Healthy Choice

her feelings were turned off. like the mute button on a remote control had been pushed, pointed at her heart. still, though, she knew that someday this shit was gonna hurt. she just did not know when, or even why she did not feel anymore. thus a heap of unpleasant experiences--of moments of pathetic desperation, self-debasement, physical and emotional violation—collected like so many dirty socks in her consciousness, pushed away but not forgotten, to be dealt with later.

she was glad. now it didn’t matter what happened to her anymore. she was happy that now, finally, she was cold and calculating, that now she could live by the fine art of manipulation. those useless, simpering sentiments were not getting in her way anymore. now, in fact, she could just sit back and watch her every little move, watch herself operate, and fine-tune everything she said and did. yeah, this was the life. now she knew what it was really all about. greed. and escape—that was her specialty—escape through drugs, sex, momentary sensations of power, that was her occupation, you could say. full-time. a member of the world’s oldest profession and proud of it.

sometimes she would sort of separate from her body, looking at herself as from slightly above, or just even next to herself. sometimes, this would start to happen, but then cease midway through, and like a ghost superimposed on a living human, she would wonder what the fuck was going on, and if she was dead or something. not that she would worry about it. she just did, didn’t waste all this energy caring about stuff like that. really, why did it even matter whether she was alive, anyway? she didn’t give a fuck if mike and leslie wilson did it seventeen years ago and didn’t use protection. hell, man, she already felt like a ghost half the time, just empty and wandering the earth unseen, unnoticed, while the living chattered and hurried around her on the sidewalks, worrying and pretending, distracted by the insanely small problems that afflicted their daily lives.

not knowing that in their midst stood the spectre of a child without innocence, willingly exploited nightly by their husbands, their fathers, the guy who cut their hair, their professors, their bankers who knows who else, but all members of their snotty ranks, all a bunch of liars, fakes. what did these scurrying people know, really? they sure didn’t know that little monica got paid a hundred bucks to go down to boston college with her favorite little drag-queen, angel, and have sex on the floor of this white-haired, respectable catholic pervert’s classroom last night. his classroom, fuck! there were probably students, little snot-nosed, uppity college students, sitting over that spot right now! she did not even believe it herself until they all got out of the car at this lovely old stone building surrounded by manicured vegetation, and the dude got out his set of keys and told her and angel to hurry up.

johns--all terrified of getting caught, they are. she still couldn’t figure them. really—practically pissing themselves with fear before and after, all for a three-minute deed that took place in an alley, probably across town from their wives and kids, and likely with a person they would never talk to in a million years. all the while thinking that they are the ones in control of the situation. like they have the power. oh, and she let them—just smiled and nodded, and said whatever she sensed that they wanted to hear, that they needed to hear to get their sick, old-creep rocks off. she was the person they wanted her to be. she adjusted herself like someone turning television dials, fiddling with the antenna. age, situation, preferences, even sex, most of the time—she never disclosed them publicly. living in her neighborhood(gay village, where the drag queens walk the block), she easily passed as whatever she wanted to pass as, being 5’9” with a very deep voice, no tits(some queens grew bigger ones with their hormone shots), and a body that really threw folks for a loop. thick, black curls and pale, smooth skin. emaciated from the “crack diet”, with long muscular limbs and a face that was at once lost-looking and older than her years. her frame fell cleanly in the middle of the male/female spectrum—larger than most females, but possible; delicate for most males, but on the slighter side of standard. she did not have the classic feminine figure, certainly, but she was not unattractive, either, and she turned those unisex features into a true asset, getting free drinks from fags of both sexes at the local gay bar. sort of like that shit about life giving you lemons, but less corny.
except that life did not give her a lemon for an ass. fuck, man! what is it about asses that fascinates? she used to idly wonder about that sometimes, when she had a good buzz on from her lifesaving bag of reefer(her daytime fix). they aren’t exactly reproductive, now are they? in fact, the ass has the opposite purpose, the far less glamorous job. how is it that humans evolved over the centuries to so favor it as a sexual body part, to fixate on it to the point of preference over the actual human reproductive system, in some cases?
in fact, it seemed that both eating and shitting receptacles did a much brisker business with johns than the actual reccomended penis receptacle ever did. fine by her—no risk of getting knocked up from anal sex, unless you really fuck up somewhere! and hiv—well, who even cares? what does anything matter, anyway? she did not care if she died, and sure as shit nobody else did, either. (sometimes, while toking, she would idly daydream about dropping dead. god, if only she could be around to see the shenanigans that her dead body would cause, she would off herself for sure. it always cracked her up, picturing that bunch of paranoid alcoholic bums her boyfriend called friends, scurrying and panicking as they tried to discreetly dispose of her someplace—dead chicks draw the heat, man!….would she get folded up in a shopping cart full of cans, pushed loudly along a brick sidewalk by a filthy drunk who kept looking over his shoulder, swigging listerine, eventually forgetting what the hell it was that he was so worried about and passing out? or dumped laboriously into the charles? nah, her final resting place would be a dumpster somewhere, in a shiny black trash bag. maybe as squishy, dismembered tidbits, each first wrapped separately….the possibilities were endless.)
men are easily manipulated. whatever you tell them is off-limits is immediately more desireable and worth more money than what they already have. that is why doing a young kid in the bum is so much better than going home and doing your wife in the pussy, apparently. at least that’s what monica figured.
her one female admirer wasn’t too different, either, although she never actually paid up front for services. chicks are too emotional—jenny always bartered, never could face her deed by paying up with cold, hard cash. wanted to hear “I love you”and that sort of mushy lying shit. monica didn’t really like saying that, knowing it was a lie. why that was, she didn’t really know. maybe it was the implied commitment, who knows?
one thing that monica did know was that Jenny didn’t have any of what little monica really loved—that magic powder that you cook up and smoke, or you put in your arm and let it knock your little ass to the ground as the world buzzes deafeningly and consumes you in its roar and your heart races and flutters until it feels like it is bursting and you’re barely breathing and panting, sweating and shaking, barely holding to consciousness and you don’t care. she lived for being obliterated, annihilated, gone, shot straight out into the abyss…..alas! but only for the briefest of fleeting moments!
then you were back to the all-consuming desire, that next shot, the excruciating waiting. oh, that waiting! that is how monica blew her veins and gave herself an abcess, jabbing herself wildly with tremulous hands and a dirty needle, missing. the rest of that night, she was wracked by desperate sobs as she stared at the stuff she had sold her ass for, festering in a hard lump in the crook of her left arm and turning red. she violently wished she could just cut herself open and get it out, to try again.
after that incident, she took to cooking it up and smoking it. less risk involved of losing it, what with her abused circulatory system being so hard to find and all, but little monica still loved needles best both for the high they gave and the act of injection itself. so physical.
god, did monica love that shit. just the thought of it gave her chills and set her to painful jonesing.