You’ll get used to the little incidents once you start. It’s part of dealing with the public. They’ll tell you how much hotter they’ve gotten since they were a child. We’ll put you up at the welcome desk, because you’re good at smiling. Even better when they’re inches from your face, with their hand on your shoulder, telling you that you have the most beautiful mouth they’ve ever seen. You’ll figure out how to wind around the floors to avoid the corners.
When The Driver comes to pick you up, you can stare at his hands, and remember. Listen to him tell you about the dress and the figure. If you’re lucky, he’ll bring his fingers close enough to get you to cry yourself to sleep without the privacy to make the feeling stop. If you’re lucky, you’ll know how to keep yourself quiet.
The closest release you could probably find is to find a stranger that you feel nothing for, and let them do what they want to you. You’re lucky that you can come feeling any touch. You’re lucky that any penetration is enough to make you cry. You’re lucky to be able to remember how you forgot that there’s nothing erotic about it. You should be grateful that you could have the feeling of holding back tears feeling unbearable agony as you watch yourself have your fifteenth orgasm, while hearing yourself involuntarily scream about how much you fucking love cock.
You’re lucky to innately know that this is your purpose, and every moment of the day you don’t spend getting fucking pounded by a nameless man, with your face pressed between the frame and the crack in the motel mattress in your little world, with a little tv in the corner playing the same cable loop on silent, with the little permanent bottle of lube on the nightstand, with the little pillow you hide behind when you get scared, with the little pictures he takes, the little pictures he stores in the book, and the little drugs he gives you, is a waste of the sagging body that should have been removed decades ago. Where did your world go?
You need to ask yourself: What are the chances that you could hear someone talking you through it again? What are the chances that someone could rub you slowly again? What are the chances there could be anyone looking for more than a waiting room? If you’re lucky, someday there will be someone who can kiss you. If you’re lucky, there is someone who will like you. What are the fucking chances of that?
Talk about time being done. Your same fantasy of someone bashing your head in to let the flowers grow through the soil. The same one of you curling up like a dying dog under the warm skylight on your skin in your childhood living room. The same one with the rocks and eroding cliffs of the peninsula where your grandparents lie. The same one where you close your eyes and imagine having never been anyone ever. Stupid.
You are the little girl forever.
This is what lasts.
You want love?
This is love.
Feel it.