Renting Lacy

When I grow up, I want to be a prostitute.

I want to be used by men however they wish.

And I’ll say, “Oh baby, yes, I love it. I love everything about you.” And I’ll hold back my vomit and keep on my smiles to convince them, so they’ll stop slapping me. But because I love it, because I love the taste of everything about them, they’ll say I’m a slut, a dirty little girl who needs to be punished. They’ll burn cigarettes into my skin, jab me anyplace they like, bloody my nose, blacken my eyes, laugh at my tears, hold a gun to my head, cut me, tattoo me, as their eyes grow large and excited. I’ll scream and cry and beg because I can’t act anymore.

I don’t want to be riding a pink bicycle with a basket in the front. I hate the little girls with their hands held tightly by fathers, fathers who look at me in disgust and cover their daughters’ eyes so they don’t see me. I don’t want to be one of those girls with a decorated bedroom and frilly pillows on my bed. I don’t want to giggle and talk about whether a boy likes me or not. I don’t want to decide for myself whether to wait for marriage to have sex or remain a virgin.

When I grow up, I don’t want to attend college, consider joining a sorority, or have my own apartment. I don’t want to try different career paths or figure out who I am. I don’t wish for a wedding day in a church or on a beach with bridesmaids, a dad walking me down the isle, little flower petals beneath my feet. Who cares about baby showers or decorating a nursery? I don’t want to learn how to cook or decide between being a stay-at-home mom or a working mother. I don’t want any of those things.

Because when I grow up, I want to be a prostitute.