Eighteen Months

by Giulia Napoli

  But I loved her when she gave me the do up.

  Glenda gave me enough White Nurse for a couple of weeks, and a supply of Roger’s Easy X cocktail. In spite of my addiction, I was determined to shoot up as infrequently as I could tolerate, at least at that point in time. I managed to get by with three or four do ups and an Easy X cocktail most days, but it was tough.

  I knew that, eventually, I’d succumb to the smack, and do it whenever I needed it. Which would become all the time, if it wasn’t close to that already.

  My heroin addiction was back with more than a vengeance. Even if I ran away now, there was no more tea to break the habit. And I knew in my heart that, without it, I didn’t stand a chance of getting clean.

  I was back with Doctor Riffkin in a couple of days.

  Riffkin slipped the ocular prostheses onto the white orbs that substituted for my missing eyes. “These are the most beautiful, emerald green eyes I’ve ever seen,” he told me after they were in place.

  “My eyeth wewe deep bwue, befowe,” I said, barely understandably. Even blind, my eyes had been blue. I didn’t want green eyes. I wanted blue eyes.

  I wanted my real eyes.

  That was never going to happen.

  I supposed that Roger got me green eyes so they’d go with my red wigs, and stand out more with the brunettes.

  “I remember your eyes,” he said. They were lovely, but these are even better.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I said.

  “Thanks to the hyperhealants, you’re tongue piercings and thigh implant are all healed up. You can go back to work now. Roger knows. He’s expecting you at noon. Good luck, Alie.”

  I didn’t say anything to that corrupt doctor as I left. I refused the nurse’s offer of a ride, and told them I’d take a cab. I wondered if the cab driver might get me a fix for a little head. But, as I sat there waiting, the nurse shot me up, so I didn’t need it anymore then. I don’t remember a thing after that..

  **********

  At the Jolly Roger, I had come back to enough presence of mind to look for Rocco but he wasn’t around. Glenda found me and took me down some stairs to a group of bedrooms that I hadn’t known were there.

  “I didn’t know thethe wewe hewe.” I told her.

  “They weren’t. They were either storage or empty. Roger had them redone right after Christmas. I want you to strip down, Minx. Show me what you’ve got.”

  “A lot of twack mawks.” I said bitterly.

  “Comes with riding the horse. Let’s get one thing straight. I’m your sex trainer, not your therapist. Stick to that topic. Besides, trying to figure out what you’re saying half the time gives me a headache.”

  “Youw a wowld-cwath bitch.”

  “Who’s gonna make you a world-class prostitute.” She slapped me hard across the face. Not being able to see it coming made it even worse.

  I leaped at her, but missed her. I was flailing my arms and managed a glancing blow on her face. Then her arms were around me and she threw me onto a bed. She climbed on top of me, and held me there. Half a minute later, I felt a needle enter my inner thigh. Then came the delicious embrace of my only lover, the smack, always true to me.

  My muscles relaxed and I oozed onto the comforter. This was different. A real hit of heroin and then the sexual lift from Easy X. I found out later that it was the same Easy X cocktail I danced with, but instead of White Nurse, Roger had made this one from China White – heroin mixed with a prescription narcotic, fentanyl.

  I would have fucked an elephant or a troll at that point. Or even Roger or Glenda.

  I finished removing my clothes and lay back as instructed. I felt Glenda’s hand – it was smaller than I‘d expected - go into my pussy. “Squeeze my hand as hard as you can with your cunt muscles,” she instructed.

  I did. I did everything she told me to. I even did ten minutes of those muscle squeezings, until I thought my vagina would tear apart. Right afterwards, I felt a penis-shaped dildo, being worn by Glenda, enter me. She taught me to milk it using those same muscles, and when to start and when to continue. I’d be practicing with a real man in a couple of days.

  She repeated everything with the dildo in my ass. By the time we stopped, every muscle in my pussy, my butt and my abdomen was on fire.

  I gagged ferociously, trying to deep throat the dildo. I’d taken Rocco in my mouth more than once, but I stopped in front of my uvula. He was too big to take farther anyway. The dildo was smaller, and Glenda was determined to get me to take it down my throat. She tried and tried and I gagged and gaged and almost hurled twice. That earned me another slap both times. The slap stopped the gagging though.

  As a change of pace, I was told to use my tongue, with special attention to the studs on it, on the dildo. Glenda couldn’t tell whether or not I was doing a good job, so she instructed me to sexily remove her pants and thong, and then dive into her muff – her words.

  I put my mouth on her cunt. What could I do? Not only did she have me under her control because of the drugs I’d taken, but I also wanted to fuck her because of the Easy X in the drugs I’d taken.

  I played the studs carefully across and around her clit. I pushed my fully-healed tongue into her vagina as far as I could, then slowly withdrew it and slid it between her inner lips and up to her clit again.

  With little effort, I took her to near-climax, held her there, then gave her a shattering orgasm.

  My tongue studs worked, there was no doubt.

  I hated them. They made me talk like a moron.

  By the time Glenda was done with me for the day - hours later - I knew with no uncertainty, that I preferred free-wheeling sex with women. The most they wanted to stick in you were a few fingers or a small hand. Men had the equipment to do you in, unless you agreed to some rules up-front. Then, of course, it was no longer free-wheeling.

  Glenda paid me fifty dollars for getting her off. She made me take it. She wanted me to get used to being paid for having sex. She was turning me into a whore, after all.

  Of course, I took the fifty bucks. If I hadn’t, she would have withheld my do up. That was not acceptable. So I got paid for getting her off.

  I was paid for sex – in money and do-ups. I was now a whore. I felt like a whore.

  I thought about that. Was there ever a way to become a not-whore? Or a retired whore? My mind was befuddled with heroin, but I really had never heard of that.

  So from that day forward, I guess I’ll always be a whore. I didn’t choose it; I didn’t want to be; but I was. So I was stuck, right?

  Before I left the Jolly Roger, Glenda fitted me with a butt plug. She shoved it into me, turned something to make it so tight I thought I’d tear, and then somehow locked it. Without the key, I couldn’t remove it. It had a removable plug which I would have to unscrew. Then I would poop through the opening in the plug. It was awful.

  She made me wear it all the time, but would let me go without when I was actually dancing again, five days from now. She’d put the plug back in me after my last dance. Twice per day, she’d tighten it so it stretched me even farther. She told me she was doing me a favor; a lot of guys would want to do me through the back door. I was afraid it would stretch me so much that I’d have an accident on stage.

  Before I left, she shot me up again. It felt so good.

  I had another fix that evening, after dinner. I didn’t eat much; I had little appetite, except for the smack. My appetite for that was insatiable. Try as I might – and I did try – I was losing control.

  I must have done well for Glenda that first day, because she already had a man there the next.

  The long, carrot-red wig – that’s the color Glenda told me it was - flopped across my shoulders, beside my cheeks, and partially concealed my face. Glenda wanted me to get used to wearing it while I was selling sex - not selling dancing sex, selling fucking sex. I was told that I always would be fucked as a redhead.

  I suspected that’s why Roger Junior wanted my eyes to be green.

&n
bsp; As soon as I’d gone into the room, Glenda had me strip and lie naked on the bed, while she shot me up with an Easy X – China White cocktail. It messed me up. That was gonna be my normal state when I fucked for money.

  She got up, opened the door, and a guy entered. By the sound of him, he was big, and breathing heavily through his mouth.

  I was supposed to tell him to come to me, because I couldn’t see him. When the real work started, my Johns would already know I was blind. I reached up with my arms and I felt him above me. I stood up and began to undress him by feel alone. His hand went to my tits and my cunt while I was doing that, and began to diddle with the rings there.

  “Do you wike that?” That was the response I was supposed to use under those circumstances. Glenda had taught me a few dozen specific phrases yesterday, figuring I’d need a while to learn them. That was ridiculous. I learned them immediately. I wasn’t an idiot, after all. Even if I talked like one.

  He kept playing with me. I came. I couldn’t help it.

  That earned me a slap from Glenda. I told her, in no uncertain terms, that she’d fucking cum too, if she were pierced like I was.

  I don’t think she understood my messed-up speech.

  She told me to go on. That was fine. The combination of the Easy X/China White and the guy fiddling with my pussy had built up a roaring need for sex.

  When it happened, the penis felt right, tightly within me as I bent over the bed in front of him, my pretty, manicured feet still standing on the scratchy carpet. I was satisfied. Its owner felt thick, muscular, hairy, as his groin pressed against my butt, and his chest lay across my back. His breath smelled of smoke and bourbon, even in early afternoon. I imagined that he was Arabic, with thick dark hair, starting low on his forehead and combed straight back. He wasn’t a sophisticated sheik, he was a grunt. And, of course, he grunted.

  It didn’t matter. I’d never see him anyway. Or anything else. I didn’t think I even wanted to anymore. He was only a series of tactile sensations from somewhere in the nothingness that surrounded me. Blind was an escape. A safe haven of not knowing. A cock was a cock. My snatch would belong to whomever could pay the price. This guy had gotten a freebie. In real life, he’d probably have paid three month’s discretionary income for the right to fuck me. Going forward, I’d let him and any troll who could pay the toll have his way with me. What did I care?

  I’m an outstanding exotic dancer, I thought. Maybe the best ever. Minx. Aka Alie Adams. Blind dancer. Featured in all the appropriate magazines, or so I’d been told.

  Now, in addition to that dubious title, I’m gonna be a hooker. A well-paid, sightless whore, but a whore nonetheless.

  A blind dancer. A blind prostitute. It was good that I couldn’t see. Life had fucked me over. I’d driven through an intersection in front of a blind woman. I’d parked in a drop-off zone and used a handicapped bathroom stall.

  This is what they’d done to me. So I did what I still could. The Johns mostly wouldn’t care that I was blind. Some would actually get off on that. Fuckin’ A for them.

  For me, it was gonna be a living. It was gonna get me my do ups.

  “Fuck my wittle puthy,” I told him, as I’d been instructed. “Make Minxth thcweam fow youw big cock.”

  When it was all over, he pressed a few bills into my hand.

  He’d given me a hundred bucks.

  For having sex with him during training.

  I held it out to Glenda.

  “It’s all yours, she said. “You earned it.”

  I was a whore. I was a whore. Oh God, I was a whore!

  **********

  I arrived at the Jolly Roger on Friday night. Everyone welcomed me back. I was to headline for the next twelve days, through next weekend and the following Tuesday. A week from tonight, I’d likely become a professional prostitute.

  Of course, I’d already fucked that guy during training at least half a dozen times. And gotten paid. Thanks to the Easy X, I’d pretty much loved every minute of it.

  Roger was paying me during my training, in salary and do ups.

  The guy who was my training partner even paid me.

  I knew I was already a whore.

  Natalie Adams. Twenty-three-year-old blind, junkie whore. Me.

  Thank God I was now sterile. In fact, I should have had them take my womb and heal me up quickly with hyperhealants. No child should ever have to call a whore, mother, or spend nine months in a whore’s womb.

  When I wasn’t practicing with Glenda, Phil had me getting ready for new dances. There were new moves and new music. Unlike before, it took longer for me to learn the new moves. Phil was still a great, creative choreographer, but my mind – in particular, my concentration – was weakened by my addiction. Fortunately, Phil was understanding and patient.

  Sadly, I couldn’t even say his name properly. It came out, “Phiw.”

  Glenda showed up Friday at 7:00 to remove my butt plug. Once she had, I felt wide open. I asked Phil to look at my butt and tell me if I were going to have an accident on stage. I bent over.

  There was a long pause before he said, “I’m sorry, Alie, what’s a ‘thtage?’”

  I stood up. “Whewe I danthe.”

  Another long pause.

  “Where you dance?”

  “Yeth!”

  “A stage?”

  “Yeth!

  “You’re afraid you might have an accident on stage. Meaning shit by accident?”

  “Yeth.” Now I was totally humiliated.

  He bent me over again and looked at my asshole.

  Honestly, I’d rarely used words like ‘tit’ and ‘cunt’ and ‘asshole’ – and almost never ‘fuck’ - before everything that happened to me since I moved to River’s Edge.

  “You are kind of open,” he said.

  “Oh gweat!”

  “But I don’t think an accident’s gonna happen.”

  I’m sure he was lying to me because he feared I’d be too scared to perform otherwise.

  Pat took me behind the curtain. I was ready to go out when I heard the announcer, that prick, Roger Junior, yell out, “Good evening all you Jolly Roger Fans!” There were scattered applause and whistling, and a number of people started shouting, “Minx, Minx, Minx …”

  “Minx will be right out. We wanted you to know that Minx will be dancing for the next twelve nights straight: tonight through a week from Tuesday.”

  There were loud cheers and whistles. Then the whole crowd started with, “Minx, Minx, Minx!” in earnest.

  Roger, the announcer, went on, “Starting next Friday, a week from tonight, Minx will be available for private parties after her 12:00 performance, by reservation only. For more information, stop into the office down the hall to your right as you head toward the front door.”

  Glenda had already told me that Roger had booked me every night, from next Friday through the following Tuesday. There were three private shows and two group parties. She told me to expect to be fucked by at least seven different guys and four women.

  That’s what a prostitute is supposed to do.

  That’s what I was.

  I went out to face the crowd for the first time in a month. Only a month. It seemed like a lifetime ago when I’d last danced.

  An unhappy lifetime.

  Thank God I would never see these people. Never.

  The house must have been filled to overflowing with my fans. In my eighteen months of dancing, I’d never, ever heard such a loud, enthusiastic crowd response as happened when I strutted through the curtains.

  Oh! How I so wanted to see these people! See anything!

  I was back.

  **********

  The following morning, they came for Roger Junior. I didn’t know anything about it until I arrived at the Jolly Roger for my afternoon session with Glenda. Glenda wasn’t in her basement room.

  I tapped my way up the stairs and back out to the front office.

  “Hey!” I called out. “Ith anybody hewe?” What I
needed right then was a fix. Glenda was supposed to have given me the Easy X plus China White that was my whore juice fix. That’s basically what we both called it, “whore juice.” When I had it, I didn’t feel as bad about training to be fucked for money.

  The office door was closed. I knocked on it and called out, “Wogew?” That was as close as I could get to saying “Roger,” with my tongue full of metal studs and metal wires.

  I called out again. Then a familiar voice, but not Roger Junior, opened it saying , “Who are you asking for?”

  I felt the door stop opening, heard the guy gasp as I said, “Wogew Seniow!”

  I knew it was Roger Senior from his voice.

  “Oh my God, Alie!” He said and he swept me up in his big, hairy arms, pulling me too him like a long-lost daughter.

  “What’th going on?” I asked.

  “I’m back. That no-good, miserable-excuse-for-a-son-of-mine is on his way to a cabin in Alaska, lucky to be alive. Glenda is … Glenda is gonna continue her occupation under … let’s say highly-controlled circumstances. My nightmare, and yours and everyone else’s is over. Come in, sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Wogew, I can’t wight now.” I needed a fix and I was too embarrassed to tell him.

  “Why are you talkin’ funny?” Roger asked. I held out my tongue so he could see the hardware.

  “Oh fuck,” he said. “Can you take ‘em out?”

  “No, nevew. Doc Wiffkin did ‘em. Wogew, I weawwy need to go.” I turned to leave. I’d take a bus home where I had a stash. I thought I could make it, but I was getting very uncomfortable.

  “I won’t ask you what’s wrong, because I know a lot is wrong, but it’s okay now. I promise.” He thought I wanted to get away from the Jolly Roger.

  “No, Wogew. I’ww be back. It’th juth that I need to get thomething.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yeth, Wogew, I need a do up!” I screamed. I guess I wanted to get it more than I cared about him knowing.

  “I’m so sorry, Alie. Come on, I know where Junior kept his stash.”

  Roger led me downstairs and down a hall. We stopped and I heard him making clicks. I think he was opening a safe. It turned out to be a vault. He got something and led me back down the hall to one of the rooms Junior was going to use for the brothel.