Down and Out

Down and Out by Kelley R. Martin


Light seeps in through a thin pair of curtains, and I bury my face in the pillow. My head’s killing me and my mouth feels like I’ve swallowed a whole bag of cotton balls, so I’m in no mood to deal with the world’s bright and cheery “good morning” right now.
It’s never a good morning when you’re hungover.
Before I can pull the covers over my head and fade back into sweet oblivion, I make the mistake of focusing my blurry eyes and noticing my totally foreign surroundings. Dresser that’s not mine. Wall color that’s not mine. Stupid beige, half-open curtains that aren’t mine.
As lucidity slowly filters in through the last muddled layers of sleep and cherry vodka sours, I hear slow, steady breathing behind me. My head rolls over on the pillow, and I see a guy sleeping next to me on his stomach.
Blond hair. Cute face. Thirty-ish. In decent shape, I see, since I’ve hogged all the covers and he’s buck-ass naked.
The sight of him ignites sluggish, hazy memories from the night before. The way he kissed, the way he tasted, the way he moved.
Meh, it was okay. It could’ve been worse. At least I came. That’s all a girl can ask for with a one night stand . . . right?
I peruse his face, noting the day-old stubble dusting his jaw and the way his long, gold lashes curve upward against his cheek, and realize I don’t remember his name.
Did I even get it?
My eyes briefly close as this unwelcome feeling snakes deep into my gut and claws its way through me, leaving me tattered and in shreds. I try to pretend like it’s not there, just like I try to pretend it doesn’t chew me up. Every. Single. Time.
Unsticking my tongue from the roof of my mouth, I ignore the bitter taste flooding it, because it has nothing to do with morning breath or vodka. Carefully, I climb out of his bed and quietly collect my clothes from his floor, then slip into the adjacent bathroom.
Second mistake of the morning: looking at my naked reflection in the giant mirror above the sink. Instead of what I usually see, I’m greeted with a mess of tangled hair, mascara smudges, bloodshot eyes, and . . . is that a hickey on my boob?
Great.
I reach for some toilet paper to wipe my face and freeze when I see the trash can. The used condom from last night sits at the top, peeking out from a wad of tissue.
That ugly feeling rips through me again, choking me from the inside. Suddenly I can’t breathe anymore. I don’t know why it has this effect on me—I mean, he had to dispose of it somehow—but seeing the aftermath of our indiscretion in the harsh light of morning is completely sobering.
I don’t belong here.
The kernel of truth I’ve been brushing off explodes within me and rises to the top, like overflowing popcorn.
I’ve never let myself think about why I have these one-night-stands, because I’m afraid to look too closely at myself. I already know my insides are ugly and twisted, so why bother trying to figure out how far the damage spreads? It’s pointless, and knowing the full extent will probably only depress me. So I look the other way. Bottle it up and shove it so far down me that I can pretend it’s not there and I’m some semblance of okay.
But as I stare at the trash and the little piece of latex that shouldn’t be as significant as it is, I realize I’m pretty f*cking far from okay.
I use sex as a crutch.
It makes me feel better, makes me feel wanted and appreciated, even though I know it’s not real and will only last for as long as it takes the guy to come. Afterward, though, I feel empty.
Gross. Cheap. Used. Like a whore.
It’s a vicious cycle that can be summed up in four steps:
1) I feel shitty.
2) Man + sex = endorphins, and I feel less shitty.
3) Endorphins fade and I feel shittier.
4) Repeat.
But I knew all that, so that’s not the epiphany I’m having right now.
Right now, I’m realizing that no amount of dick can fill the void I secretly carry around with me. A little slow on the uptake, I know, but give me a break. It’s a miracle my closed-off, emotionally stunted ass even figured it out at all.
I get dressed in a hurry, wipe my face, and comb out my hair to the best of my fingers’ ability, then slowly open the door and tip-toe through unknown guy’s apartment.
“Leave or be left” is my motto. I should have that shit cross-stitched onto a throw pillow or something.

? ? ?
My feet hurt so bad I’m kind of surprised I don’t hear blood sloshing around the insides of my six-inch heels. Then again, the music in this club is so loud that I doubt I’d even be able to hear it.
It’s quieter in the back as I walk into the changing area, beyond happy that my shift is over. I’ve only had this job for a few days, but I don’t think any amount of time can get me used to wearing these torture devices on my feet for hours at a time. It makes me wonder how the other girls can smile and flirt their whole shift, while I just want to curse and punch things.
A girl’s ass, clad only in an electric blue g-string, makes me pause as I suck in a quick breath. There’s a fleeting moment of awkwardness, like I’ve accidentally walked in on her, when I quickly remember that’s not the case. She’s in her work uniform for the night, just like me, only hers leaves a little less to the imagination.
Her heavily made up eyes meet mine in the mirror before her, and I try to pretend like her perfect, surgically enhanced breasts aren’t staring me back in the mirror too. I also try to pretend like I don’t see the white lines of powder on the dressing table in front of her.
I don’t belong here.
The errant thought pops into my head more and more lately. Like this morning, or any other time I wake up in some stranger’s bed, or when I come face-to-tits with the girls here, or when some skeezy customer tries to feel me up and promises me a “really big tip” in return.