Oh Puppetmaster, Pull My Stings

I was quiet. I was loud. I was innocent. I was a slut. I was whatever they wanted for the night. In the backseat of a car, I'd suck them off. In a pay-by-the-hour motel I'd let them fuck me, use my body, pull my hair. I'd let them call me whatever they wanted: brother, dad, fucking dirty whore. Or let 'em hit me, bruising pale flesh. Hell I'd let them do a line off my ass if that's what got the pig's off. Whatever they wanted; shorts around my ankles, shirt hiked up, hair tousled, sweating, disgusting. It made me feel filthy. Made me a whore. Whatever they wanted for a fifty when their sixty cramped minutes of playing God were over. I was nothing, I know. It's just sometimes its nice to pretend otherwise. So I pretend to like it. I smile and open my mouth wider, spread my legs farther. I grin when presented with handcuffs, lick my lips at a paddle. When things were out of my control at least I could forget they were in fact my fault. It was easier to give up power then have it when you were to scared to utilize it.