I wish I could get away.  These men and their requests grow more disgusting every day.  The worst part is, it fazes me less and less.  This job, this demeaning, horrible, despicable, endless cycle, is really becoming my nine to five. When I clock in with my body, I clock out with my mind.  Each trick I’m with, I lie there and I picture the money. I think about what I need to buy with it, which bills are due this week, what new curve ball little Gracie may throw my way; she needs pacifiers, she needs teething rings, she needs baby powder, she needs bigger diapers, on and on and on. 

Today I had to think extra hard about the money.  A man was very rough with me.  He pulled my hair, called me names, choked me, hit me.  It was as if he knew I was trying to escape, as if he knew that in my head I wasn’t there with him, and he wanted me there, right there.  I must admit, it worked.  The pain, the horror I felt, the fear that Gracie would be left all alone.  I do not fear death.  This body is nothing but a shell now.  I hate what I’m doing, I hate what I’m becoming, but I’d do it forever for her, she’s my angel.  She is my life.