Kiss Me Hard; Damn You!

I'm a bitch, I'm a lover.

As I walked back to my studio apartment, I felt like playing. Playing with my frail legs, bore by my feet, stepping rather graciously in comparison with my personality, around the newyorkish puddles and dirt. One, two, foot in water, one, two foot in dirt, one two, lean against dirty, wet, cold, lugubrious wall of random building.

You might think I'm coming home from some crazy night in a club, if you didn't know my story. I'm obviously actually coming froma date work. My client(how I dread this word, but still use it to remind my sick, forsakable mind that I amnothing but a whore, a rich German businessman wanted to have fun. He is an elegant, stylish, rich person, so he wished to have the modern-day most reknown luxury hooker : me.

The street smells wet, the air of dirty dirty actions roams the city, the streets so dirty they are macabre, and me, in my more than glamorous outfit, toying with my statute. No one would care how rich, intelligent, stylish and whatever else that I am or am not, for I am one other homewrecker, a dirty prostitute. No matter if I am the cleanest, the most bewilderly craved after, no matter anything on this world, I remain to my low condition. So sometimes, I make-believe I am one of the damned, suffering street-walkers, one of the kind of prostitutes who do it for the sake of feeding her children. I toy with the idea, in the childish thought of a book-like thing, of a movie role. So, like tonight, more to say, this dawn, I walk to my apartment, dressed in my expensive clothes, trying the walk of a cheap whore.

Am I anything more than a cheap whore? Do my high price, my clean skin, my rich perfume, my precious clothes make me any more precious than the suffering street-walkers I've been thinking about?

As I reach my apartment, and go in, I send away these thoughts that will only end bad for my look, which is obviously utterly important for my career, and I slip out of every piece of clothing that my body bears. I roam my place nude rather often.

I study my image in the large mirror in the hall of my home. It is a tall, thin, body, combined with quite large breasts... my waist hasn't got the usual shape and dimensions, as it is almost the same like my hips. I've always supposed my body is shaped differently, and haven't given it much thought. My long nails roam my abdomen, moving up to my breasts, which quickly harden, as a natural, biological phenomenon. Long, dark hair covers half of my back and light blue eyes gaze back unforgivingly from the mirror.

I step into the shower, caressing my nudity with hot water and expensive, pretty smelling soap, and remain under the water jet for a long time.

It must have been hours-long, for my fingers look oldened. Like when I was a uninnocent little girl, when after really long baths, my fingers looked the same way. After I dry my body I decide to have a little meditation time, once again. My mind never sleeps, whoever bless her.

I lie down on my satin covers, horizontally laid on my large bed, completely nude. I take my ever-so addictive cigarettes. My melancholic state asks for a smoke or two. Or three... or four...

All my thoughts linger a little and then go to vain, into mid-air, joining the smoke.

Does everything vanish into pure, mid-air? Is it all so completely and purely useless?
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Feedback shockingly much appreciated. Wait for next chapter, gonna be one dirty dirty one like you mibbians appreciate.