly spit our words out of our mouths without a handicapped stutter, let alone articulate and dramatise our stories of working sin. Which is the most likely the only way our profession could ever be bearable, but no, we're alone, I'm alone: eternally.
I guess after tasting a slight element of my pain you're wondering 'so why in god's name are you selling your body?' Well, back to the where I started, the feeling of being cold; the utter compound of regret- even though, there shouldn't be too much regret after prostitution wasn't our choice. No one chooses prostitution. We're just the unfortunate ones: prostitution chosen us.