Chapter song: Fuckin Perfect by P!NK

(Val's pov)

Being a stripper can be a blast. But it can be a disaster too. Am I happy? Yes...and no. It's fun to get high and drunk and party all night. But it's not easy to get by at all.

I dropped out of school. I was sick of the same old routine. My parents were pissed with my behavior. We got in a major argument that resulted with me getting kicked out at 16 years old. I haven't seen them ever since. I didn't care, because I thought I could do better for myself.

Anyways, so I then a job as a stripper. It was fun, and I earned a lot of money. It was not like I could've gotten any other job, because I didn't have a completed education and my age was too low. I was 16 going on 17 at the time. The owner, Nicole, said I could, but I didn't think she cared about my age.

I lived in my old car and managed to buy all the things I needed to survive. However, I wanted a place to call my home, so I had to find a way to make more money.

I got a job as a prostitute at 18. I know it was wrong, but I needed it to pay off my rent. It was not that bad, actually. I mean, I earned $150 just for fucking a stranger. I needed the money for food, water, my basic needs.

I had 2 jobs, as a stripper and as a prostitute. I had enough money to buy myself a fairly nice, cheap apartment. It was a pretty good apartment. Unfortunately, I lost the car to some criminals in the street, so I had to either walk or catch a ride.

Now, I'm 19 and still doing this. My life is pretty cool, at least I think so.

I make about $300 a day, about $150 at the club and $150 having sex.

The truth is I've hit rock bottom. I can't get any lower than this. I don't care, at least not anymore.

Why do I still do this? I don't know. I figure since I'm not going anywhere, I'll just enjoy life while I can. I mean, there's drugs, alcohol, money, and sex.

I'm not drug addict, but I'll accept a little pot or meth when I'm offered some. I don't always smoke; I smoke when I need to or offered to.VDrugs are like a boost to my life. Alcohol helps when I feel like everything is worthless. I sometimes do feel doubtful. Money helps me buy the things I need, like cigarettes. Sex gets old when it's the same thing every night, but it feels like heaven sometimes, if it's the right person.

Well, since it's 12pm, I guess I should start my shift. I take off my white tank top and put on a black two piece. It's basically my uniform for work. It has to show A LOT. I mean, I'm not exposing my full body, but my bottoms are pretty thin. I don't really give a fuck. I tie my lavender hair up into a pony tail and put on a light coat of makeup.

My hair's dyed lavender, because I need something different. It's the only enjoyable feature I have.

I slip my feet into my only pair of gold heels; then I put on a pair of jean shorts before heading to the strip club.

"Hey Val, you're here a bit early."

My boss, Nicole, calls from the bar. Nicole isn't very different than me. She's also a prostitute. The only difference is that she's a cocaine addict with red hair and a huge tattoo of a sun and moon on her back.

"Yea, I thought it was a good idea."

The building is dark and colored lights are flashing through the room. The only lighted area is the bar and the sitting area. I strip off my clothes and throw them into my bag.

Music is blasting loudly, and people are already here. Our customers are mostly guys, and they are usually disgusting. They'll shout dirty comments, but I've learned to tolerate them. The only thing I can't tolerate is when I feel threatened or hurt, which doesn't happen very often.

It's ironic coming out of my mouth, but I still have respect for myself. If I don't like something, I'll make sure to get away from it.

I walk up to the pole on stage as the music shakes the walls. There are about 5-8 people watching. I start to do the usual, sliding up and down the pole, shaking myself, and adding a little twerking. Sometimes I might even take off my top.

-12:30pm-

I've been pole dancing for about five songs already, and I think I should take a break. I sit at the bar and get myself a vodka. This place doesn't get packed until 6pm-4am.

I have a 30 minute break, so I take out my iPhone. Well, I wouldn't say it's exactly mine. This guy left it here one night, because he was drunk and said I could have it. It was weird, but the phone works. I already deleted tons of his contacts, messages, and phone calls, then used the phone as mine. I use some spare headphones from my bag to listen to music. I buy a bag of Oreos from the vending machine. My phone buzzes, and I get a text.

"Hey baby meet me at 10pm behind the club."

Honestly, I have no idea who's texting me, but I know it's some guy that wants to fuck. I usually get a call or text from a random person. That's how I make money. It's pretty disturbing to have sex with strangers, but it's not really an option anymore.

(Justin's pov)

"Oh, Justin! Harder!"

My girl screams as I bang her on the living room couch.

"Fuck! Can I go, baby?!"

She shouts in pleasure.

"Go right ahead."

I release myself as she reaches her high. She pants and kisses me deeply.

"I'm in control, babe. I kiss you first."

I pin her down and kiss her breasts and neck. She giggles and moans. When I finish, I stay close to her until she falls asleep; then I get up to pour myself a drink. My phone buzzes, so I answer it.

"Hey Justin, Za and I are planning on hitting the club later. You wanna come?"

It's Khalil.

"Sure. What time?"

It's not like I have any plans tonight.

"9pm."

Khalil answers.

"I'll be there."

I sip from my cup of liquor. I should probably stop drinking, since I'll be drinking more tonight. My second phone buzzes, and I glance at it to see an unknown caller.

My second phone is used for nothing, really. I give girls the number to that phone, so they're not bugging me on my real phone. The number of calls and messages I get everyday are infinite. I've fucked almost every girl in this city.

I'm pretty well-known around here. Girls fantasize over me as I get shit loads of money per week. All I do is live life to get paid. I'm a Calvin Klein model. I'm Justin Bieber, millionaire, the underwear model. I play girls so much that I don't know their names or even recognize them at all. I don't care either.

However, I'm not as perfect as everyone thinks.

I have OCD. It's not severe, but it plays with my head a lot. That's why, for example, if my shoes aren't in exact order, I go crazy.

I have a thing for shoes, clothes, my cars, unclean furniture, unorganized objects, and time.

I'm also a control freak if that's what people call it. I have 3 simple rules for every whore I fuck:

1. Keep still unless I tell you otherwise.

2. Always ask permission to cum.

3. Do as I tell you.

Anything other you will be punished for. I HAVE to be in control. Sometimes I let it slide, but sometimes I get pissed about it.

I take a quick shower to wash all the evidence of sex off myself. After my shower, I put on one of my most expensive outfits: a $750 red plaid shirt with $200 jeans, $300 dress shoes, and two $800 watches. I fix my hair then wink at myself in the mirror. The girl I fucked is still asleep on my couch. Ugh, she needs to leave. I don't want her trashing my house or anything. Oh fuck, that'd really mess up my brain. I pick up my phone then dial Ryan's number.

"Hey, bro, wassup?"

Ryan answers.

"Hey man, can you take this bitch out of my house? I've gotta meet up with someone in 30 minutes."

I ask Ryan for a favor.

"Sure. She'll be gone by the time you get back."

Ryan's used to calls like this. Both Khalil and Za are too. I usually call one of my friends to handle with pissed off bitches. They handle it well, better than me. However, that's not why I'm friends with them. I'm friends with them, because they're great guys and I appreciate them.

"Thanks, Ry."

I thank him then hang up. I hop in my red Lamborghini and zoom to the strip club. This is gonna be fun.

(A/N: So this is the first chapter. How is it?)

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