"Damnit, Silver. Wait up!" I hear Crystal's hoarse, exhilarated voice almost echo through the room as a laugh when I am about to leave the changing rooms. The lady dressed in a lot of pink, yet with minimal clothing covering her body gives me a playful shove to catch my attention, so she can use her thumb to wipe away the remains of the white powder beneath my nose.
"Thanks, babe."
Almost tripping over my own feet, I hurry out the room where seven people, all equally fucked up and out of their minds, try their best to untangle the mess they call their lives. Once again, I can't help but wonder why I'm doing this to myself.
Well, it's not like I don't know the answer by heart already. It's just that this is pure torture, every single second of it. The mere thought of the sort of people I might encounter tonight cinches my lungs tight, just like a corset.
It's almost as if I'm at the verge of suffocating.
"Come on, Elijah, you're doing it for them!"
With my thoughts going astray from the original target, I bite the inside of my cheek and put on my invisible mask. The painted face and sunny attitude won't budge for as long as I am around clients.
I could never afford the costs that would come with.
Whenever I'm with customers, I'm Silver, the cute, cocky 21-year-old with a pretty face and fit body, longing to be their sex doll. Dressed in short, uncomfortable leather clothes, chokers, thigh-highs, iridescent tops, and sometimes even high heels.
God, how I hate that this...person, this alias of mine is even a part of me. I am so, so ashamed of him and the revolting things he lets people talk him into.
When I'm at home, I'm Eli.
Just Eli.
Sasha and Daisy's older brother, playing both their father's and mother's role all at once at only 20 years of age. No makeup, no high heels, only hoodies and sweatpants to hide myself behind the comfort of the soft fabric.
At night, I'm being used and abused by any and all imaginable forms these cruel animals come in, usually twice my age or up. To them, I'm a toy. A cute, interesting doll they can manipulate however they please. For the time I'm with them, I'm theirs. I believe that must be the hardest part about working here.
Giving up my humanity, selling my soul to these people I don't know.
My body, my heart, my conscience. At this point, I'm not even sure I am even entitled to call them 'mine' anymore.
During the day, I'm a student, a brother, just a regular someone. The guy living across the street. Maybe even the handsome man at the coffee shop or the hallway crush you'd never ask out.
Despite my busy days and nights full of terror, my siblings are always my number one priority.
'You need me, you call me.'
I'll be honest, managing this particular type of work and undergrad college courses at once is challenging, but that will never stop me from spending every possible moment with my siblings.
Yes, I do manage, but not without constant struggles to keep up. However, I consider myself lucky, as my siblings are both understanding and responsible.
They don't know what their big brother does at night, and I am praying that they will never have to find out. All that matters is that I'm doing it for their well-being, so we can afford all the things their little hearts spark for.
Sasha and I have many talks about reliability, and he knows exactly that he is the one in charge of looking after our little sister when I'm not home. Daisy knows that too. She is a quiet, but strong-minded girl. Yeah, she must have gotten that trait from me.
Like myself, they both had to grow up fast.
Not by choice, of course.
I was 14 when our parents died, when they were ripped out of our lives forever.
The world is a dark, cold place – I learned that the hard way.
Sasha was 6 when it happened, Daisy barely two. They were too young to understand what happened, I wasn't. From then on, I had to take care of all three of us.
For some time, we lived with a foster family, with our living standard set to the bare minimum. This was never a question of wealth though. On the contrary, these people had all the means to raise three children.
The only issue was that they despised us, never took care of us. Nowadays, I can think about this entire situation more rationally than back then, and I will gladly keep this period in mind as something that made us stronger as a team of three. After all, we stuck together through it all. The only thing I regret is that I was too young to shield them from all the stuff we had to go through.
Trust me, if I could take all these bad memories and feelings off my siblings' shoulders and add them to my own pile of issues, I would do it in a heartbeat.
Anything. I would do anything for them to be happy.
It didn't take long until we were out that house again. This time, however, my deadbeat aunt decided to get involved. That was, of course, only after hearing what sort of financial benefits the three orphans would come with. The only thing she had to do to secure the money they gave her for it was not use it on us.
And she managed to do that pretty well, I'd say. This damn woman hasn't shown her cowardly fucking face since the very day the court granted her custody of us. Soon enough, we didn't have a roof over our head and were left with nowhere to go.
A year of living on and off the streets followed and while Sasha and Daisy went begging for money and food, I began working for a dealer I had gotten to know the year prior. It sickens me that we were at such a low point that I had no other choice than to make the decision of sending a toddler of only 4 years of age and a kid of 8 onto the streets alone to beg and make money.
What I hate the most about is that it worked.
For some godforsaken reason, it worked. Just have the kids smile and pretend to be all joyful and have fun and not a single soul in this foul, careless fucking city will bat an eye at this scene that should serve as a clear indicator that something is very off and that these homeless kids need help more than anything.
I was just a young boy, much too young to be doing big boy businesses. In return for the drug jobs I got involved with, my dealer let us live in one of his trailers for a while, until he eventually deemed me "old enough" to help him out in other, unspeakable ways too.
That was, until I had enough money to pay for a small, cheap flat.
We had nothing.
The government didn't care about us, neither did our family or their friends.
Fucking hypocrites!
Our parents were hated and left three kids alone in the streets of Nevada. For the following year, working two jobs consecutively and skipping school was barely enough to keep us alive. There were times when I went days without eating just so I could keep my siblings fed. This part, I regret it not even a single bit.
Eventually, my dealer offered me a better job, a better life.
He declared himself willing to pay our bills so I could get back to school. All I needed to do was work from 9 to 5 at night-time. It sounded great at the time. My only way out. That one silver lining I clutched tightly to my chest like a diamond, as to never let it go.
I just didn't know at what cost I was going to be doing it.
So, three years after the incident, I started. Soon, I had gained quite some popularity among the business. My name was often displayed and used as a figurehead for our cathouse.
Not my real name, of course, it was my stage name – Silver.
Why Silver? I honestly have no idea. It was a split-second decision and I just stuck with it for the past three years.
In an establishment with a gender rate of 85% female workers, I have often been the center of attention. A young, pretty boy, catching all the old, rich perverts' eyes. Whether they're 'straight' guys paying me hush money to keep quiet about their guilty pleasures or queer guys who needed a toy to play with – the outcome is always the same.
I've done all kinds of messed up things, most of which I prefer not to talk about. All of which I regret. Besides the very few boundaries I am entitled to keep, I'm completely and utterly at their mercy.
However, I do it all at a cost.
Nowadays, I can say with confidence that my siblings and I aren't poor anymore, but I'm far from debt-free, thanks to all the shit my parents did. Joe has told me about what sort of business they got involved with, he is also the one collecting the money I owe.
Meeting him when I did wasn't an accident, although it took me longer than I care to admit to realize that. In fact, the longer I think about it, the more I begin to understand that he might have been a lot more involved with my parents than he let on. Surely, who'd like to admit that you were waist-deep in the shit-business your buyer's dead parents were in yourself?
Joe is vicious, but he is smart.
And after all, he is the reason my siblings and I live in a spacious apartment. My sibs have more than just the essentials and all three of us have our education secured. Don't get me wrong, I'm certainly not complaining, at least not when looking at the situation I'm in from a purely financial standpoint.
Most people my age don't usually get to spend their own money on luxuries, like their first car after getting their driver's license as soon as they turn 16 or toys and school supplies for their siblings.
Looking at it like this almost makes me feel like my life isn't even half as bad after all.
Almost.
That would be, if there weren't these issues with the drugs, the prostitution and that endless pressure of always performing well, in all aspects of my life.
But I'm stuck in a place I might never get back out of. Quitting the job means risking our home, our lives. Drugs are the one thing that keeps me going during the nights and college keeps me busy during the days.
It truly is a vicious circle.
The business I work at used to be one of the most legitimate ones in all of Nevada, which apparently led to authorities easing off the surveillance and the brothel falling off their radar entirely. Subsequently, the standards and legitimacy they kept up to the public view eventually began crumbling behind the red, velvety curtains.
The place turned into a meeting place for all sorts of criminals, often high in status. Even as one of the workers, I'm unsure about what is really going on there. All I know from both first-hand experience and hearsay is that large amounts of drugs seem to be involved.
The customers who come in for the sole reason to relieve their sexual frustration only help the ones in charge with keeping their dirty business covered. I guess stepping up their game by hiring minors, advertising them as adults and faking IDs for everyone under the legal age that's required for sex-work was a piece of cake for them.
It's all perverted and wrong, but if that's not enough, it is also highly illegal.
A part of me wishes that they'll eventually get the justice they deserve and get ratted out by some anonymous hero.
This opinion, I make sure not to let slip when I'm around my colleagues. A couple of times, I've overheard conversations that make me believe I'm far better off not sharing these thoughts with them.
Almost all my co-workers got into the business when they were around my age and stayed until now, up to 15 years later. Ever since I have joined the team, a few other people like me have tried, but quit after a month with little to no income. So, technically, I am still their 'baby-whore', as they like to refer to me as.
The youngest one apart from me is Jolly, but she's 'already' 25. This age gap of a mere five years puts even more emphasis on the difference between the usual worker and me, both emotionally and characteristically. Also, it emphasizes how I should be getting the fuck out of here.
My working nights are usually pretty repetitive. I get into the lounge area, have some expensive champagne or liquor, and sit on uncomfortable red or black leather sofas while each one of these monsters in here talks to their prey, trying to woo them enough to get to their dedicated backroom, as we call them.
'Backroom' describes those things rather well, because once you get into this eerily familiar room of yours, you have no idea whether you'll get back out ever again.
In the main hall, we have poles, a bar, a stage, tables, sofas, pool tables, and a handful of other attractions that spark the clients' interest.
Tonight, I walk straight from the dressing room to the bar, not even trying myself on the pole.
Maybe the cocaine I've snorted just a minute ago hasn't kicked in yet. Despite my exhaustion, it will eventually set in and keep me high enough to get me through the night.
Unfortunately, my drug problem has only gotten over all these years. I've had better times, but judging by the habits my colleagues seem to have, I might still have a chance of recovery. I am not saying that my consume is anywhere near acceptable, but I'd lie saying I'm the worst in this building. In fact, I might even be one of the few people who have not lost control over their life entirely yet.
Yet.
The black leather straps I'm wearing complement my silver-dyed hair and my holographic fishnet-top together with my tight, black leather shorts perfectly. Tonight, I don't even bother putting on makeup or wear heels. My motivation to dedicate my time to do makeup has left and my feet are too worn out to wear heels for hours on end.
With their smiles faked so sweetly, Jacky and Kim dance on the stage, to the music playing in the background. Soon, they catch the attention of the people in the room. Throughout the years, I have also been getting better on the pole, and now people love to watch my shows just as much as everyone's. Not tonight though, I'm too exhausted, too mentally drained to get myself up on this stage to perform.
I raise my voice to catch the attention of one of our bartenders.
"Hey Luna, mind bringing me a glass of water?"
My thighs stick to the nasty leather as I sit down on one of the bar stools by the counter.
Suddenly, but not to my surprise, a woman appears next to me with a disgusting grin on her face. If I could, I would throw up all over her as she runs her hand down from my shoulder down my back before claiming the seat next to me.
In my mind, I'm immediately trying to evaluate her intentions and begin setting potential boundaries. Yes, I'm allowed to have my own rules for my customers, as long as I don't violate the ones we have to follow anyway. Although most of them are about STD-prevention and personal information rather than consent.
As I said, this used to be a legitimate business, but I know that if someone happened to press the little red emergency-button next to the bed in all our backrooms nowadays, not a single soul would even consider coming to rescue us.
Nobody ever did and nobody ever will.
"Hey there. How are you feeling tonight, sweety?"
She places her hand, the one with the expensive-looking golden ring on her ring finger, on my thigh and begins rubbing it back and forth right over the faded scars on my pale skin.
My smile looks real, even though I want to scream my lungs out. Or punch her in the face. Or, well...whatever the anger inside of me makes me do this time.
But once again, I keep it all inside. It's all I ever do, day and night.
Only sometimes, and really only when I can't stand this pressure any longer, little Daisy hears me sobbing in the afternoon and crawls onto the sofa where I'm usually napping, to comfort her big brother. I know that every time she catches me crying, I break her pure, precious heart. She's only seven, but I know she's a wise little girl who might understand a lot more than is bearable for such a young kid.
I look down to my left wrist, where I run my thumb gently across the tiny bracelet my sister made for me about half a year ago. It's a string bracelet with some pink, purple and blue beads on it, as well as two charms, one letter each.
EE. Elijah Everdeen.
Ever since she has gifted me the bracelet, I have not taken it off, not even once. And I'm probably not going to until I die.
I don't care what people think when they see me with a baby-pink child's bracelet around my wrist. Simply feeling the bracelet reminds me repeatedly why I'm still fighting.
For them, just for them.
Even someone like me needs this reassurance, it doesn't matter if it is just through a bracelet around my wrist. For me, this gift is meaningful and precious, no matter what anyone else thinks.
The clients don't know the meaning behind the two identical initials. EE. Even though it is not far fetched that those might have something to do with my name, people rarely ask me about it anyway. Whenever someone does, I tell them whatever comes to my mind first that can easily be abbreviated with two E's. Like...Extremely Excited and play it off as a 'simple representation of my personality' or 'Electric Embodiment' and tell them it's a band-name that they don't need to know doesn't even exist.
Since the cute, fun style fits with my overall aesthetics at work, most customers don't even notice. Also, Daisy feels honored that I am still wearing the bracelet half a year later and I'm just happy it makes her so proud. Man, my siblings truly mean the world to me. Without them, I would have nothing.
As I am listening to the woman's meaningless words, my mind drifts off again. In my head, I can hear Daisy's voice.
"You are the best brother in the whole wide world, Eli!"
Her precious, innocent words give my foggy mind hope. It makes me get the will to push through the night.
Do it for them, just do it for them.
When the woman leans over and tries to kiss me, I gently push her away and smile, mumbling my words even though I wouldn't have any problem with screaming them into her face either. It is all just part of the act.
"Sorry, I'm not into kissing. I hope you don't mind."
It doesn't take long until her and I are talking about the fees for the time she'll get to spend with me. Deliberately, I set my price high to begin with, I have learned to do that over the past years. My attitude about how I charge the customers heavily depends on who I'm fucking with.
Literally.
Sure, certain acts require a certain default price, but apart from these guideline values, I'm pretty flexible when it comes to pricing. It's simple, on easier nights or people who are nice to me or just request a friendly conversation I charge less. But on the other hand, if someone's a rude, disrespectful asshole, simply not my cup of tea, or wants any type of extra service, the price goes up per minute. Our boss doesn't really care about our business as sex-workers very much. As long as we do our jobs and don't obviously rip people off, he couldn't be bothered intervening.
In case the police do decide to come to check if everything is within legal boundaries, we give them some set prices we were told we should be charging.
For a while, the woman and I keep talking, and I relentlessly resume blabbering all the crap she wants to hear me say. Eventually, she leans closer and whispers into my ear something about wanting to teach me how to please a lady.
With a forcefully widening smile, I put a hand on her shoulder to subtly keep her at a distance, saying things nobody would ever catch me saying outside of this damn prison.
It makes my skin crawl to talk in such a sweet voice to someone so filthy.
She grabs my hand and goes into the backroom that has a tag with my stage-name on it. We enter and she shuts the door behind her.
Indigo? Nice choice of bedsheets and lighting. Thanks, cleaning staff.
On a small dresser in front of the bed, there's a lot of fancy equipment, everything a person might desire for their sexual pleasure. A majority of the people who come in here don't even pay attention to the toys at hand, but there are also many, many clients - especially the ones paying to have us for more than an hour - who those things are very interesting to. Either to please themselves or their slut for the night. Even though this lady takes a look around the room and inspects the tools thoroughly, she decides to only pick up one of the small, glass toys, placing it next to me on the sheets.
"Could you please give me the money before we begin?" I beg with my pretentiously cheeky voice and look at her with shiny eyes, my hands crossed in my lap, waiting for her patiently.
She utters her response as if she's talking to a toddler, it's truly sickening. I'm playing along solely for the 150 dollars she has put on the dresser. This means I'll be hers for an hour.
After putting the money down, she walks over to me and bends down towards me, asking me questions I'd rather not recall.
Whatever she says, all I do is nod obediently. My youthful body and soft facial features make a lot of people want to 'baby' me in one way or another. Some less traumatizing than most. Fortunately, the drugs make me feel indifferent about what she does to me, how she touches my body, and what she makes me do.
When she finally leaves after her torture is over, I feel gross. I always do.
Quickly, I grab the money, all my clothes and dispose of the used preservative. Once I'm back in the changing room, I close the door behind me and lock the money away safely in my personal locker.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Stacy, Jacky and Kitty are in the room with me, all busy doing their own business. While Stacy is getting her makeup ready, Kitty swiftly ties a belt tightly around her upper arm, with a syringe lying next to her.
"Hey Silver, you want some?"
Her sunken eyes are covered with makeup.
"Not tonight, I just had a line," I respond and grab my soap before heading to the shower to wash off my sins, slapping Jacky's naked butt with the towel as I walk past her. She's busy looking for a right pair of panties to wear.
Shower. Another white line. Fresh clothes. Red room. Repeat.
I have barely entered the room when a man already gestures for me to come over to him. He's a businessman, I can tell. By the way he acts, speaks, dresses. They're all the same, in the end. He looks wealthy, so I need to shoot my best shot.
Tonight is one of the better nights, one of the ones that are bearable. It's one of the nights where I take a lucky shot by refusing Kitty's offer. Unfortunately, I've been finding myself refusing the offer less and less regularly lately.
Those are usually the busy nights, the ones with disgusting clients. Often, I will shoot diamorphine into my veins and let the poison calm me down. But this night, the white powder in my nose is enough to get me through. Very different effects, but the outcome is the same. Drugs numb. One way or another.