I turned, facing my room, leaning back against door. I started crying, sliding to the floor. I pulled my legs up underneath my chin, quietly sobbing. ...hy was this happening? Why am I crying? I stood up, wiping my face on my sleeve and started looking for a good shirt that didn’t have a stain on it. I slipped on a pair of jeans lying on the end of my bed. I grabbed the jacket the social worker had gotten me to meet my adoptive parents. My parents had died while I was younger and my Uncle raised. We talk... we touch hands and share kisses every so often. Your kisses send electricity through my body. I love your soft lips parting to take mine. Our tongues lazily jousting. No one is taking too much notice of us apart from the occasional glance from the bar staff."It begins," I say.You look nervous, not knowing exactly what I have planned; just knowing something risky is going to happen."I want you to stand up, turn and face the window as though you're watching something outside or looking. Again she twirled "Public or private?" she asked.Bob groaned. "Private, though not as private as the other one."She grinned.The next one was just like that one, except it was green. The one after that was basic white. It covered her butt, sweeping forward to meet in a tied gather between the bottom and top, then swelled out to cover her breasts. A string went around her neck. It covered everything, but drew attention to everything it covered. Still ... it covered everything."And this one?" she. She had gone to her family doctor for a referral, and was given the name of a psychotherapist with a practice on St. Clair. Two weeks away from the trade had been enough of a break for Geeta to realize that she had been profoundly damaged by her experience as a prostitute. She wondered how she would ever be able to properly connect with a man - she had very little respect for them generally, and hated them for the way they had made use of her body over the last few years. She knew of course.
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