It was a thirty thousand dollar smile. So it was that it could only be the natural order that she would end up having to use that mouth for something of ill repute. Something that would make money quickly. And we all know that, for a girl, the quickest way to make cash is with one’s mouth–opening it in a way that does not emit words so much as pleasure (for the least pleasurable thing to a man is words from a woman). Ever the pragmatist, Lily knew that she must pay her comeuppance for the amendments she made to her teeth after chipping it more than slightly against the door frame her now ex-boyfriend slammed her head on for the last time. It was only after he damaged her body in such a costly manner that she finally had to end it for good. No more “second chances” given for the umpteenth time. And while, sure, physical violence could be arousing to a certain extent, the dryness that he permanently instilled within her after nearly cracking her skull in addition to her tooth made her realize that “true love” was just another myth in the vein of capitalism.
And yet, it was a form of capitalism for her to pull herself up by her bra straps and go out into the Western world swinging…her tongue. You see, all those loans and “advanced payments” had at last caught up with her. Though “at last” felt, to Lily, more like three seconds later. No sooner had her veneer been put in (along with her diamond-encrusted grill…just to round it out) then she was suddenly expected to pay back that $30,000 to the so-called insurance company that was so eager to loan it to her in her time of need. But now that the need had been met, they wanted to saddle her with an anti-desire: payback of the non-vengeance variety. The problem was, she wasn’t exactly liquid these days. Or even “solid”–or whatever the antonym for liquid was supposed to be signifying you only operated on credit, the likes of which she had already tested her boundaries too far on, with just $50-$100 left on each of her five credit cards. That was hardly enough to finance a reckoning. Or pay a flash mob to show up outside of her ex’s workplace to the tune of Kelis’ “Caught Out There.”
Staring at the glint of her grill in the mirror, she laughed. What a fool she was to think she could tango with a creditor and win. To believe in the tooth fairy would have been more viable. Because people. Always. Collect. Their. Debts. She knew this, of course, but had anticipated having just a little bit more time, a little bit more leeway with her apparently ironclad payment plan. It was, contrary to what Cher Horowitz might have believed, the absolute and final word in payment plans and loan options. So it was that she found herself masochistically laughing at her own reflection as she came to the conclusion that she would have to put her thirty thousand dollar mouth to good use. To suck or be sucked…up by the black hole of her debt (who knew financial ruin could be so innuendo-laden?).
She wanted to have faith that the universe would not let her go this far, would stop her at the last minute by throwing some unforeseen, non-morally compromising option into her lap. Yet she knew better than that at this stage of her life, the one where she had given the best battering opportunities of her once supple skin to an ex that had manipulated some other poor spirit into thinking he would “never do it again.” There was to be no “miraculous” windfall, no sudden get out of debt free card. She was going to pay the piper and the piper was a hairy, disgusting penis belonging to the trucker variety at the rest stop between New Jersey and New York she had staked out in search of the perfect demographic to hone in on. The kind that would actually be seeking the head of a female instead of a male (and, as far as she was concerned, there could be no match for the unique tenderness of a femme blow job).
She started charging modestly at first, $30 for “normal head,” $50 for “extras” (conversation included). After all, these were blue collar folk–they weren’t exactly rolling in it despite the nonstop physical demands of their professions. She wanted to respect and acknowledge that, even if what she was doing was not “respectable” (though how could that possibly be when it was the oldest profession?). As her reputation “about town,” a.k.a. the microcosm that orbited this particular “rest area,” grew, so, too, did her prices–and her hope of actually being able to repay her debt in time.
Perhaps seeing this light at the end of a tunnel that once looked so impossibly dim, she got ahead of herself, and therefore, got greedy. It’s consistently the most fatal of the deadly sins. And here she had thought it was lust (for that’s what had gotten her tooth fucked up in the first place, when you got right down to it).
Not assessing the nature of her client well enough as she followed him to, at his insistence, the foulest stall of the men’s room, she was blithely unaware of what her folly was about to result in. Usually, she didn’t agree to go into the bathroom with them, preferring to remain in the “privacy” of the car, but because he had seemed so amenable to paying the unprecedented $200 she had asked for, she felt she at least owed him the courtesy of his preferred environment for performing the act.
Giving what she thought was her best performance yet, she had finished the show by lightly rubbing her grill over the semen that had just spewed out onto the nest of hair surrounding his now spent phallus. It was a signature of hers after a while, wielding her grill in this perverse manner. She found it poetic that the thing that had cost her so much was now making all her money back, after all.
But evidently, Ted (as his jacket name tag back in the car indicated) was neither pleased with the price point nor the “added flourish.” He thusly delivered a severe wallop to the back of her head that sent the grill flying into the deep recesses of the gaping hole passing for a “depository” that was right next to her (it almost made the Trainspotting toilet seem posh). Literally forced to watch her investment slip down the toilette.
Ted punched her in the eye for good measure before topping it off with, “Stupid slut” (she wanted him to at least add, “Tricks are for nymphets,” but maybe he wasn’t witty enough/had never read Nabokov) and then retreating with the bounty of his orgasm. So there she was, back to square one on an HIV-giving bathroom floor and not even any diamonds to make her shine (if only a little bit) out of the impossible darkness she had sunken into.