I'd never say that you have to read Betsy's Finest Hour to understand this story, but reading it will tell you a little about where this character comes from.
Same old stuff applies -- my story, please don't repost it somewhere without talking to me first. I love hearing from readers--please let me know what you think.
I talk to myself, silently, while he fucks me. It gets me through the night, the cold bricks of the walls, and the freezing puddles at my ankles. It gets me through the five minutes he needs. I pretend I'm being interviewed. This is my story, I tell the blonde bimbo interviewer. You'll be fascinated. It's one of a kind.
Everyone has a story to tell, don't they?
He's grunting in my ear. They usually do. I used to think they were talking to me, but after a few weeks I figured out they were talking to themselves, making believe they hadn't just paid a two-bit whore for a quick alley-fuck. Sometimes they're angry. Bitch. Whore. Take it. They spit when they curse, and I used to wonder who they were angry at. Then I guess I figured out that it didn't matter.
Sometimes they're trying to be happy. Come on, baby. Give it to Daddy. They spit when they do that, too. Like they've forgotten how to kiss.
But most of the time they just grunt. I don't mind. It goes faster when they don't seem to care.
My ass cheeks hurt. He's pounding pretty hard, and my legs are tired. I'm tired. I gotta get out of this, I tell myself every night. It's part of my interview. How I Got Off the Street, Tonight on Nightline. I used to think it could happen. Or I think I did.
Okay, so I don't have a story to tell. So it's not unique, after all. But I've got money for some dinner, and he's done. So it doesn't really matter now.
Until next time.
Come on, baby. Bitch. Whore.
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