She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 08

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Ali's point of view: Her new "lifestyle."

There are some formative things in my life. Memories or occurrences that I keep with me, that I set my course by. I use my feelings to figure out what to do next.

For example -- how bad I felt in High School about letting the boys use me like trash. For a while, I hadno friends at all, nobody who talked to me. And the fewer people who talked to me, the less social I was in every sense. It got so I barely knew how to have a conversation. I couldn't speak to living, breathing people. (If someone spoke to me at a party, I'd go all tongue-tied. I'd lean into his hands, brushing against him, not answering, until he got the hint and latched on. From then on it was easy -- just follow where he wanted me to go. I was called "Party Favor" to my face.) The worst was when I overheard two guys talking about me in the hall:

Guy one: "Alley-Trash (their nickname for me) fucked Jim last night at the mall. He said he didn't even take her to the movies. Just fucked her, and kicked her out of the car."

That was true. I'd had to walk home, four blocks, from the mall. It was rude, and I'd made myself promise to say something to him about it on our next date.

Guy two: "The thing is, Angelaknew about Jim's date. The girls were talking, and they were all, 'I don't care if a guy fucks Ali. It doesn't mean anything.'"

Guy one: "Yeah! I'm gonna tell Betty I'll take her out to dinner, if she lets me fuck Alley-Trash. See what she says about that."

And that's how I learned how low I'd sunk. The girls didn't even consider it cheating when their boyfriends took me on dates! It was likeI wasn't a girl.

I felt pretty crummy inside. But that crumminess made me more aware of things, when the pattern repeated at summer camp. I was, like, the only girl instructor at the camp. Somehow (I guess they talked to each other), after the first few nights the counselors were visiting my tent at night, or walking in when I was showering. There were some days I didn't even get out of the tent to do work. I felt like I didn't deserve the paychecks the manager dropped on my bed, when we were done.

But because of High School, I was ready for the crummy feeling, and it didn't feel so bad. And when I got back to school for the next year, I was feeling evenless bad. Nowadays, when I should be feeling crummy, I barely have an opinion about it either way. I ask myself, "What's the big whup?" Why shouldI feel bad, if a guy who never took the time to learn about me treats me bad? I'd feel worse if the guy knew me, andthen treated me badly.

Then, in college, I learned to not take things so personally. In my study groups, everybody was so mean to me because I was always behind. But they never un-invited me. One of the girls told me: "Just because you're so beautiful, it doesn't mean you don't have to work. The guys will never kick you out, but I think it's unfair how you don't pull your weight. You never pay attention."

See, it turns out, most of the people thought I was coasting off the others, because they thought I was using my looks. But Iwas working hard. So I learned forgiveness when people were mean to me.

Overall, I think being giving and forgiving has helped me. I have $15,000 in the bank, earnings from my waitressing and band work. And Max said he'd start paying me at the studio. Meanwhile, I have zero costs -- I don't have to pay for clothes, food at the diner, apartment. Inever pay for drinks. I don't read and I don't see movies, but I'm busy all day. I do my exercises in the morning, I have two jobs to go to, and band stuff at night.

And now it's time for me to make someone else happy.

Tyler.

Ever since he confessed his turn-ons to me, I've been trying to think of things I could do to please him. He'd said, "Fuck strangers. Go to a porn shop and suck off anonymous cocks through a hole in the wall. Pick up guys in the park and let them play with you. Let strange men treat you like shit. Humiliate you."

But what did thatmean? Let men treat me like shit? Some men, here and there? Or all of them? I knew that relationships reach slow points, and begin coasting without either the boy or girl doing any work. I didn't want Tyler to get bored with me. I didn't want to be predictable, same old Ali. I wanted to project a wholelifestyle that kept him juiced and interested.

I worked on ideas, even when he wasn't around. If Tyler was always thinking about the band, how to make it better and get gigs, then I could always think about ways to humiliate myself for him.

I asked Harvey what I could do.

"Can you repeat that?" he asked.

"I need ideas," I said again. "I need some ideas about how to humiliate myself. You know, for Tyler."

"You mean sexually?"

"In general, I guess." I shrugged. "He said it was one of his turn-ons. I want to make him happy."

Harvey swigged his beer. He was staring at me with that strange intent look he sometimes gets.

He said, "You could take some pictures of yourself, and put them on the Internet for him."

I giggled. "We've already done that." And I told him the URL he could visit. He asked if he could tell his friends about it, and I said why not? As I understood it, the Internet was a public computer thingy. There's no reason they shouldn't be able to load the website.

Soon he was being his normal, logical intelligent self. I didn't follow some of what he said, but I knew that, eventually, he would get down to practical advice.

"What humiliates women is the removal of pride. Pride is self-worth. When a woman feels worthless, she has no pride. Things that make women feel worthless are called 'humiliating'. Are you with me so far?"

I nodded. I didn't have to understand.

"Self-worth is what makes a woman feel special. Proud women have values, standards. They care what people think about them. They want to be treated well. They want to succeed. They don't waste their time with nobodies. Are you with me?"

"You're saying I should do the opposite of all that?"

"Well, yeah," he said. "To be generally humiliated, you should do this stuff: Wear slutty clothes. Act more slutty. Don't draw any lines about what kind of men you let touch you. In fact, everything you do should make men feel comfortable touching you. And using you. Let them talk about you in a nasty way. Anything which embarasses you -- encourage it."

I had a little pad of paper on the coffee table. I wrote: "Dress more slutty. Everybody touches me. Get embarassed."

I looked at him, an idea in my head. "I have a t-shirt that says, 'Sex Kitten.' Is that good?"

He nodded. "Yes, Ali. You can even take a magic marker and write on some of your other t-shirts. A big, simple message, like 'EASY', or 'TRY ME'. And, you could take a pen and decorate an old pair of jeans -- write little messages on them. So people can read them."

"That sounds fun!" I laughed.

Over the next hour, Harvey and I worked out a surprise date for Tyler. I called Tyler at work, and told him to go to a certain out-door cafe. I told him he'd see me, but he had to pretend that he didn't know me. He should follow me wherever I went. I was shaking with excitement -- Tyler would be so happy!

"What's this about, honey?" he asked.

"I can't tell you," I said, being secretive. "Let's just say, I want you to watch me humiliate myself."

"Umm-okay," he said, sounding confused. "I'll look, um, forward to it?"

When we hung up, I asked Harvey why he was helping me. He shrugged, unzipping his fly and pulling me down to his cock. He said, "I feel like I owe it to Tyler to help you out." I thought that was sweet.

* * * * *

Ali's POV: Tyler's Surprise

I was wearing my clunky old combat boots, a white button-up shirt (Harvey's) and a beat-up pair of jeans full of holes. The jeans had two big holes over my knees, and one up my thigh. My ass was hanging out a big hole in the back. The front pockets were ripped out, so there were two horizontal slits of skin showing on both sides of the fly, below the beltline. The shirt was a heavy cotton thing, with split seams, that Harvey wore to do housework. I'd pulled off most of the buttons, and had tied it up to show my stomach.

Harvey said I looked cute and attractive, but totally broke. That was what I was going for.

I went to 14th Street at Union Station. There, I saw Tyler already seated at a table at an outdoor cafe. I almost waved to him, before remembering the whole point of me being there.

Instead, I walked up to him and paused, turning around full circle. He liked those jeans -- they were his favorites, he said. He always joked how, eventually, the tear in the ass would get so big that he'd be able to fuck me without taking them off. Now he saw (I hope) that I'd widened the tear a little, just for him.

I walked away from him, glancing over my shoulder. I had his attention, all right. Across the small plaza, I turned back to face him, and sat on the pavement. There were a lot of people passing by. I didn't sit cross-legged -- Harvey had suggested I sit with my legs parted, a little bent, so people could see the tears in the jeans better.

On the ground between my legs, I put out a dirty styrofoam cup and tossed some change in. Then I took out a little cardboard sign from my backpack. I held it up so Tyler could read it.

SPARE CHANGE?

Tired of being prostatute 6months

Disease freee and off drugs

I'm nice!

An incredulous smile passed over his features. Even though we were thirty feet apart, I felt like we were still communicating. He sat back, sipping his coffee, and watched. His eyes lowered to my crotch, where the ass-tear was showing under my split legs -- I knew from practicing in front of a mirror that he could see the skin of both thighs, separated by the hot-pink mound of my panties.

People were passing by. Some (usually men) slowed, to read the sign. Their faces held surprise, distaste, pity, lust. Lots of them looked down my shirt -- it was open to below my breasts, and looked like something I'd just thrown on that morning. If they were passing close to me, they could look down my top. If they were passing a little further away, they could see my panties. That was part of the humiliation thing, Harvey said.

I didn't get much change. New York police get rid of panhandlers pretty quickly, and everybody is out of the habit of giving. But when a pair of cops appeared, they just passed by me, looking me up and down. I gave them my best "I'm nice!" smile.

One old man did stop and talk to me. He seemed normal, until he squatted by me and put his hand on my knee. He was telling me something about his old wife, who had died. The thing to do with weirdos is ignore them. I didn't answer as he squeezed my knee, and stroked my hair.

One man, passing by, noticed us. "Five bucks if you do him right here," he told me, just to be nasty.

"Yes, pretty girl," said the old man eagerly. "What you think? He pay you."

I shrugged, feeling pretty cheap. (It was working!) The man passed on, leaving me with the old guy. He had pulled the collar of my shirt more open, and his hand was making tentative circles on my chest, each time reaching a little further in. Harvey had told me to let men touch me, so I just sat there, and tried to get passers-by to read my sign. Then the cops arrived again. The old man stood and walked quickly away.

One of the policemen sidled up to me. A young guy, twenty-something. He was looking down my shirt as he said, "We can't keep all the perverts off of you."

"I know this isn't legal," I said. "But I won't be here for long."

"We're going to pass by again in fifteen minutes," he told me. "You can't be here."

"Okay," I said. He was still staring at my tits. One of the things about being humiliated is to be embarassed. I wasn't embarassed by some guy looking at me -- women are used tothat. So I thought quickly and tried to ask something embarassing. "Is it true there's no law about being topless in New York? Think it will help me get some change?"

"No law against it," he said, a small grin on his lips. "You'll make better tips if you work in a strip club."

I shook my head. "Strip clubs need a home address and phone number. Right now, I'm just sleeping wherever."

"Well," he said, as he finally turned away, "if you're around at the end of my shift, you can sleep with me."

I gave him a big smile. "Thanks! That's sweet!"

"We protect and serve," he laughed.

With Tyler watching, I put the sign back into my backpack. I emptied the change into my hand -- I'd made $2.00! I stood, stooped and got my cup, and wandered slowly into the park.

After a few minutes, I glanced back and saw Tyler behind me. He'd paid his bill and was now following at about 20 feet.

The park wasn't very big, under a block -- and it was mostly just a bunch of paths lined with benches.

One of the benches was surrounded by a bunch of teen-age boys. People in New York are terrified of groups of young boys. They seem to get out of hand so easily. Women cross the street to go around them. Men walk faster.

These boys were talking loudly, laughing with each other, as I walked up. They stopped almost as one and turned to look at me. Their eyes traced up my jeans, penetrating all the holes, and came to rest on my shirt. It was still pulled sideways from the old man.

"Hi, guys," I said. I had a little quaver in my voice.

"Puta," spat one of them. "I saw your sign back there. A whore is a whore, man."

"I'm cleaning up my act," I said. "Can you help me out with some change?" I held out my hand. Whew! If I wanted to be humiliated, this was certainly working. I felt lower than low, I hoped Tyler was watching.

"Suck my cock for this?" He held up a shiney quarter. The other guys sniggered at me.

"Not anymore," I said, with my best friendly voice. "See, I'm trying to stop. Will you just give it to me? I really need some change."

"You're a pretty girl," he observed. "Why you a whore?"

"My boyfriend wanted me to," I said. Harvey and I had rehearsed my story, so it would come out smoothly if anybody asked. "First it was just his friends. Then it was guys we met. Then, when he owed money, he sent me over to fuck people. They started coming on their own, and paying. When he kicked me out, all I had was that talent. That is my history."

The teen-ager considered this. "You were my girlfriend, I guess I'd do the same thing."

"I know," I shrugged. "But Iwas a good girlfriend."

"No doubt. You make more than spare change for him, huh?"

I shook my head. "A lot of them were freebies."

He and his friends laughed at me. "So what if I wanna fuck you, but not as a whore? What about as a hot chick? Will you fuck me now?"

I considered. I hadn't planned for this question. "I guess so. How old are you?"

He sighed and shook his head. "Don't bother, puta. A whore is a whore."

He tossed the quarter onto the pavement at my feet. I said thanks, and stooped to get pick it up. When I straightened, he had a different look on his face.

"Bye, then," I said.

"Wait!" someone said. It wasn't the nasty kid again, but one of the others. "Here."

He tossed a nickle and some dimes onto the ground.

I dropped to my knee, leaning forward to pick them up. Before I was done, another few pieces of change scattered on the ground.

I wondered why they wouldn't justhand me the fucking stuff. Then I wondered why they didn't just throw it all at once. I crawled around on my hands and knees, picking up pennies, nickles and dimes as I found them. Then I'd hear some more tinkles behind me, as more change hit the pavement, and I'd have to spin around.

I caught a glimpse of Tyler, sitting on a nearby park bench. He was laughing with his hand over his mouth, watching me scrabble around. I guess itwas pretty funny.

"Man!" said the first boy, the nasty one. "You sure need money!"

"I do," I breathed. "Thank you for all this change."

He pulled out a single dollar bill, and unrolled it in front of my eyes. "What would you do for this?"

"Can you spare it?" I asked, holding a hand out.

"I can spare it, if you can work for it," he said. There was an evil smile on his face. "Crawl towards me. Like a doggie."

I'd been doing that anyway, when I saw the dollar. How weird is that -- I had lots of money in a bank account, but after just half an hour of begging, that dollar looked like a lottery win!

"Can you all see down her shirt?" the teen asked. His friends all said yes. "Some of the best tits, man. Puta! Can I feel your tits?"

I shook my head. "You might be too young."

"I can see them, and I'm young. Why aren't you covering them up?"

I gave a little shrug, "They're just tits."

I was still on all fours, holding myself up with my palms planted against the ground. I noticed people passing by slowly, or even stopping, to watch me earn my dollar. Tyler told me later that they were mostly just watching my ass stick out of my jeans.

"I give you this dollar," said the teen-ager. "But you have to let me spit on you. Spit on you, puta, because I spit on whores."

"You can spit on me anyways," I pointed out, helpfully.

"I know. But you have to keep your mouth open. Each try is a dollar. Heh?"

I thought about that. "I could make a lot of money!" I exclaimed.

He looked surprised, then a little disgusted. "That's the spirit. Open your mouth like a good girl."

I couldn't stop thinking about that dollar. I opened my mouth right away, showing him my little tongue.

His lips pursed, and then he shot out a stream of spit between his two front teeth. It hit my cheek, close to my mouth, but not in. As it ran down my face, I could feel its hotness on the edge of my lips.

"That's one," he said. He pulled out another dollar.

Another guy had a dollar of his own. They spat almost in unison, hitting me on the temple and neck. I kept my mouth open, turning to the other guys. Slowly, shyly, they were digging in their pockets. Their eyes were riveted on my face, and down my shirt.

One of the bystanders behind me gave a revolted snort. "Woman, get off your knees! This is fucking horrible."

I flashed a smile over my shoulder. "No! It's okay! It's better than whoring. I've already made three dollars!"

I hoped Tyler was digging this as much as I was. Altogether, most of the teen-agers tried it, a few of them twice. Only two wads of spit landed in my mouth, which they instructed me to swallow. I probably could have kept them there all day, but then, they were young. They didn't have much money.

Some of them took a turn without paying, but by the time they walked away, I had made twelve dollars. Not counting the change I still had in my hand.

I stood, wiping my face on my sleeve. When I turned, most of the watchers were moving on, excepting the man who had told me to get off my knees. He had a strange expression of concentration on his face, like me when I'm figuring out a bill at the diner. Except he wasn't sticking out his tongue.

"Woman, I'll give you five dollars to open your shirt for me."

"Five!" I rocked back, stunned. That was five spits worth.

"This offer won't last," he said, stepping up to me. He was a tall man, black, in an expensive overcoat. He had a hungry expression on his face. "Five."

"I don't know. My shirt?" I plucked at it.

"Four dollars, now."

"Oh, no!"

Before I could say anything else, he said, "Three."

"But you said five!" I said.

"I don't have all day. Now it's two."

I gripped my shirt and tore it open. I made it just before he said "one." I heard the last few buttons pop off the shirt and skitter away on the pavement. He stepped closer, staring at my chest. I don't know why men care about breasts so much... and if he'd been at Club Trash during my last set, he would have seen a lot more.