By Ashleigh Adams

First, there was Billy.

“Carlie, you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” I thank him for the compliment, although his calloused fingers make my skin shift like there’s something ugly underneath, pink worms squirming next to purple veins. I don’t like him, but I like that he thinks I’m pretty.

~

Matthew buys me a six-pack of Smirnoff Ice then tells me I’m too loud, that I embarrassed him in front of his friends who pop the collars of their polos and wear boat shoes. He cups my face like he’s bestowing sage advice, issuing a correction that will serve me well in the future. “You’d be so much hotter if you shut the fuck up.”

~

Steve’s skin smells like leather and his eyes crinkle when he smiles. He’s older, decades older, but he makes me grilled cheese after sex. He traces the curves of my naked body like I’m something precious, something covetous. When another man talks to me at the bar, his once-gentle fingers leave bruises on my bicep. “Guess you’re just another whore, like the rest of them.” The marks take weeks to fade.

~

“What does it feel like to be so beautiful?” Craig is in his underwear and doesn’t wait for the answer before sniffing another little white line through a dollar bill. My addled brain works overtime, attempting to articulate that it’s not who I am, even though it’s what I am. He would never understand, not with his pockmarked skin and hooked, off-center nose. Still, he calls me beautiful. 

~

The stiletto of my patent leather boot digs into Luis’ mattress—back arched, lips parted, alive with power. I run a thumb underneath the lace of my garter, pulling it away from the skin with gentle suggestion. The shutter of his camera click-click-clicks in short bursts, fluttering like mechanical butterfly wings. “That’s it. Damn, you’re gorgeous, baby.” I want to say I know exactly what I am. Instead, I look straight into the camera and run the tip of my tongue over my teeth.

~

I wipe my mouth and roll off the bed, slipping my feet into red-bottomed heels. The money’s on the dresser—$1800. “See you next week, Edward?” He nods, naked and panting on The Carlyle’s double-twisted Egyptian cotton sheets. I tuck the cash in my YSL crossbody, thinking about dinner. Pad Thai maybe, from that place with the Lucky Cat that waves next to the register. In the morning, I’ll take a walk in Central Park. There’s a cafe near the Alice in Wonderland statue where I like to sip Belgian Hot Chocolates and watch the leaves fall, speckled yellow and edged with maroon this time of year. I’ll get my nails done, play Animal Crossing, finish that Netflix show. I smile as the door clicks shut behind me, excited for that beautiful tomorrow.