Principal Saves Mary

I peer up at the ceiling. What question to ask today? Maybe I will ask how to make guys orgasm faster.  Or better, how do I get someone to love me?

How much longer can he take? Last week, Mr. J took fifteen minutes. Today, twenty minutes have inched along. Bored, I stare at his off-white but patterned ceiling, covered with spiderwebs. A little red spider slinks along one strand towards a trapped fly. I imagine stealthily slipping over the strands, stalking my struggling prey. However, I fear I better represent the fly, thrashing in a trap while something sinister crawls towards me, about to suck me dry. Mr. J's burnt breath increases while his wild thrusts grow more frantic - two more minutes till finish.  

Maybe I will ask, ‘Why do guys have wrinkly balls?’ Mr. J’s stay wrinkly even with an erect penis.

Mr. J's sweat drips on my face. The caustic, rotten flavor hits my lips. I wipe it away and return my attention to the ceiling. The fascinating little spider arrives at the fly and delicately wraps it for later. So delicate, so efficient. Mr. J gives one final thrust and collapses on me. His sweaty, fat belly covers most of me. Gradually, he rolls off me, and I can sit up.

He lights a foul cigarette, and toxic grey smoke fills the room. I hate this part because my hair will smell like smoke all morning. His sperm leaks down my leg as I stand, “You didn't use a condom!”

It doesn't matter since I can't get double pregnant, but the bastard promised to use one  or pay extra. “Yeah, I forgot,” the bastard’s not sorry.

I stomp out of his room, across the sparse apartment, into the bathroom, and slam the door. He has a nice bathroom with a large, bright mirror. I wipe his cum and sweat off with a wet cloth and drop it in the middle of the floor. He can deal with his fluids.

I slip on a bra I don't need. I wish I had a chest. Busty girls can charge more, although I like not having back pain like my older sister. I slip on my favorite underwear, Star Wars Han Solo boy's briefs, his rugged, handsome face on top of my kitty. I like the idea of Han's head at my crotch.

I tuck my crisp white shirt into my plaid, knee-length, regulation skirt and pull up the long white socks. I hate the catholic school clothes, far too cutesy. A school-crested hoodie hides my thin body. I love the softness. Thank God the school allows me to wear it. I slip on my black shoes, happy not to need to tie them.

Using the water-spotted mirror, I put on dark eyeliner, black eye shadow, and blood-red lipstick. I shake my head to get my short black hair in place. I love this hairstyle because I don’t waste time styling and getting ready.

I pull the hood over my head like a Sith Lord; the deep shadow covers my eyes and gives my grin a sinister appearance.

Mr. J waits in his little nook of a kitchen. “The envelope has the money,” he comments between sips of great-smelling coffee. An off-white, grease-fingerprinted envelope lies on his messy table. My stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten today and need coffee.  

Grabbing the envelope, I leaf through the bills - not enough. Half the agreed amount, not counting the extra for no condom. “You're short,” I accuse the bastard and hold up the money to prove my point.

“Yeah, I'm a bit broke right now. I'll make it up next time,” the bastard’s slouch deepens, and more potbelly covers his dirty white briefs.

“You said that last time,'' I frown and slip the money into my Darth Maul backpack.

“Yeah,” the bastard mumbles.

I hate having to fuck the pathetic sack sitting on the stained chair, but the world turns on money. While the bastard cheats me, at least Mr. J doesn’t abuse me like other clients.

“And the time before that,” I state, giving him the evil eye. He sits straighter, meeting my stare in a challenge. I’ve pushed it too far.

“Listen. If you don't like it, I can get a real woman, with real tits, who doesn't just lay there,” his voice lowers.

.

“Whatever,” I say to diffuse the situation. The bastard knows I need the money for the procedure at the abortion clinic.

“Listen, if you want more money, I’ve got a buddy who pays double. He wants someone tonight,” Mr. J says while he avoids my gaze. He returns to slouching and sipping coffee. The bastard never offers me any.

“Text me the details,” I yell over my shoulder as I rush through his yellowish, paint-peeling, mud-stained door. I run through his weed-covered front yard and onto the cracked sidewalk. He has the most run-down house on the street. Do the neighbors care that a teenage sex worker rushes from his home before school? I could make business cards to give to other lonely dads and moms. Whatever, I don’t need more business; I need my current clients to pay me properly. Thankfully, Mr. J lives close to school, and I arrive on time.

The blue-haired lady stands with a scowl and permanently surprised eyes from a too-tight bun.

“Work is a virtue. Sloth is a sin,” she calls out while offering crappy photocopied pieces of paper. A few of my classmates take one, but I avoid the nut. While I like it here more than the public school I attended last year, the school shouldn’t let her harass us every day.

Like a thief, I slip past two girls talking in front of Ms. B’s health class. The uninspired white room has stupid ‘God loves you’ posters covering the walls, still better than the ‘Don’t do drugs’ posters of public school.

“Hey, Ms.B,” I sing to our teacher. While uptight, Ms. B cares - the first teacher since elementary to care.

Ms.B acknowledges me with a nod of her head.

“Hey, Martha,” I greet the class know-it-all as I sit beside her. I sit at the front to get away with things. Teachers always give girls at the front extra chances and help while they scrutinize the students at the back, but this school doesn’t have any awful kids. Here, rebels kiss a boy and confess the sin immediately. They’d die to hear what I did this morning.