I walk into my apartment and promptly fall down onto the couch. My roommate Rose looks up from the book she is buried in, asking, “Bad day, kid?”
“Ugh, yeah. I barely slept at all last night thanks to this cold, and now I have an assignment tonight from Date Night.” Rose grimaces as I blow my nose and settle back against the cushions.
“Why did you take the job when you feel like shit?”
“Why do I ever? I need the money. At least this one is just for some dinner meeting. God, I hope he’s not a playboy like the last one. He kept thinking he could buy his way into my panties if he offered enough. What is so hard to understand about “escort?” Nowhere in that word does it insinuate stripper or hooker.”
Rose throws her head back and laughs. “I’m sure it’s a common misconception. You’re lucky that most of the men know the rules and abide by them. I don’t care what your occupation is; you always have some butthead who thinks he is special. A guy came in the coffee shop last night and pinched my ass when I handed him his espresso. When did men start thinking it was okay to feel their server up? If it weren’t for Jake freaking out, I would take a job with you in a minute.” Jake was Rose’s boyfriend of two years, and Lia knew he would indeed freak if the love of his life was out escorting other men around town.
I am in my fourth and final year at St. Claire’s University, located in Asheville, North Carolina. St. Claire’s is a smaller school and, therefore, very hard to gain admittance to. The tuition is steep, and the scholarships hard to come by, but the level of education is second to none. When I got accepted, I was over the moon… until I started trying to figure out how to pay for it.
At eighteen, my mother had packed my bags and pointed to the door. After years of doing anything I could to avoid my stepfather’s unwanted advances, it was almost a relief to leave.
I never knew my father; my mother was neglectful at best and crazy angry at her worst. To say I am unlucky in the parental department is a real understatement. When my mother married Jim Dawson, though, things went from bad to oh-so-much worse. Oh, I never had broken bones like some who are abused; my mother always preferred slapping and backhanding. Occasionally, she would throw in a belt when she was really mad.
Sadly, Jim’s arrival made me long for the days when I just had my mother to fear. I was fifteen and, as Jim was constantly pointing out, well-developed for my age. It started with lingering, seemingly-innocent touches and quickly escalated. He started coming into my room at night.
He would twist my arm behind my back until I agreed to remove my top. He would sit or lay beside me, pinching my nipples painfully while masturbating. After a while, my breasts weren’t enough, and he wanted me completely naked. The first time, I fought him until he put a hand around my throat, cutting off my air supply until I blacked out. I woke to find one of his hands fondling my sex while he jacked-off. Each night he went further, taking more and more. I feared that soon he would no longer be content to just touch me. I knew without a doubt that my mother was aware of what was happening; I tried to talk to her more than once, and she would either walk away or backhand me until I shut up.
After having to endure his touch at every available opportunity, I heard him say something that saved me from certain rape. He was ranting to my mother about how she had better not gain any more weight because he hated heavy women. That night, I started eating everything I could hold without puking, and by the end of the month, I was fifteen pounds heavier. This continued until I gained almost fifty pounds. It was obvious my size was a complete turn-off to Jim. He stopped touching me and instead insulted me at every turn, but I didn’t care if it meant he no longer snuck into my bedroom at night.
I had no real friends in school, and my size made me the target of constant taunting. The upside of being a social outcast was I had a lot of time to study and graduated from high school at the top of my class. Even having no idea how I would afford it, I applied to every local college, desperate to escape the Hell I was living in. The day I received an acceptance letter from St. Claire’s was also the day my mother kicked me out. I should have been brave enough to leave before then; she would have never looked for me.