III. CHRISTMAS: THE DAY AFTER
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BOXING DAY IN HONOLULU
A RUDE AWAKENING & A WHORE'S BATH FOR HOLLY
Some Days, It's Best Not To Wake Up At All
(Part Three; Part One is HERE.)
Holly woke up in a daze. It was light out, barely. She was indoors, someplace. She had no idea where, or what, or whose place it might be. It wasn't the first time she had woken up under similar circumstances. Such was the life of a teenage street prostitute, desperately addicted to crack cocaine, and homeless. She yawned.
She rolled out of bed onto the floor. "Bed" was just a mattress on the floor, so it wasn't a long drop. The mattress was soiled and stained, with no sheets, blankets or pillows. She wasn't surprised. She staggered to her feet, trying to be quiet, at least until she knew where she was, and with whom. She put her ear to the bedroom door, hearing nothing. She went to the uncovered window, a sliding glass door onto a small lanai crammed with junk. It was daylight, but raining, dark and grey outside. There was another building just behind this one, a much taller one, casting a shadow on the building Holly was in. There were no lanai's on this side of the other building, but it looked like an apartment building, probably a high-rise condominium. Waikiki, maybe? All the windows were closed and curtained. Holly tried to slide the glass door open, but it was stuck. She gave up and went into the bathroom off the bedroom.
It looked like a gas station bathroom; a particularly nasty gas station. A single man's apartment, or a bunch of crack-whores squatting in an empty apartment, maybe. But the light worked and so did the sink. There was toilet paper, thank God: A big pack of it from Costco, sitting on the floor behind the door. The toilet seat was up. Probably a man's apartment. Holly struggled out of her tiny shorts and sat on the toilet, careful to lock the door, first. Holly p*ssed for a long time. She couldn't remember the last time she'd sh*t. Or eaten, for that matter. She felt hungry, but she wanted crack more than food.
She finished p*ssing and wiped herself. Then she wiped herself again, her whole crotch, then her just inside the lips, smelling the paper when she was done. It was nasty. She must have another infection. Uncomfortable, and bad for business. Some guys would pay more to eat her than to f**k her, or extra to eat her after they f**ked her, a cream pie, they called it. Some girls would pay for a taste, too. Holly preferred women as customers, but she didn't like to eat pu**y, herself. Either way, a clean crotch meant more money.
Holly flushed the toilet and got up. There was nothing on the sink or in the medicine cabinet except aspirin, deodorant, a man's disposable razor, shaving cream, toothpaste, one toothbrush; and a bottle of mouthwash, Listerine, the harsh kind. Holly took a sip of water, then a gulp, directly from the tap, as there was no cup. She was terribly thirsty, all of a sudden. She took eight aspirin, just for the Hell of it: Any drug in a storm. Then she poured mouthwash over the entire toothbrush, put toothpaste on it and brushed her teeth. Her gums bled, and they hurt. She had an open sore on one side of her upper gum, from holding rocks of crack in her mouth for safe-keeping. She rinsed with mouthwash and the sore stung badly.
Holly pulled back the shower curtain, expecting the worst. It was dirty, but not as bad as she'd expected. There was no bar soap or shampoo, just a big bottle of liquid anti-bacterial soap, the cheap kind. She ran the water until it was warm, pulled off her T-shirt and stepped into the shower. It felt good to be warm again, and clean. There was no washcloth, only a long-handled back-scrubbing brush. She gave herself a good scrubbing, removing lots of dead skin accumulated since her last shower, who knew when. She washed her hair with the harsh liquid soap. There was no conditioner. Definitely no women living here, she thought. She rinsed once, and repeated, just like it says on the real shampoo bottles. Her hair would be totally dried out, but it was better than being filthy.
Holly's skin was all pink and clean now. She felt better, except for her crotch. She gave the exterior a good scrubbing, and then lay on her back on the bottom of the tub, aiming her crotch at the shower head, which was fixed and barely movable. It didn't seem to do much. She took the bottle of soap and inserted it a little ways into her vagina, and squirted some up there. It burned like Hell and she cried out. Then she stifled herself, afraid some guy might come crashing through the bathroom door. No one did. She stopped up the tub and let the water fill up. She let the water run into her, and then squatted in the tub, trying to push out all the soap. It hurt, but that was good, she thought. Maybe it would kill the infection. She reached out of the shower and grabbed the mouthwash from the sink, and douched with that, directly from the bottle. It burned even worse. God help whoever used it next. They'd get a mouthful. She laughed at the thought. Then she used the man's razor and shaving cream to scrape the light accumulation of reddish-blonde hair off her legs, armpits and crotch.
Holly finished showering with a quick cold blast, then shut the water off. There was a nasty little towel hanging from the shower curtain rod, but it was all wet. She peered out of the shower and noticed a large bath-sheet hanging on a hook. She grabbed it and toweled herself dry. The towel was thick and clean. It seemed new, never used. She wrapped it around herself, wishing she had another towel for her hair. She wrung out the smaller towel, but it was too wet to be of any use.
It was still quiet outside of the bathroom. Holly decided to wash her clothes. She rinsed her T-shirt and shorts in cold water in the tub, then hot, then added liquid soap, washing each item twice, then rinsing them in cold water. She wrung them out and hung them on the shower curtain rod. She wondered where her slippahs were. She squirted some spray deodorant on her armpits, her feet, her ass and her crotch. It had only a faint odor, something vaguely masculine, but it would have to do.
Tightening up the big bath sheet wrapped around her, which covered her from knees to armpits, Holly eased open the bathroom door. All quiet. She saw her slippahs on the floor next to the bed, and slipped into them. No sign of her Little Mermaid wristwatch, her tiny purse or her small teddy-bear backpack. Lost downtown, traded for crack, or maybe this guy had them. Whoever he was. She listened at the bedroom door, and, hearing nothing, eased it open. The next room was a small living room/ dining room/ kitchen, with only one chair, and no other furniture. There were dozens of boxes from a storage place, stacked everywhere. A TV and VCR rested on top of one of the boxes, facing the chair. Another two boxes were stacked next to the chair, and covered with newspaper, for a table.
Holly went to the window, cranked open the jalousies a little, and peered outside. All she could see was another, smaller building thirty feet away. The landings and front doors of the apartments across the way were facing her, but all the doors and windows were shut tight, and there was no one visible.
Holly checked the door of the apartment in which she found herself. It was locked with a key from outside. There was no bolt or chain on the inside, no way to lock out anyone who had a key. Maybe she could slide some boxes or the chair over to block the door. That had never worked against her father. He would just smash the door and push aside her barricades, and rape her even harder. Worth a try, maybe. First, some breakfast. She felt hungry, a little, so she checked the refrigerator. Sour milk, moldy cheese, green meat, ketchup, mustard, some relatively recent pizza still in the box, and beer. And egg nogg. What the Hell was egg nogg, anyways? She helped herself to a slice and a beer. It felt good being alone indoors, all cleaned up, eating and drinking just like a real girl. And it was Christmas, too, wasn't it? Maybe there was a present for her in one of these big boxes of stuff. She was, after all, still just a kid: Eighteen next month.
Then she heard a key in the front door. She put down her pizza and beer and turned to run into the bedroom, hoping to lock herself in the bathroom until she knew what was up, and who was whom. She turned to run as the front door knob turned, but her towel caught on one of the handles of the kitchen drawers and came off. She was halfway to the bedroom door, completely naked, stooped over, trying to extricate the towel, when the front door swung open. A large man stood in the doorway, staring at her naked body.
"Well. Merry f**king Christmas to you, too!"
[ PART FOUR copyright 2008 Cosa Nostradamus.]
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.
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IMPORTANT MESSAGE FROM YOUR BLOGGERS:
SUPPORT OUR TROOPS: BRING THEM ALL HOME ALIVE, NOW!
BOXING DAY IN HONOLULU
A RUDE AWAKENING & A WHORE'S BATH FOR HOLLY
Some Days, It's Best Not To Wake Up At All
(Part Three; Part One is HERE.)
Holly woke up in a daze. It was light out, barely. She was indoors, someplace. She had no idea where, or what, or whose place it might be. It wasn't the first time she had woken up under similar circumstances. Such was the life of a teenage street prostitute, desperately addicted to crack cocaine, and homeless. She yawned.
She rolled out of bed onto the floor. "Bed" was just a mattress on the floor, so it wasn't a long drop. The mattress was soiled and stained, with no sheets, blankets or pillows. She wasn't surprised. She staggered to her feet, trying to be quiet, at least until she knew where she was, and with whom. She put her ear to the bedroom door, hearing nothing. She went to the uncovered window, a sliding glass door onto a small lanai crammed with junk. It was daylight, but raining, dark and grey outside. There was another building just behind this one, a much taller one, casting a shadow on the building Holly was in. There were no lanai's on this side of the other building, but it looked like an apartment building, probably a high-rise condominium. Waikiki, maybe? All the windows were closed and curtained. Holly tried to slide the glass door open, but it was stuck. She gave up and went into the bathroom off the bedroom.
It looked like a gas station bathroom; a particularly nasty gas station. A single man's apartment, or a bunch of crack-whores squatting in an empty apartment, maybe. But the light worked and so did the sink. There was toilet paper, thank God: A big pack of it from Costco, sitting on the floor behind the door. The toilet seat was up. Probably a man's apartment. Holly struggled out of her tiny shorts and sat on the toilet, careful to lock the door, first. Holly p*ssed for a long time. She couldn't remember the last time she'd sh*t. Or eaten, for that matter. She felt hungry, but she wanted crack more than food.
She finished p*ssing and wiped herself. Then she wiped herself again, her whole crotch, then her just inside the lips, smelling the paper when she was done. It was nasty. She must have another infection. Uncomfortable, and bad for business. Some guys would pay more to eat her than to f**k her, or extra to eat her after they f**ked her, a cream pie, they called it. Some girls would pay for a taste, too. Holly preferred women as customers, but she didn't like to eat pu**y, herself. Either way, a clean crotch meant more money.
Holly flushed the toilet and got up. There was nothing on the sink or in the medicine cabinet except aspirin, deodorant, a man's disposable razor, shaving cream, toothpaste, one toothbrush; and a bottle of mouthwash, Listerine, the harsh kind. Holly took a sip of water, then a gulp, directly from the tap, as there was no cup. She was terribly thirsty, all of a sudden. She took eight aspirin, just for the Hell of it: Any drug in a storm. Then she poured mouthwash over the entire toothbrush, put toothpaste on it and brushed her teeth. Her gums bled, and they hurt. She had an open sore on one side of her upper gum, from holding rocks of crack in her mouth for safe-keeping. She rinsed with mouthwash and the sore stung badly.
Holly pulled back the shower curtain, expecting the worst. It was dirty, but not as bad as she'd expected. There was no bar soap or shampoo, just a big bottle of liquid anti-bacterial soap, the cheap kind. She ran the water until it was warm, pulled off her T-shirt and stepped into the shower. It felt good to be warm again, and clean. There was no washcloth, only a long-handled back-scrubbing brush. She gave herself a good scrubbing, removing lots of dead skin accumulated since her last shower, who knew when. She washed her hair with the harsh liquid soap. There was no conditioner. Definitely no women living here, she thought. She rinsed once, and repeated, just like it says on the real shampoo bottles. Her hair would be totally dried out, but it was better than being filthy.
Holly's skin was all pink and clean now. She felt better, except for her crotch. She gave the exterior a good scrubbing, and then lay on her back on the bottom of the tub, aiming her crotch at the shower head, which was fixed and barely movable. It didn't seem to do much. She took the bottle of soap and inserted it a little ways into her vagina, and squirted some up there. It burned like Hell and she cried out. Then she stifled herself, afraid some guy might come crashing through the bathroom door. No one did. She stopped up the tub and let the water fill up. She let the water run into her, and then squatted in the tub, trying to push out all the soap. It hurt, but that was good, she thought. Maybe it would kill the infection. She reached out of the shower and grabbed the mouthwash from the sink, and douched with that, directly from the bottle. It burned even worse. God help whoever used it next. They'd get a mouthful. She laughed at the thought. Then she used the man's razor and shaving cream to scrape the light accumulation of reddish-blonde hair off her legs, armpits and crotch.
Holly finished showering with a quick cold blast, then shut the water off. There was a nasty little towel hanging from the shower curtain rod, but it was all wet. She peered out of the shower and noticed a large bath-sheet hanging on a hook. She grabbed it and toweled herself dry. The towel was thick and clean. It seemed new, never used. She wrapped it around herself, wishing she had another towel for her hair. She wrung out the smaller towel, but it was too wet to be of any use.
It was still quiet outside of the bathroom. Holly decided to wash her clothes. She rinsed her T-shirt and shorts in cold water in the tub, then hot, then added liquid soap, washing each item twice, then rinsing them in cold water. She wrung them out and hung them on the shower curtain rod. She wondered where her slippahs were. She squirted some spray deodorant on her armpits, her feet, her ass and her crotch. It had only a faint odor, something vaguely masculine, but it would have to do.
Tightening up the big bath sheet wrapped around her, which covered her from knees to armpits, Holly eased open the bathroom door. All quiet. She saw her slippahs on the floor next to the bed, and slipped into them. No sign of her Little Mermaid wristwatch, her tiny purse or her small teddy-bear backpack. Lost downtown, traded for crack, or maybe this guy had them. Whoever he was. She listened at the bedroom door, and, hearing nothing, eased it open. The next room was a small living room/ dining room/ kitchen, with only one chair, and no other furniture. There were dozens of boxes from a storage place, stacked everywhere. A TV and VCR rested on top of one of the boxes, facing the chair. Another two boxes were stacked next to the chair, and covered with newspaper, for a table.
Holly went to the window, cranked open the jalousies a little, and peered outside. All she could see was another, smaller building thirty feet away. The landings and front doors of the apartments across the way were facing her, but all the doors and windows were shut tight, and there was no one visible.
Holly checked the door of the apartment in which she found herself. It was locked with a key from outside. There was no bolt or chain on the inside, no way to lock out anyone who had a key. Maybe she could slide some boxes or the chair over to block the door. That had never worked against her father. He would just smash the door and push aside her barricades, and rape her even harder. Worth a try, maybe. First, some breakfast. She felt hungry, a little, so she checked the refrigerator. Sour milk, moldy cheese, green meat, ketchup, mustard, some relatively recent pizza still in the box, and beer. And egg nogg. What the Hell was egg nogg, anyways? She helped herself to a slice and a beer. It felt good being alone indoors, all cleaned up, eating and drinking just like a real girl. And it was Christmas, too, wasn't it? Maybe there was a present for her in one of these big boxes of stuff. She was, after all, still just a kid: Eighteen next month.
Then she heard a key in the front door. She put down her pizza and beer and turned to run into the bedroom, hoping to lock herself in the bathroom until she knew what was up, and who was whom. She turned to run as the front door knob turned, but her towel caught on one of the handles of the kitchen drawers and came off. She was halfway to the bedroom door, completely naked, stooped over, trying to extricate the towel, when the front door swung open. A large man stood in the doorway, staring at her naked body.
"Well. Merry f**king Christmas to you, too!"
[ PART FOUR copyright 2008 Cosa Nostradamus.]
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.
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Labels: addict, blues, Chinatown, christmas, cocaine, crack, downtown, driver, hawaii, ho, holiday, Honolulu, prostitute, story, street, taxi, underage, Waikiki, whore, Xmas
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posted by Cosa Nostradamus @ 12/26/2008 12:09:00 AM
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