Hey guys, here's this thing I'm writing. It's a story, with characters who do things. It was written with the purpose of being read. Have a go.

"I'm a prostitute."

"You aren't very attractive." "A porn star wouldn't wear make-up that thick." "You're sort of a fat-ass."

See, if you've never actually done the dirty with a prostitute before, it's probably because you're not fucked-up enough. The thing about prostitutes is, a successful pimp needs all kinds. A lot of people pay money for sex, not 'cause they can't get some off a slut at a party, but 'cause they want to experiment. I've got people who want to fuck me because they've never been with a dude, never been with a cross-dresser, and they've never been with a fatass. These fucktards are just curious, most of 'em.

And the cross-dresser part wasn't my choice. I really thank the boss for that one, especially when these gentlemen call me 'lady' and 'girly'. Hell, if I could I'd curl the crimson skirt I wore today into a ball and toss it in the nearest trashcan, light the whole thing on fire. The shirt's kinda cute, though.

Either way, the male-cross-dresser-fat-ass clusterfuck brings in enough guys to keep the boss happy. Shamelessness is the new black. At least this class act seems to like it.

"Mm. Yeah, you like that?"

Ugh. With an eye roll I mouth a good few obscenities and throw out a fake moan, getting my head pressed further into the mattress for my troubles. Face down is the best position for prostitution, and if I'm lucky I can subtly flip my considerate client the bird before he notices. Kick-ass.

Unfortunately this guy pays well so I have to play nice. Even when he rolls off me I bat my lashes and win myself a ten buck bonus. He seems satisfied enough and I snatch up the cash off the sheets in case he decides to change his mind. Apparently my man of the hour has somewhere to be, because he pulls on his jeans in a matter of seconds, with his back turned to me, so I can't see his face.

"You gonna come around again anytime soon?" I coo, talking to my extra ten. On the other side of the bed I hear him slide his shoes on and stand with an unhappy grunt.

"It always freaks me out when you don't have a woman's voice." He pulls his pants up and fixes his belt.

'If you want a woman's voice you go and fuck a woman,' I think silently, and throw my clothes on. I stand up, walking over to the door and opening it with a flourish. "What's the matter with my voice?"

"I just think always it's gonna be higher pitched." Like he has any right to be complaining. The fucker didn't even answer my question.

I hold the door open for him, and wave good-bye flirtatiously. Good acting pays off, it really does. And the boss found my stash last month, so I'm strapped for cash. I've got to save from scratch all over again, and this time I took the subway and stopped by the library to look up Youtube videos on how to hide boxes underneath your floorboards. I lean against the doorframe and chew on my bottom lip thoughtfully, watching Moneybags' back as he leaves.

When I save up enough money, what am I gonna do with it, anyway? I'd have to find another job first, have something reserved if I wanted to get out of here. And now that all of my money is gone, who the fuck knows when I'll have enough for what I want: six secure months in an apartment, preferably on the other side of the city. Luxury? Forget it. Luxury for me would be living in a white-trash neighborhood with a job that pays enough for food and rent. It sounds pretty goddamn easy before you consider that the boss'd never let me outta here. I've got a very niche market counting on me for late night booty calls, and he wouldn't be able to find a replacement in time to keep it. It's not like he'd kill me or anything; fucker is too much of a pussy for that. He likes keeping himself and his business on the down-low to get out of the way of the Feds. But he sure as hell knows how to threaten people into firing me, kicking me out of house and home, all that. And if I have to leave the city and find a place somewhere else…

It's like, my job's guarenteed. Once you're in prostitution, you're in. Fuck, I want to get out, but—

I've never been on my own before. Not 100%.

"Can you keep it down?"

I jump and snap my head around, finding a slim motherfucker hunched in the corner with a porno mag clenched in his hands. A porno mag? Really? My left eyebrow skyrockets.

He glares daggers at me from underneath a Denver Nuggets baseball cap. But it'd be better if I didn't have to go back out again for another customer. My shoebox needs fillin'.

"Wasn't saying anything, sweetie," I say, and flash him a grin.

"You were tapping your foot and whispering 'shit' over and over again." Fuck nervous tics, and fuck me for actually developing one. Fuck this guy for being an asshole. I don't waste anytime in dropping the act.

"Listen, cupcake," I growl lowly, "I don't know what a dumbass like you is doing here, because you're sure as hell not paying for anything, but rule number one," I slink over and pluck his magazine away, "is you don't bring something like this, somewhere like this." I tear it down the middle and toss it carelessly to the floor. My fake smile plasters its way onto my face again. "The more you know."

"Hey, jackass, I'm supposed to be here," he shouts, springing up from his seat with his face hot and red. "Besides, I'm pretty sure you don't have any right to pass judgment on me. Dressing up like that and sucking dicks for spare change puts you a little lower on society's totem pole, you know?" He crosses his arms challengingly, but still gives off an air like he thinks he's already won.

"Whaddya mean, you're supposed to be here?" I poke him in the chest, and weasel my way into another insult with a sneaky grin. "That hat sure as hell isn't supposed to be here. You look like you hopped on a bus out of suburbia and landed in the red light district, faggot." I reach for the hat but he swats my hand away, and grabs my wrist. He smirks like, hell yeah, prostitutes are weak as fuck, and he's probably about to get me back for that faggot comment, so I punch him in the face.

"Shit! You—shit!" He falls back and slumps against the wall and stares fiercely at me through his fingers, clutching his bleeding nose. He should've known, it was an easy target. Big-ass nose.

"Can you keep it down?" I mimic, internally rejoicing at how I've got a deeper voice than he does, and have to adjust it accordingly.

"You piece of shit! I'm supposed to be a guard, you fuck!"

"Go see a doctor for the nose," I snicker, "and maybe a psychiatrist for the anger issues. And go to the fucking gym if you want anybody to believe the boss stationed you here to protect his income." Before I can trot back into my room, he launches himself at me and pins me to the wall with his arm in a way that's a little too professional for my tastes. And a little too familiar…

I put on my serious face for a second. "Have we fucked before?"

Immediately the pressure lessens, and he almost flinches away from me.

"What? No! Why would you—"

He blinks.

Then he backs up hurriedly, wobbling (from the head wound most likely), and presses himself to the wall behind him. Giving me this look. What did he do, fuck me in his gay hay-day and then get married nice and young, become some kind of homosexual homophobe? Either way, I roll my shoulders and shoot him a smug grin.

"Looks like you recognize me, so tell me—"

"Cartman."

I tilt my head, honestly confused at his wide eyes. You'd think if we'd had sex then he wouldn't be this surprised to see me in the goddamn red light district. And hell, sometimes they ask my name. So it doesn't surprise me.

"Ding ding ding." I roll my eyes and twirl my finger in the air sarcastically. "We have a winner." I stop twirling and start pointing, fishing for a name out of curiosity. Not like I'll see him again anytime soon. "And I should make the check out to…?"

He averts his eyes for a second, then brings his glance back up. Immediately, he drops it again. The hell?

"Dude," he says slowly, gaze fixed at the fascinating juncture whereby the floor meets the wall. He swallows so loud I can hear it. "It's me. Kyle."

And he plucks the baseball cap off his head. Puffy, red curls that I've only seen a handful of times. Despite being around him for the majority of my first twelve years of life.

Kyle. Fucking. Broflovski.

He saw me usher a stranger out of my room. He saw me in a skirt and high-heels. I asked him, genuinely asked him, if we'd slept together, because I can't remember all the men who've been in that bed with me. And I've never been as humiliated as I am now. So I run back into my room and slam the door shut, fumble with the lock, and stand in the corner, too antsy to sit.

I tap my foot, and whisper 'shit' under my breath over and over again. Fuck me.

Testing the waters... I wonder how many fans of the elusive bottom!Cartman there are. Hrm. Anyway, hope you liked.