community college, I was interning for a hotel chain when I received an unexpected windfall from a distant relative of my mom’s. It came out of the blue, considering I’d been parentless and struggling since she had passed away in my senior year of high school. But I didn’t question where or the why because it was my ticket out. I paid off my debts, and I left without looking back. But a girl has to put down roots at some point. In my case, I applied for a job Stateside when funds began to run low. I guess all parties have to end sometime, but some move this turned out to be. I might’ve graduated to an apartment from a backpacker’s hostel, but I’m no further ahead, despite my worldly experiences.
Back to drudgery and the grind.
‘In the meantime, maybe you could use my gift to help you blow away those lady cavity cobwebs.’ Amber’s words are heavy with meaning.
‘You think I have cobwebs?’
‘Oh, honey, and dust bunnies.’
‘Sounds like you should’ve sent me a feather duster.’
‘What you need is a little fun. And a man. A man who knows his way around a woman. A man with a great big—’
‘And I think we can stop right there. I’m home now, anyway.’
We say our goodbyes as the car pulls to a stop outside of the reason I find myself waitressing in a strip club right now; 228 S Albany Ave, described as a charmingly bright and airy two-bedroom, one-bathroom garden unit in the vibrant and culturally diverse Little Village area of San Francisco. At least, according to the sales particulars on the internet. I suppose it is bright and airy, but only between the months of June and October. It’s frigid, dark, and draughty the rest of the year. And what isn’t so charming is that I had to sublet the spare bedroom to a stranger after being laid off.
As the car pulls away, I breathe out heavily, my exhalation a puff of white in the night air. At least I have the place to myself this weekend. Sarah, my roommate, has herself a new boyfriend.
With my door keys in hand, I hitch my purse higher over my shoulder as a sudden gust of cold wind blows the sides of my coat open. The cold air reminds me of my tiny uniform, a sudden prickling sensation crawling up my spine from the base. With a shiver, I push the sense of foreboding away, my heels clacking rapidly on the sidewalk on the way to the stairs leading to my second-floor walk-up apartment.
Not tonight, Satan, I silently intone. Bogeyman be gone!
I will not be murdered outside my own home.
Not dressed like this. What would the neighbours say?
‘I’ll tell you what they’d say,’ I mumble as I lift my foot onto the wooden tread. ‘Serves her right, getting herself killed, being out on the street at this hour dressed like a ten-dollar hooker.’
I might be too old to believe in the bogeyman and trolls who live under bridges, but I’m not too old to believe in other monsters; the kind who lurk in dark corners just waiting for a damsel to pass. But right now, I’m more concerned about this damsel as a hand suddenly clamps around my elbow, bringing me to a grinding halt. My heart is suddenly in my throat, my thought processes lagging as they struggle to compute this reality.
Things like this don’t happen to me.
I am not that girl.
Only I am that girl, the kind of girl who whimpers as her legs turn to jelly. The girl who tries not to choke out a sob as panic wells under her diaphragm. But I also happen to be the kind of girl who is practical, who slips her hand into her purse as she turns, bringing out, not the can of pepper spray she was reaching for, but a twelve-inch purple dildo.
A dildo her friend sent to her in the mail this morning as a joke. She hopes.
A dildo called the Pussy Pounder 2000 with the kind of girth to make even the gamest of girls wince.
‘Hi-ya!’
I’m too terrified to wonder when I turned into Miss Piggy as I whip around and whack my would-be attacker across the side of his head. I take nothing else in, other than he’s male and big, but that doesn’t mean I’m not stunned as the figure immediately crumples to the ground. But I’m not so stunned that I don’t remember I need to