I have s*x multiple times but not always because I enjoy it. I feel as though sleeping around is my only rescue. Money is what I need and that’s why s*x is what I breathe. I’m putting me against myself and in return, I save myself. It is a choice that becomes an essential practice; something that remains the worst decision of my life. It’s not a matter of feeling good or receiving the pleasure of a lifetime but, better yet, it’s become my addiction knowing it’ll keep my economically obsessed self, safe. Prostitution is my one ritual and selling myself is my drug leading straight to compulsion. It grows just like my bank account. My debts minimize but my self-esteem and confidence both rise. I’m in love with what comes out of my addiction but I’m in deep angst knowing that I might not be able to keep up one day. I couldn’t stop and I choose to not discontinue this. Desperate woman, gentle stream, hardships, and happy endings. Life of a prostitute: I get paid for getting laid.