What's Love Got To Do With It?

What's fair got to do with it? Right there and then all I knew was that life really sucks, and if your a thirteen-year-old girl, they even make you suck it yourself. That's another thing I want to complain about: Men want to fuck your See You Next Tuesday, and while that was never any fun for me, I don't suppose that's a valid objection, don't imagine anyone would stop if I said I didn't like it, cos they just say it's normal for grown men to fuck kids, and anyway, all girls are asking for it, begging for it, just putting up fake objections, cos they want to be forced, like it rough, cos they all love that!

Which is, of course, CRAP!

And then they want to fuck up your bum. And nobody could tell you that was normal. And if you let on you didn't like it, that it hurt, they really did get rough. They'd slap you about a bit, twist your arms, maybe give you a shiner. And they'd still do it up your bum. Complaining, or struggling would never stop them, cos they were always bigger than you, heavier and rougher than you. So she learned not to complain, not to object, not to give them an excuse to rough her up, that it was always quicker and safer to let them do what they wanted.

And then, always then, they wanted you to suck them off. Seemed to think it was the best thing on earth to fuck your mouth, your throat, your face. To taste them, and you. And it was soon obvious to her that they never washed their cock and balls before fucking you. That there wasn't anything remotely romantic or loving about what they did, that none of it was for your pleasure, only theirs – oh some of them talked a bit of the talk, and if you feigned an orgasm, and managed to feign another one, and even a third, if they fucked you in all three places, and acted as if it was the sweetest pleasure for you to have their dirty, smell cocks ramming you and then getting their scummy cum squirted inside you, they'd sometimes give you a tip, but mostly not, but at least you might get away with just a rotten taste in your mouth, pain down below, and some bruises on your wrists and maybe just a few on your face, it was another job over and on to the next.

She wasn't out on the streets now, ever. She accommodated Titch's yuppie and luvvie friends at House Parties and the rest of the time she went on what he called 'dates' with guys who got their rocks off on the idea of fucking a kid. She told them she was eleven or twelve, whichever she and Titch thought she could get away with, A couple of them said they wished they'd known her a couple of years ago, which didn't put them off putting it up her now, and she wondered if she could become an actress, after all she was getting good at playing a part in these 1:1 dates. But she never tried to play it too convincingly – Titch let her know that he was keeping her and didn't want any of his punters getting

the idea of keeping her for themselves. And there were certainly two, a pair of movie actors, she'd seen them playing gangsters in some DVDs that Titch had, who always took her for a double date – not two couples, just one girl between two Men – and she knew that if she hinted, they'd buy her like a shot, but she also knew she was worth more to Titch being rented out and that a buy-out would never compensate him for what she could bring in night after night after night after night. For she was out seven nights a week, and sometimes two or even three dates in a night, and in the summer there were afternoon dates as well – never in the morning, these punters never seemed to rise until mid-day. And that was her life. And she felt old and worn and shrivelled, but every day she put on her slap and pinched her cheeks to bring some colour and freshness to them and put on the school uniform and her

condoms in a bag – though most of the punters wanted her bareback and were more than happy to pay the extra for what a lot of women would deny them – and went out to get fucked. And she hated every minute of it and had even begun to wonder what would be the least horrible way to end her life.

And I've just realised that halfway through that, I stopped giving a first person narrative, and slipped into third person, as if I wasn't wanting it to be about me any more, but about someone else, some other poor girl who was being abused and raped. That's called distancing and people do it when they are under so much pain ans grief and sadness that they can't hold it close to them any more. And that was what I was doing, telling some-one else's story and not admitting that it was my own. And that shows how bad it had got – at thirteen, I was imagining all they ways I could think of to kill myself!