I stood in front of the mirror. I looked like such a slut.

What am I talking about? I AM a slut.

Shit, I was nervous. I'd never worn anything like this. Red strappy heels, a black skirt that didn't even cover my entire butt, as well as rising only part of the way up my hips. Under it, I wore a thong that you could see whenever I walked. And as a top, I wore a skin-tight black button-up shirt. With only one button fastened. My bra easily showed.

I sighed. I'm going to have to do more than just stand in this outfit; I'll have to move in it. Attract men in it. Take this off. And then..

Lose my virginity.

When I decided to become a prostitute, I'd never expected to be this nervous. I can't be like this; I already don't know what to do with my customers. The last thing I need is to be ashamed of my outfit.

I breathed heavily. Calm down, I told myself. Take it slow. It's okay if I'm nervous as I walk out of the hotel. I'll be used to it once I'm out.

Slowly, I took a long, thick jacket out of my closet, hung it over my shoulders so that it would keep me warm but still show my body. Then, as I reached out and put my hand on the doorknob, I held my breath.

This is it. My thumping heartbeat nearly sounded out my thoughts. Just turn the knob. Walk out. Just do it.

Heh. For the first time in my life, I listen to the Nike motto. Although it's not as if I'll be buying their shoes any time soon. Especially not if I don't just get my ass up and do my job. Hell, if I stay in here, I won't be eating tomorrow.

That's right. No sex, no breakfast. I closed my eyes, hearing my heartbeat speed up even more, and turned the knob. Opening my eyes, I stepped out the door and closed it behind me.

All of a sudden, I calmed down as I swiftly, carefully headed towards the stairs.

Wobble, wobble.

Shit. I've also got to practice walking in heels this high.

Wobble.

Ah well, I'm getting better.

Footsteps. I turn my head to see a thirty-something woman with a child of about seven years walking up the stairs. Quickly, I wrapped my coat around me, as to not scar the child's innocence.

As they passed, I released my grip on my coat. The movement had caused my shirt to shift; now, even more of my bra showed. My cheeks burned red, but I continued down the stairs.

Next, I passed a graying fifty-some businessman. Those dull eyes. Gazing at me. At my face. At my chest. At my legs. Fucking pervert. A fucking fifty year old! Stop ogling me you old geezer.

I sighed. What did I expect? Hell, my first customer could be this old. Older. Fatter. I grew disgusted at the idea. Should I just give up now?

Sure, I'll starve to death. But who cares? I became a whore to escape my life. My fucking high school with all the preppy Britney Spears bimbo fake- sluts. My ex-friends who pretended they cared oh-so-much then ditched me in favor of sitting around on their slimy asses, broke their promises with me, and lied to me. My parents who don't know how to raise me. My parents who never said they loved me until I tried to kill myself.

And I haven't tried since. All thanks to that fucking promise I made my dad that I wouldn't. So, instead, I ran off to become a prostitute, leaving behind only a note that said, "I'm leaving to live my own life the way I want to live it. I promise you I'm not killing myself."

I only became a whore because I knew I had to escape my life, and I had promised I wouldn't die. Bum, hermit, or whore? My decision was not a difficult one.

I could just not bother with selling myself. I could just starve to death. That wouldn't count as suicide, would it? Wait. That would count as bum. I don't want to spend my days sitting my ass on the street, going weeks without bathing, begging for change. I'd rather be a whore. I'd rather throw away my morals than become a bum.

I laughed to myself. MY morals? Since when were MY morals opposed to prostitution? They're the general population of the United States' morals. Why the fuck should I care if I throw away THEIR morals?

And besides.. I may get some fat old dick some of the times. But maybe that won't always be the case. I smiled to myself at the thought.

And then I reached the door. I took another deep breath as I pushed it open and stepped outside into the chilly February night air. I held my coat tight against my body, and headed down the street.

As I walked, I received numerous whistles, catcalls, and obscene gestures. Mostly from old hairy men. Oh well. For all they know, I'm just some bitch going to see her boyfriend and get fucked for nothing.

Then, a younger, decent looking man gave me a look. I walked up to him and asked, "Looking for some fun tonight?" as I put my hand on my skirt and slowly pulled up.

"How much?" he asked, clearly interested.

Score.

~fin~