to be a stripper? It was the most ridiculous idea I’d ever had. I wasn’t sexy. My body wasn’t voluptuous – I was too skinny, my hips were bony, I was pale. Strippers were supposed to be tan and busty, with curvy hips and sexy smiles.
They’re also not supposed to be virgins.
I was halfway to the bus stop when I heard the footsteps behind me. It was the two men from the liquor store. Following me.
“Come on, baby,” one of them said. “Where you going so fast?”
“Yeah, baby,” the other one chimed in. “Where’s the fire?”
I turned around and looked to see how far away they were. I was no stranger to being followed by leering men. You didn’t get through ten years of foster homes and a couple of months of being homeless without getting your fair share of men thinking they can get away with doing whatever they want to you.
The two men who were following me now were in their thirties, both of them wearing khaki pants and heavy-looking plaid shirts. One of them was holding a leather flask, and he grinned at me when he caught me looking at him.
“Hey, baby.” His teeth were yellow and rotting. “Where ya goin’ so fast?”
“Leave me alone!” I yelled. Sometimes if you looked like you were going to put up a fight, they would decide you weren’t worth the trouble. But sometimes it just made them more excited.
“Aww, don’t be like that,” one of the men called, obviously falling into the latter camp. “We just want to talk.”
“I don’t want to talk to you!” I screamed. I quickened my pace as the adrenaline began to course through my body. Don’t look at them, Olivia, don’t get them excited to come after you.
But my yelling had obviously infuriated them.
“What’s your problem, slut?” one of them called after me. “You think you’re better than us? You ain’t nothing but a whore shaking your ass in a club. Like a fucking skankass bitch!”
It took a lot to scare me. But I was officially scared.
I started to run.
The men started to run, too.
They caught up to me in no time. They were bigger and stronger and they were wearing work boots, while I had on these ridiculous high heels.
I looked around wildly for a store I could duck into, somewhere I could get away from these guys. But the two of them surrounded me, forcing me up against the brick of the building behind me.
“Don’t touch me,” I snarled.
The man grinned again, showing his gnarled teeth.
His friend started to get anxious. “Come on, man,” he said, glancing around nervously. “Let’s just get out of here.”
“First we play.” The one with the bad teeth had a glint in his eye that terrified me. It was s a glint I’d only seen before in my old foster dad, a horrible man who still haunted my dreams at night.
I closed my eyes tight and thought of Declan.
I knew I should fight, that I should kick and scream and bite, but I also knew that men like this one got off on that, that if he was going to do something to me, I should protect myself and float away, out of my body, until it was over.
I felt him move toward me, felt him reach out and grab roughly at my breast, pinching the nipple. His other hand grabbed my chin and squeezed, pushing my cheeks together. I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from screaming and the taste of blood hit my tongue.
I whimpered, which excited him even more.
“Ooh, baby,” he said. “You like to be a bad girl, don’t you? You like to be taught a lesson.”
His friend wiped his lips and then giggled maniacally.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and I could feel myself drifting away, going to the place I went whenever things like this happened. It started when I was ten, and my foster father held me down while he shoved his hand in my pants and told me to be good.
Fight, Olivia. I could hear Declan’s voice in my head. Don’t fade away. Fight.
I snapped out of it and bit the thug’s hand.
“You bitch!” he shrieked and pulled back. “The fucking whore bit me!”
He reached out and slapped me across the face so hard I could hear ringing in my ears. My cheek burned and my skin felt like it was vibrating.
It was so shocking that for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. It was like the wind had