My used panties look up at me sadly from the sleazy motel carpet. It's grey now, but I'd like to think it was a warm cream colour before all of the life was dragged out of it. Kind of like me, I guess. Look at me, a sixteen-year-old prostitute escaping the man who had most recently used her. And I'm not even robbing him. I'm desperate enough to, but I can't make myself.

The man snorts and turns in his slumber, his conscience obviously not at odds with him. I shake my head in disgrace before being embraced by my overcoat - the only comfort I have. My panties get pulled up, cold creaminess meeting my warm genitals. My jaw twinges at the feeling.

I've made seventy-five dollars in the past six hours, and I only have another two to make up rent for this month. I'm out on the streets quickly, hunting for my next client. Money is essential, I have two of us to keep alive with shelter, food, and other necessities. Necessities like the pill to keep selling my body.

I'm nearing the beginning of another four-month cycle; I'll have to beg my boss for a week off. At least it'll be a week of not wearing rediculous hooker outfits and skin-strangling makeup. Flat shoes. Not being raped consensually.

Leslie, my pimp, would never let me go back to serving drinks; I didn't have a way with the customers and their requests, not like the other girls did. Their competition for tips was fierce, too. Who could blame them? Welcome to Las Vegas, the glamourous night life of living in poverty.

Where young girls lose parents and have to drop out of high school and fend for themselves. Where drugs are the only escape for most, and you know you can't afford the addiction. Where I have to sell myself and give half of my earnings to my pimp.

With my upcoming period, I can't work. Leslie is going to be livid. Fear emblazons my arteries as I make my way to the gentleman's club where they're not gentle. I'll make some money on the way.