Little Girl In Capitalism Dress

I am so docile, his skinny slave child in a sensual pink dress from Betsey Johnson. I have a waxed pussy and asshole and manicured fingernails and toenails and paint all over my face; aren’t girls so beautiful? I am so beautiful. He wears a tweed sport coat looking thing. I bet his cock is hairy. The camera flashes and I try to hold a smile. This is my face and it’s ever so quietly communicating desolation.

I dread myself towards the bar. My date waves his hands at the bartenders like a baboon. My eyes are on the oozing shots of Grey Goose. I am like a character in The Sims, this is all so automatic. This lounge is a choir of bones shackling together with ethanol in their throats and livers.

The way the speech becomes sloppy from the alcohol; “you’re such an interesting girl, I get you, we should go to Puerto Rico.”

My solipsistic smile, a wet mist, a kiss, which is all making him inclined to think there is something beyond my skeleton and chemical malfunctioning.  I wash away for a second to the bathroom.

I’m getting older. I’m tired. I’m sick. I just want someone to love me. I just don’t want to hurt myself or anyone around me.  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.  Whore.

Cornering around the circumference of this bar, preying around him as if dancing to a schizophrenic violinist, I hit shots. Spending the rest of the night in a dreadful but somewhat pleasant stupor, he is yelling at me to stand up straight…

… Back at his house, the morning breaks through the night. The Tivo glares into the dark air. Some colorful show. It pushes me from half-asleep to fully awake. Who turned this on?  As I reach for the remote, he wakes up mumbling: “Keep it on.” The noise, the flickering colors, even the static underneath the signal, maybe something more too, makes it impossible for me to sleep.  I head to the shower and stand there for what seems like decades.