I'm a prostitute. As simple as that.

*writers note: To let you know--I am not actually a prostitute. This is a work of fiction. I just put finger to keyboard, and today I felt like being raunchy. 

I'm at this fucked up, high moral institution about saving women from the sex industry. I'm only here to have free donuts, and get the police off my ass. The head of the group, this middle-aged woman with a panty-line outlining her rear, just handed out sheets of paper for "journaling time". Here we go.

I'm not like every prostitute. I don't smoke cigarettes on street corners, but I chew bubble gum like an addict. Between cat calls and parading myself around like an esteemed giraffe I smack my double bubble. Sometimes I pull the wad of bubble gum out, and let it stretch between my fingers. Thank god my customers are paying too much attention to my ass or tits to notice the wad of gum being stretched from my front teeth to my pressed-on nails.
In middle school a boy called me a "butter-face". I asked a few people what it meant, but I only got embarrassed snickers and half-assed answers. A "butter face", according to urban dictionary is  "a homonym that sounds like 'but her face.' To call a woman a 'butter face' is to say her body is very sexy but her face is ugly." I didn't spend an hour in front of the mirror crying to myself, followed by cutting my arms. The next day I offered that boy a hand job. I had never given one before, but I knew what it was from the stack of porn under my brother's bed. He got sweaty and embarrassed, his fingers were even shaking. Without saying another word, I pushed him into a closet and proceeded to unbutton his jean shorts. Sure enough I nearly clawed his dick off. He went running out of that closet with his junk cradled in his hands and his shorts around his ankles. Problem solved, I thought. 
Before you start psycho-analyzing my life by interpreting my first incidents with sex as a "call for attention" or referencing my shit-for-brains parents as an "unstable childhood", I want you to know I didn't enter this business blind-sided. Prostitution has its evils, like every illegal trade. My heart goes out to the girls who are victims of sex-trafficking, who get addicted to drugs, or those that decide the boyfriend to have is a pimp. Most of these bitches are sitting around me, crying as they crouch over their sheets of paper. Some even struggle with writing full sentences, pausing between each letter, like first graders, to perfect the 'monkey loop' on the end of each letter. I even got a few glares as I laughed over my opening paragraph. These women's rights groups preach about how the sex industry subjugates women and leaves them as victims. Obviously, they don't see the intimate moments where men become powerless to my touch. Stiff-suited men have crumpled in my arms and let their eyes roll. Middle-aged, well experienced, men will stutter at their first words to me. Men, with wedding bands, have cried mid-screw. I'm not a victim; I'm the exploiter. I'm the conqueror when men, expecting to use me, find that they are powerless to an orgasm. "Oh baby, oh baby, I need you" they'll exclaim, and I now they are admitting this to me--a girl with a bulbous nose, squinty eyes, and acne scars. What animals they must be, if my ass can drive them this wild. 
I've never tried to defend the sex industry or give reason to what I've done because right now I really want some Ramen noodles, and the next moment I'll want to paint my nails, and after that I'll be thinking about stomping that bug a few feet away. The moral complexities of prostitution don't riddle me because I am stupid. It's hard for anyone to admit that a child born in the United States could be inherently dumb. It wouldn't matter if I had listened to Mozart while in the womb or if my mother had enrolled me in one of those pre-school prodigy academies, because I could still listen to the three same Ke$ha songs for the rest of my life and be happy. I think simple, y'all. My thought process goes somewhat like this: have sex with guy, get money, OOOHHHH money!!! I want Outback tonight. And then I'll go have my medium-rare steak. If I could give any explanation to my simpleton, nearly neanderthal, behavior, it would be my mother getting high on laughing gas for ten years before I was born. She was one of those weirdos that just wanted laughing gas. She didn't have a meth lab or rub cocaine on her gums. She just loved that fucking laughing gas. She thought as simple as I did, like when we visited the Grand Canyon when I was seven. The park ranger told us to look closer at a rock formation far away. My mother leaned far enough forward, squinting her eyes like a puppy dog, and fell off the side of the Grand Canyon. She died, and my family buried her. Years later, someone told me that I could've made millions in a law suit. I told you, I have shit for brains. 
Okay, this frumpy bitch is telling us that "journaling time" is over. She's asking for volunteers to read what they wrote. Fuck it, I can read out loud, I thought. As simple as that. 


*writers note: These are not my finalized opinions on the sex industry. I have heard this opinion from prostitutes and porn stars, and I thought it was an interesting perspective. Please share your view on prostitution, womens rights, or how many comma splices I made. 

Untamed Va-jay-jays

For all those who clicked on this post solely for the title say 'AYE'. Seriously, say it out loud and sound like a sociopath because you're already looking for some literature on vaginas. 

      No matter how the school day begins--pausing in my car to spit beats like Eminem or running to class with a water bottle full of scalding coffee--my school day ends with dance.

    Today I was tap-tap-tapping away in front of the mirror. I noticed that the only tan left from summer vacation was on my knees. The white socks I was wearing made me look like a grandma with shapeless ankles. The thirty strong deafening roar of thuds, stomps, and shuffles was interrupted by the double doors swinging open. In came the administrators--crisp clothes and cold demeanors. We tried to silence ourselves, but each awkward movement was amplified by the tap shoes. The principle called out a single name, "Mary Grace Hearth". 

     She looked up from her feet with a dopey smirk. It was the same dopey smirk she gave when she announced to the class the day prior that she had been fingered by a boy during study hall. Apart from her mouth, that never seemed to close, she walked with confidence unlike any freshmen I knew, even when answering to the principle. She exited the room with the administrators flanking both of her sides. The class stared, only moments from beginning the whispering and speculating. The dance teacher quickly made the music louder and shouted choreography to us. While tap-tap-tapping away I leaned over to Courtney in front of me. "What's up with Mary Grace?" I shouted into her ear, which only sounded like a whisper over the metallic stomps. 

     "You've heard. She got fingered. She told everyone." 

     Mary Grace had told everyone. The insidious words had exited her mouth with an expression of lax smugness. The other freshmen stared, the sophomores laughed, the juniors rolled their eyes, and the seniors looked on with worry. After four years of high school, I could see the want for acceptance underneath her haughtiness. Rick, a senior, interrupted her boasting by simply saying, "You shouldn't be proud of that." 

      Dance class had ended, and the girls were changing in the dressing room. Those wearing thongs were situated in the corner hoisting their jeans on, while the rest paraded around in bras that looked like lingerie before undergarments.

    "So, who was the guy?" One the girls asked, spraying perfume in no general direction.

    "Russel Haggard. He's not even cute, " answered another.

    "Did you know they live in the same neighborhood? They could have just waited," piped in a girl adjusting her makeup. 

    "How did they not get caught?"

    "Some fat kid was sitting in front of them, and that teacher must be really fucking clueless." 

     I slipped my shoes on. "I feel bad for her. She just wanted attention."

     The girl capped her perfume and spoke for the dressing room, "She deserved it. She told everyone. What a fucking skank."

     The bell rang, and we picked up our things and left. 

Close the curtains. This is my second debut.

I work under a pseudonym so I don't embarrass my mother, incite bitch fights with my friends, or get sued by a control freak.
I have realized that the scariest thing is non-fiction. Apart from my occasional experiments with fiction, I write about what I experience, which means I record the stupid comments, private conversations, and pathetic pick-up lines in my memo pad (who is affectionately called Mr. Handy-Dandy). My scribbled notes are then used for my writing. I know it is immoral, and possibly illegal, to then post my writing on the internet--real names, quotes, everything. I learned this the hard way. My impulsive writing got me into deep shit*. If you tell me a secret I won't tell a soul, at least audibly. I can't help myself from writing about it and then posting it on my blog. On any given blog post I am comfortable with anyone reading it, except maybe one person. A few weeks ago that one person read that one blog post that was never intended for he or she to see. Thus, the days of my real name as a writer has ended, the days when I used real names has ended, and my first blog with its lame title has ended as well.
Granted, some of you do know my real name.  You are the few that read my former blog and respected my former writings. I emailed you, and it looks like you had the energy to click on the link I provided.
You might know me personally. You might know that I have a flat ass, but that won't stop me form acting like I have a donk on the internet.
All I ask is that you respect my anonymity. Don't go on Facebook publicizing that I have returned to the blogosphere, or comment on this blog including my real name. Hey, like every blogger I am a publicity whore. A blogger's self confidence is determined by the amount of readers, comments, and profile views. If I was mathematically minded I would create an equation that equates my happiness to blog attention.
Real blog posts that have interesting content are pending. Creating a new identity takes a long fucking time.

*nope, not telling you the details. nice try. you even read my footnote. 

I doodle the ugly way.