I Was a Teenage Prostitute


Though I’m happy, sadness is in the air. All the girls but me are on drugs. While I occasionally indulge in my time off, I don’t want my vision clouded while on the job. I am curious about the people who would come to a prostitute, or be a boyfriend to a prostitute and pick her up at the end of her shift and take her home. I soberly watch everything and everyone, including myself. All the girls but me have been here a long time. I can see that it gets hard after a while — or at least very weird — to live inside other people’s dreams. In Candy’s case, she literally lives, and drives, off of other people’s use of her beauty. Her sporty little car and her spacious, bright apartment are both paid for with one-hour sessions each month, to the car dealer and the landlord. The drugs are always gifts, or trades, as well. Along with hundred-dollar restaurant meals and concert tickets. Prostitution isolates you, with all its little ways that people not in it don’t understand, much in the way some religions do, or drug addictions. It’s hard to explain certain things, and after a while it’s easier to not talk to anyone outside much at all. I thought that as a prostitute, I would no longer be inside a dream; I’d be flung, newly sharp and capable, into life. Actually, I discover, the opposite is true. Prostitution is a complex, shared dream where everyone agrees to not wake up, for just a little longer.

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