Down and Out

Down and Out by Kelley R. Martin


Light seeps in through a thin pair of curtains, and I bury my face in the pillow. My head’s killing me and my mouth feels like I’ve swallowed a whole bag of cotton balls, so I’m in no mood to deal with the world’s bright and cheery “good morning” right now.
It’s never a good morning when you’re hungover.
Before I can pull the covers over my head and fade back into sweet oblivion, I make the mistake of focusing my blurry eyes and noticing my totally foreign surroundings. Dresser that’s not mine. Wall color that’s not mine. Stupid beige, half-open curtains that aren’t mine.
As lucidity slowly filters in through the last muddled layers of sleep and cherry vodka sours, I hear slow, steady breathing behind me. My head rolls over on the pillow, and I see a guy sleeping next to me on his stomach.
Blond hair. Cute face. Thirty-ish. In decent shape, I see, since I’ve hogged all the covers and he’s buck-ass naked.
The sight of him ignites sluggish, hazy memories from the night before. The way he kissed, the way he tasted, the way he moved.
Meh, it was okay. It could’ve been worse. At least I came. That’s all a girl can ask for with a one night stand . . . right?
I peruse his face, noting the day-old stubble dusting his jaw and the way his long, gold lashes curve upward against his cheek, and realize I don’t remember his name.
Did I even get it?
My eyes briefly close as this unwelcome feeling snakes deep into my gut and claws its way through me, leaving me tattered and in shreds. I try to pretend like it’s not there, just like I try to pretend it doesn’t chew me up. Every. Single. Time.
Unsticking my tongue from the roof of my mouth, I ignore the bitter taste flooding it, because it has nothing to do with morning breath or vodka. Carefully, I climb out of his bed and quietly collect my clothes from his floor, then slip into the adjacent bathroom.
Second mistake of the morning: looking at my naked reflection in the giant mirror above the sink. Instead of what I usually see, I’m greeted with a mess of tangled hair, mascara smudges, bloodshot eyes, and . . . is that a hickey on my boob?
Great.
I reach for some toilet paper to wipe my face and freeze when I see the trash can. The used condom from last night sits at the top, peeking out from a wad of tissue.
That ugly feeling rips through me again, choking me from the inside. Suddenly I can’t breathe anymore. I don’t know why it has this effect on me—I mean, he had to dispose of it somehow—but seeing the aftermath of our indiscretion in the harsh light of morning is completely sobering.
I don’t belong here.
The kernel of truth I’ve been brushing off explodes within me and rises to the top, like overflowing popcorn.
I’ve never let myself think about why I have these one-night-stands, because I’m afraid to look too closely at myself. I already know my insides are ugly and twisted, so why bother trying to figure out how far the damage spreads? It’s pointless, and knowing the full extent will probably only depress me. So I look the other way. Bottle it up and shove it so far down me that I can pretend it’s not there and I’m some semblance of okay.
But as I stare at the trash and the little piece of latex that shouldn’t be as significant as it is, I realize I’m pretty f*cking far from okay.
I use sex as a crutch.
It makes me feel better, makes me feel wanted and appreciated, even though I know it’s not real and will only last for as long as it takes the guy to come. Afterward, though, I feel empty.
Gross. Cheap. Used. Like a whore.
It’s a vicious cycle that can be summed up in four steps:
1) I feel shitty.
2) Man + sex = endorphins, and I feel less shitty.
3) Endorphins fade and I feel shittier.
4) Repeat.
But I knew all that, so that’s not the epiphany I’m having right now.
Right now, I’m realizing that no amount of dick can fill the void I secretly carry around with me. A little slow on the uptake, I know, but give me a break. It’s a miracle my closed-off, emotionally stunted ass even figured it out at all.
I get dressed in a hurry, wipe my face, and comb out my hair to the best of my fingers’ ability, then slowly open the door and tip-toe through unknown guy’s apartment.
“Leave or be left” is my motto. I should have that shit cross-stitched onto a throw pillow or something.

? ? ?
My feet hurt so bad I’m kind of surprised I don’t hear blood sloshing around the insides of my six-inch heels. Then again, the music in this club is so loud that I doubt I’d even be able to hear it.
It’s quieter in the back as I walk into the changing area, beyond happy that my shift is over. I’ve only had this job for a few days, but I don’t think any amount of time can get me used to wearing these torture devices on my feet for hours at a time. It makes me wonder how the other girls can smile and flirt their whole shift, while I just want to curse and punch things.
A girl’s ass, clad only in an electric blue g-string, makes me pause as I suck in a quick breath. There’s a fleeting moment of awkwardness, like I’ve accidentally walked in on her, when I quickly remember that’s not the case. She’s in her work uniform for the night, just like me, only hers leaves a little less to the imagination.
Her heavily made up eyes meet mine in the mirror before her, and I try to pretend like her perfect, surgically enhanced breasts aren’t staring me back in the mirror too. I also try to pretend like I don’t see the white lines of powder on the dressing table in front of her.
I don’t belong here.
The errant thought pops into my head more and more lately. Like this morning, or any other time I wake up in some stranger’s bed, or when I come face-to-tits with the girls here, or when some skeezy customer tries to feel me up and promises me a “really big tip” in return.
Dropping my eyes, I continue to the row of lockers off to the side.
“You’re the new waitress, right? Samantha?”
I glance up at her as I stop at my locker, seeing her cocked hip and long, bleach-blond hair pushed over her shoulder. She’s all tan, tight skin and curves for miles. There’s literally a small triangle of fabric covering her hoo-ha and nothing else, so it’s impossible not to compare the embodiment of every guy’s wet dream standing before me to, well . . . me.
“Savannah,” I say, looking back to the padlock in my hand.
“Right, sorry.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see her bend down and snort a line of coke off the countertop. As I pop my locker open, she holds out a rolled-up dollar bill. “You want some?”
My eyes briefly meet hers as I sit down, and I can’t help but feel like I’m starring in some cheesy after-school special. My whole life’s an anti-drug PSA, and I’ve seen South Park enough times to know that drugs are bad, mmmkay?
“No, thanks.”
She shrugs as I start taking off my shoes, trying not to groan as the feeling rushes back to the cramped nerve-endings of my poor little piggies. Her Lucite stripper heels click on the tile as she walks over to me, but I don’t look at her.
“You could be up on that stage, you know. Pretty thing like you could make a killing. You’ve got that innocent, girl-next-door look. Guys eat that shit up.” She reaches forward and pulls the low-cut top of my school girl uniform aside. “Your tits real?”
I smack her hand away and glare up at her. Show no fear. Girls like this can scent it out like a bloodhound. They thrive off it. “Look, I’m flattered, but I’m not into p-ssy.” I give her an acidic smile as her glossy, pink lips turn up into a smirk.
“All right.” She holds her hands up in surrender. “Just thought I’d help you out.”
“Why?” I ask dryly. “Why would you help me out?” The girls here have all but ignored me. This is the first time one of them has even said more than two words to me.
“Because I’ve been where you are. Lost and broke.” Her accent’s thicker, the telltale Bostonian in her slipping through.
I’ve worked hard to get rid of that same accent.
And I so want to point out that she’s a stripper, doing lines of coke in the backroom of a seedy club. It doesn’t look like she’s figured out shit, but I keep my mouth shut. Who am I to judge? I’m no saint, and although I might not take my clothes off for money, I still work at a strip club, and I still make money off my looks. It’s just a different side of the same coin.
She sighs, her blue eyes starting to glass over as the coke hits her system. “Talk to Bobby.”
My brows arch. “The bouncer?”
“Yeah. He can hook you up with earnin’ on the side, but he gets a percentage of what you make. It’s fifty for a handjob, a hundred for blowjobs, two hundred for p-ssy. . .”
Her voice fades away as what she says dawns on me, and I stare at her in disbelief. “You’re a prostitute?”
Blue, glassy eyes flicker as her whole demeanor shifts and hardens. She thinks I’m judging her.
Am I? Do I actually have some moral boundaries after all?
She crosses her arms, covering her bare breasts. “I made over two grand this week. How much have you made?”
I’m stunned into silence.
Holy shit, that’s a lot of money.
“I’m not judging,” I splutter, holding my hands up in a defensive position like she had.
She relaxes minutely, pursing her lips as she looks down at me. “Most of the girls here do it. It’s an easy way to make a shit-ton of money. If you want in, just talk to Bobby.” And with that, she turns and walks away, the sound of her heels growing dim as she leaves the changing area.
My eyes wander down to my feet, to the ugly red splotches that I know will turn into big blisters tomorrow. I busted my ass tonight, and I only made seventy-five bucks.
According to Stripperella, I can make more in five minutes with my mouth.
I’d be lying if I said I’m not tempted. Five minutes of work on my knees sounds a helluva lot easier than eight hours on my feet with those god-awful heels. And I’m already giving it away for free. Why not get paid for something I’m just going to do anyway?
I mull it around in my head and the more it churns, the less sour it tastes. I can put myself through school with that money. . .
For the first time in two years, college seems attainable and not just a pipe dream. Hope blossoms in my chest, unfurling rapidly as I quickly try to squash it and smother it deep within me. Hope’s a dangerous thing. Let it get out of control and it gives you ideas and dreams—things that will inevitably crush you when they don’t happen.
After changing into my street clothes, I relock my locker and head out of the changing area, toward the side exit located on the far side of the stage.
Management doesn’t want us to leave through the front when we leave after our shifts. Seeing us in regular clothes “ruins the fantasy” for the customers.
Everything is so dark in the narrow landing behind the stage. The floor and walls are painted black, and the long “wall” to my right is nothing more than a thick, black velvet curtain. The music is so loud on the other side of the soft material that I don’t hear the moaning until it’s too late.
I freeze as the exit door comes into view, in the little sliver of pulsing light spilling out from the stage. Pressed up against the wall next to the door is a good-looking man, mid-to-late twenties, who’s shocked as hell to see me. Because kneeling in front of him is Stripperella, her head bobbing back and forth as she sucks him off.
Shock glues my feet in place as my mouth hangs open. His blue eyes sparkle in the glittery stage lights as they remain locked on me, his lips slightly parted. I’m about to turn away and head back the way I came when he comes. His features twist in pleasure as his fingers knot in her hair, almost painfully, it seems.
His eyes never leave mine.
Oh, God, he’s getting off on me watching.
My stomach roils. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
How did I end up here? Where did I go wrong in life to end up in this exact moment? Better yet, where am I going to end up if things don’t change?
Then it just clicks.
I don’t belong here. I’m . . . I’m better than this. I never thought little ol’ me, the girl who’d gotten dealt a shit hand in life, would ever be too good for anything, but in this instance, it’s true.
I’m too good to end up working on my knees or my back, and I’ll be damned if I end up a coked-up stripper blowing some yuppie a*shole for a hundred bucks. My dignity is worth more than that. I’m worth more than that.
In a moment of absolute clarity, I turn and walk in the other direction. Back through the changing area I go, through the main floor, to the lobby, where I walk out the front doors because I straight-up don’t give a shit anymore. I’m never coming back here—not to this club or this girl I’ve become.