In her most desperate hour, she would still rather call anyone but her father. Although he had always been there for her, in whatever capacity she needed, Clara abhorred the very thought of asking him for something. But more than anything, what she hated asking for was money. Which was, unfortunately, what she typically needed the most. And also what she was the most ill-equipped at garnering. Or was earning supposed to be the better, more dignified word choice? Even if it was, it didn’t feel like the accurate one. Because, to Clara, the notion that money had to be earned was not only anathema, but also a misnomer as far as she was concerned. Not because she was “lazy,” per se (with this being the go-to “branding” for people who can’t find and/or simply won’t work), but because she believed—and rightly so—that a person oughtn’t have to earn their place in the world, their right to simply exist.

And what “to simply exist” meant to Clara was having easy (read: free) access to food, water and shelter. In the system that had prevailed for centuries, however, such a “fantasy” (but also erstwhile reality) could never come to fruition. That left someone like Clara at a total loss about what to do with herself. In other words, she was not equipped to make money (a term beloved by Ayn Rand, but also one as infuriating as “earn money”). Least of all “lots of it.” Which was what was required in the present age for even the most basic of survival. As such, Clara was barely surviving. Though, for whatever reason, she thought she would be able to in a city like Los Angeles. Maybe because, at the bare minimum, she told herself, it was a warm and sunny place, so if she really had to become homeless, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

After all, being cold was half the battle when one didn’t have a “domicile.” The other half was being hungry, thirsty and finding a place to do “bathroom things.” And maybe, once you could “kind of” conquer those obstacles as a homeless person, you could start to focus on other “baser” needs, like having sex. Not that Clara had much faith in the proverbial “meat market” available amongst the male homeless population. And there she was, suddenly realizing that she was already imagining the worst for herself. Catastrophizing as a result of the very thought of even having to ask her father for money. A request she was teetering dangerously close to making as the end of the month approached and the rent was inevitably due.

She had managed to avoid making this request for the past six months. For it had been six months ago when she finally decided to bite the bullet and create an OnlyFans account. It began with “light play” at first—mostly feet pics, “tasteful” bra shots without the entirety of her face being shown…that sort of thing. Soon, though, her desire to accrue more cash became insatiable. And as it did, so, too, did her inhibitions become less “staunch.” But with her increasing lack of staunchness, Clara began to lose sight of the types of things that might get her suspended from the platform. It began innocently enough, as she individually messaged some of her most enthusiastic and appreciative “fans” with offers for other kinds of “promotional services.” She would then start to send them links to other things in her life that she had turned into “gigging through selling” endeavors, including her Etsy page and a few eBooks she had churned out in perhaps the most pathetic bid yet to gain “passive income.”

One day, though, she had apparently chosen to bark up the wrong tree (or is it “the wrong dick” in this scenario?) with a “fan” that was newer, therefore less reliable than the others. Her attempt at “self-promoting” in other areas of her life landed with a thud and she was reported to the platform by this insensitive asshole with clearly no regard for the fact that OnlyFans had become a key part of her livelihood. And so, while waiting to see if the suspension was going to be permanent—which it probably was—Clara had found herself getting into increasingly dire straits. She had bills to pay: credit card, gas, electric, water, car. Not to mention rent, always the fucking rent. And even though she had rented out her living room to a dubious lodger named Svetlana, it was still never enough. Never enough to even just keep her head above water. How did anyone else manage to live? How were there not constant riots in the streets over how fucking hard it was to be “allowed” to exist in the current society? Did anyone who was still “plugging along” in a semi-“respectable” way just have a parent to turn to when it all got to be far too financially unmanageable? What was the fucking conspiracy afoot? Whatever it was, Clara had no time to further dissect or analyze it. She needed to come up with about a thousand dollars, and fast. To ask for that amount from her father made her feel a pang in her side. She couldn’t do it.

What she could do, however, was take her “act” to the street. If she could do it on OnlyFans, surely she could do it the “old-fashioned” way, too. Even if the old-fashioned way meant being far more tactile than she ever wanted to be. And even if it meant going to goddamn Figueroa Street to do it. Clara was aware she wasn’t the “average” kind of sex worker found on that block, but that it might also work to her benefit for being so “esoteric.” To her initial joy, it did work. And she made over the thousand she needed in order to get through the next month. It was her last “client,” however, who decided she was worthy of being smacked the shit out of while his presumed girlfriend, who had been waiting in the wings, emerged to simultaneously rob her of all that she had earned that night. Yes, earned.

When she got home, probably with an STD of some kind brewing, she walked wordlessly past Svetlana, who was watching an episode of The Simple Life (perhaps believing that Paris Hilton was still a relevant L.A. icon). Once inside her room, she took her phone out of her purse to make the call. The call she might as well have just made six months ago without even bothering to attempt to “hustle.” There was no hustling when you were born a certain way. That isn’t to say born “privileged,” but rather, born with a total inability to bend and contort in such a manner as to fit into a society that absolutely requires you to sacrifice your spirit and soul in order to even “baseline exist.”

Alas, after finally drumming up the courage to talk to her father, he declined to give her the requested amount, telling her, “I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to get the money, but it’s not going to come from me.” A month later, she had sold everything in her apartment that was worth selling and moved out onto the proverbial sidewalk. Just as she had always feared she would as a result of her perceived lack of “bankable” skills in a world that favored only the most meaningless, banal interpretations of “making oneself useful” for a profit.