it was probably a not very popular practice, but the truth was that the grates above the subway expelled very warm and pleasant gusts of air. kit was standing over one, like the opposite of the iconic marylin monroe, huddled in a worn out and massive puffer coat she had gotten for a couple of dollars at a second hand store over in jersey city. it was very, very cold in the city in december (no joke) and the slight brunette was just trying to pass the time before her shift at showtime, trying to distract herself around the many sights of the avenue without spending any money (that she didn’t have). the hostel she was currently crashing in had a strict no loitering policy and kit had to be out the door before 11 am and pray to be back in time to claim a bed or else. Sometimes she had several hours to kill before putting her nametag on and colder months meant it was harder to find a place outside to just wait and draw.
shifting her weight from side to side to stay warm, kit kept people-watching until she saw a wallet fall out of somebody’s pocket. without giving it a second thought, kit took it and ran behind the person. “hi, excuse me,” she said meekly, trying again to grab their attention louder, “hi, you. excuse me, you dropped your wallet!”
» riley crossed one leg over the other, leaning back in her chair as the other person spun around, showing off the costume they were considering wearing. ❝ i swear to god if any of you embarrass me in front of my clients this weekend i’m going to make your lives a living hell, ❞ she had to admit, she’d been a little worried about inviting some of her acquaintances and employees of the avenue to the annual winter ball. ❝ and there’s no way you’d be allowed in dressed like that. i preferred the first one, i think. if you were seriously considering this one, it’s a good thing you asked me to help you. ❞
spencer rolled her eyes as she pulled the frilly, lime green dress off over her head. “sheesh, riles. I was kidding, i found it on the clearance rack and thought it might unwound you a little, get a laugh at the expense of my fragile ego... tough crowd today.” Dropping the offending garment unceremoniously to the floor of the dressing room, Spencer grabbed the beige ballgown, careful of the embroidered little stones on it, “This one? No kidding, I look like a fucking Disney princess in it. I never thought this color would look good on me, I like bold primary colors to bring out my eyes,” she batted her eyes cheekily at the older woman. “but this one might work. what are you wearing? did you pick something? it’s your turn to be half naked too.”
THE CLOCK SLOWLY TICKED ON. it seemed as though the seconds went on forever at the end of the day. magnolia only released a sigh of relief as she had met her daily hours. she had taken the next several days off to finish settling in and take a breather before welcoming new clients. she rushed home, letting down her hair, and changing into clothes more suitable for going out in. by the time she had stepped out of her apartment, the dark sky had been lit up by the neon lights. magnolia felt engulfed by the life the lights brought — t h e a v e n u e was completely different now than in sunlight. the blonde hair fell over her shoulders as she entered a n g e l ’ s. back home magnolia would have always turned away from a strip club, but she was intrigued. it wasn’t long before someone had offered to by her a drink and she happily accepted, free was free. typically she would focus on the man buying her drinks, but her gaze quickly landed on one of the performers. her breathing stopped momentarily as their eyes locked. quickly her eyes shot down. magnolia was embarrassed to have been caught staring at the other, but she couldn’t help herself from focusing in that direction again. there was something about the woman that drew her in, something she hadn’t felt in the pit of her stomach before. she had to excuse herself from the man in front of her, moving closer to the stage the dancer occupied.
pirouette, arabesque, sauté, sauté; a seamlessly flowing adagio. Except instead of dancing en pointe, Carys’ ankles were strapped into a pastel pink pair of fake and overpriced Louboutins she had found in Chinatown. Because instead of haggling, her social anxiety had taken over and she just wanted to get an Uber back to somewhere less crowded, preferably her cold and quiet studio. Granted she knew nothing about stripping as a craft, but she knew everything there was to know about dancing, and she knew that a $20 dollar pair of giant stilettos was not going to cut it if she wanted to keep herself from being permanently crippled. Dancing on the pole was easy, her body twirling and flexing, spreading and lifting like she was featherweight. The music might not have been Stravinsky, but there was always some pop, dance, disco, top 40 nonsense that had just the right rhythm for Carys to lose herself in. The skimpy outfits in the end weren’t much different to the tiny leotards and tight tights, and instead of plastering the tortured expressions of a black swan on her face, Carys just projected her beloved seductress Nikita from La Bayadère. It was what she needed for her nightly crowd to go wild: her smokey eye in stark contrast to her pale skin and the most crimson lipstick she could find. The one mother hated, it was perfect.
her stage was her safe heaven as long as she could stay away from the wandering hands and instead of slowly dying flowers after her performance, it rained money. What was there not to like? What was there not to like. What was there not to like. She told herself over an over as she lost herself in the neon lights. Carys was halfway through her dissociation when her eyes connected with another bright pair she had never seen before. Hypnotized, she kept dancing, her face always returning to this alluring patron and Carys threw in a smirk; both for her own interest and so she would not be reprimanded again for her “ice queen expression”.
as the song ended, Carys quickly picked up the mass of dollars and ran backstage, throwing her money in her lockbox and draping a sheer and shimmery caftan dress over herself. and for the first time, instead of burrowing into a corner of the dressing room ith debussy loudly playing in her headphones, Carys walked out into the floor and towards the bar, seeking out the bright eyes from before. As she ordered a rum and diet coke, she found the blonde again and raised her glass as an invitation, silently wondering if she had lost her mind.
“I just know when a girl needs a break.” Stevie confessed with a shrug of her delicate shoulders. She pretended to ponder Spencer’s offer for a moment, bottom lip jutted out as she pulled her phone out from the waistband of her shorts and checked the time. “I still have some time left on my break, I think I can manage a drink or two. Now come on, get that cute butt in here before you freeze to death.”
“You are a very gifted woman indeed,” Spencer said, rolling her neck to stretch the aching muscles. “I really can’t thank you enough, Stevs. I don’t like drinking alone when I don’t have the strength to deal with the creeps... Plus, you’re terrific company and you just called my butt cute,” She said cutely as she batted her eyelashes, lacing her arm with the older woman’s as they walked in and towards the bar. “Where’s the best seat in the house, madame?”
» she felt relief wash over her at the strangers response. there’d been instances in the past where she had accidentally bumped into a drunken stranger, and they came at her with the intent to fight. it was the sole cause of her being so anxious about her mistake. the stranger looked almost as tired as she was. perhaps that’s why she’d had so much sympathy for her, despite being as clumsy as she was. ❝ i mean… if you’re so sure. but still. it was rude of me. ❞she was almost taken aback by the strangers kindness. ❝ w-wait, you’re offering to buy me a drink ? but i’m the one who knocked your drink over. surely you let me replace it. ❞
Spencer smiled sweetly at the girl, her anxiety and wariness being incredibly relatable. In the Avenue, vibes always seemed so flammable, and sometimes tiny missteps were enough to cause uncomfortable scenes. “I mean, I won’t force you to drink, of course. I’m just saying, if you feel like you could use one, I’m heading for one. No pressure! If you wanna get them, I also will not oppose. I can get the next round.” She added cheekily, trying to put the girl at ease. “I’m Spencer, by the way.”
THE LOOSE DOOR HANDLE JIGGLING. the clear indicator of the unwanted roommate arriving home. the little time katalina had alone was everything she wanted, but it could never last long. she was unable to pinpoint the exact moment the conflict began between the two. everything spencer did irked the younger. the way she ate her food, breathed too heavily, or how she took up too much space on the couch. the rest of her drink pushed past her lips. ❝ you’re just trying to find any excuse to get me into handcuffs, huh ? ❞ the filter in her brain slowly disappearing with every sip, with every hit. ❝ if you don’t like it go to your room, ❞ the command was as if a parental figure was reprimanding their child, but this situation was quite the opposite. spencer had a solid five years on katalina, but that never hindered her attitude. she inhaled the last hit in her bowl, walking by the other to grab her rum, blowing out the smoke as their paths crossed. a couple more shots downed quickly. her body warm, vision softening. it didn’t take long for a bag of chips to land in her lap once back to the couch. ❝ are you just going to stand there like a brick wall ? i mean i know it represents your personality, but it has to get boring. ❞
Spencer scoffed in between swigs of liquor, “Me? Put you in handcuffs? Honey, no. That would make me have to get too close. I’ll just watch while the cops whisk you away. Sad day that one will be.” She pretended to wipe a tear away, the alcohol turning some of her earlier anger into amusement at trying to get a rise out of the younger girl. She chuckled dryly, “But mom, I pay full rent to be able to be wherever I fucking want.” More drinking. Sheesh, the vodka was flowing like water into Spencer’s system. But whatever it took to be able to withstand freaking Katalina. A very dramatic set of coughs escaped Spencer’s lips as Katalina walked by, and she glared at her in annoyance. The room was starting to spin a little, the older woman’s skin starting to feel the uncomfortable heat that came from vodka. “What’s it to you, sweetheart? What I do or what I don’t do?” Oops, there it was, creeping into Spencer’s voice; that insatiable urge of wanting to take more drastic measures to shut the younger girl up for good. She licked her lips and shrugged off her jacket, shoulders and cleavage exposed as she leaned over the kitchen island, closing the distance between her and Kat. “You don’t seem to have anything particularly riveting going on either. Why are your friends hanging out without you?”
katie mcgrath, bisexual, cisfemale + she/her ➸ hey look, it’s CARYS PALLAS! they’re 24 years old and originally from DUBLIN, IRELAND. now they’re in new york, working as a STRIPPER at ANGEL'S. i heard they’re pretty FRIGID, but i think they’re so DEVOTED at the same time. have they found their calling on the avenue ?
mild mentions of eating disorders, injuries and child abuse
Carys was born into a family of ballet royalty. Her mother was a prima ballerina that had danced in the most prestigious companies and her dad was a seasoned choreographer for the Bolshoi theatre. The youngest of three children, her older siblings were already getting attention because of their impressive ballet skills and seemed to be glad to follow in their parents’ footsteps to live up to their pedigree.
Ireland was Cary’s place of birth but it never felt like a home. Nowhere did because the Pallas family lived a nomadic existence, traveling from country to country, from stage to stage depending on who was dancing where. The children were homeschooled by their parents and sometimes tutors, but formal education always fell behind ballet. It was all dancing, dancing, dancing.
So it wasn’t hard for Carys to fall in line with them too. Black hair, striking green eyes and porcelain skin, petite yet proportionate; it was like she was purposely bred to become a ballerina, and in the Pallas universe, there was really no other option but to become a dancer. Carys took to it like fish to water, quickly surpassing her older siblings’ abilities to their chagrin, and becoming the main focus of her parents. They were overjoyed.
But children need stability to thrive, so Carys began developing overwhelming anxiety and a passive personality; it had been branded onto her psyche that her only worth laid in ballet, how perfect she executed a pas de deux, how slim her figure was, how many hours she devoted to practicing. Her actual identity had been smothered from before she learned how to walk. Something wasn’t right, she wanted friends, she wanted to go to a real school, she wanted to play a board game with her family, she wanted to have her own room. There was none of that. She didn’t have it in herself to rebel against the life that had been imposed into her, so Carys started internalizing everything, a deep and dangerous depression brewing inside of her with no relief.
At the tender age of 13, Carys was accepted into the most prestigious ballet academy in the world in Paris. It was funny that she didn’t remember even applying, but setting up camp in the City of Love sounded better than constantly uprooting herself. And maybe if she went to the ballet boarding school, she could get some independence from her family. Her expectations were met during the first year, she had a dorm with a roommate that became her friend, she got to explore the city in her breaks, take her lessons in a classroom and meet all kinds of people. It was the first time Carys actively remembers herself being happy.
And then her mother retired and accepted a position within the same academy. Suddenly, Carys’ rehearsals had doubled (one with the school, one with mother) and she had to quit doing the non-ballet things she enjoyed so much. Mother was always there, and she was controlling every bit of Carys’ life again, prepping her to become the actual best prima ballerina in the world.
To Carys’ mother, collapsing from exhaustion was a sign of a job well done. The dangerously small numbers on the scale were never good enough, they could always go lower. Carys was never good enough, no matter how many times she got the lead roles in productions. Odette, Odile, Clara, Nikiya, Sugar Plum Fairy, Carys played them all, yet there was always one more to get that she had to be perfect for. No vacations allowed, no sleepovers with friends, no treating herself to a delicious cookie for Christmas, no nothing. Carys was wasting away in a nightmare of tulle and pastel pink.
The breaking point came after a mishap while being lifted in the air by her male ballerino, Carys slipped out of his grip and landed hard against the barre. A sprained ankle and three broken ribs was the verdict, with a warning to stay out of the leotard and pointe shoes, taking it easy until next season. Carys was 22 and a stranger to autonomy, so when mother made her get back to her grueling schedule, she did as she was ordered. No matter how black and blue she was, how it hurt to breathe. It took only two weeks for a wayward rib to puncture her right lung and the first thing she heard mother say after surgery was “when can she go back to dancing”, over the voice of her doctor talking about potential permanent damage. It was the most painful bucket of ice cold water to the soul, but Carys was done. She was done with being a puppet for her mother’s unachieved dreams.
Taking the sizable amount of money she had amassed as a prima ballerina, Carys left Paris in the middle of the night, leaving behind a concise letter to her family. She headed to NYC, a place she had visited many times before. It was the perfect place to reinvent herself, or actually just find herself. With most of her savings gone in the move and securing a place to live, Carys went looking for a job. She had very minimal education, only knew how to dance, and she didn’t want to do ballet no more. It was the lights of The Avenue that called her, the anonymity of the beautiful dancers under neon lights, untouchable and powerful. It took Carys a couple of visits to the strip clubs to perfectly mimic and conquer pole dancing. Nobody knew her here, she just needed some red lipstick, some twirling and the crowd would go wild. It was something much visceral and raw and real. Angel’s gave her a job on the spot and off went Carys to exchange the tights and leotards for skimpy babydolls and body glitter.
Just like ballet, dancing is a mere façade. Carys doesn’t know what she likes, what she wants, who she is. The high of the pole is a blessed distraction from the debilitating black hole in her heart that threatens to swallow her whole, but when morning comes, the act of the empowered, irish stripper gives way to the sad girl that feels like she’s always drowning. But maybe soon she can find some peace.
Stevie had seen her fair share of ladies who walked down that street looking sorry for themselves, with the stories she’d heard it only felt like the appropriate response. She noted the slight limp from what she could only imagine was a tough working day and swiftly made up her mind. “I’m working an extra tonight.” She said through a puff of cigarette smoke, leaving it between her pouted lips as she pulled herself up from the stairs and nodded back towards the club. “You can have as many drinks as you need, on the house. Consider it my treat.”
Spencer’s jaw dropped a little in delight and she smiled at the older woman, “Are you serious? You really are a gift from the heavens or something even better...” She shrugged cheekily, “Maybe let me tip you then? Does that mean you can’t drink with me? Drinking alone is most certainly not as fun, and you are delightful company.”
THE NIGHT WAS JUST BEGINNING FOR MOST ON THE AVENUE. katalina was lucky to get the early shift at k n o c k e r s — although that didn’t change the raunchy behavior some of the customers men displayed. she knew exactly what she had signed up for when accepting the job offer, but some of the men made her sick to her stomach. the neon lights lit up the navy sky on her walk home, the shared apartment with spencer hayes. going into a shared lease blind was something the younger would never do after this experience. katalina found herself unlocking the door to an empty apartment, thankfully. maybe she’d be able to relax before going to bed for once. slender fingers twisted the cap off the fruit flavored rum, downing her third shot of the night. a mixed drink followed. katalina stepped in her room momentarily to grab the weed she’d bought the night before. she packed a bowl before heading to the shared common space and turning her music on the bluetooth speaker. the lighter hovered over the green substance as her lips parted to inhale. it seemed too perfect a night — no sirens, just the hum of the neon lights outside their windows and crowds of people and their parties bar hopping — something or someone was going to ruin it.
Spencer was fucking exhausted after her weekly dialysis session. It was a blessing that she had the whole day off at the brothel (and the money to pay for the session) and all she wanted to do was curl up on the couch with a blanket, some tea and ruin her roommate’s Netflix algorithm. They didn’t even have Netflix preferences in common, not that they would ever just like... sit down and partake in television watching together. It sounded outrageous and it made Spencer almost shudder. She didn’t know what it was about the younger girl that just made her tick; maybe she was jealous of her age and how she seemed to have things more together than herself, maybe it was her inflated ego that clashed with her own, maybe it was the fact that she could never get the upper hand when their drunk hatred escalated to animalistic sex... All were possible answers.
Spencer rolled her eyes and almost growled at the light coming from under the door, and the god awful music, “good bye, peace.” and she unlocked the door noisily, in clear annoyance. “they should criminalize again whatever cheap poison ivy you’re smoking, sheesh.” the words were out of her lips before she could stop them and slip into her room ignoring katalina. change of plans, she thought as she grabbed her favorite vodka from the fridge and chugged down and indefinite amount. Like an idiot, on an empty stomach and with less tolerance than usual. She just leaned against the fridge, trying to ignore Kat as she felt the hard liquor warming up her insides.
Stevie had perched herself on the steps leading up to Anastasia’s, completely in the way of those trying to come up them but she was on her one break of the night, they could all around her if they were that desperate for some leather-clad ladies serving them cheap liquor. She absentmindedly picked at her fishnets while taking a drag from her cigarette, one of the few vices that kept her going through the long night-shift. Her eyes drifted up long enough to catch someone walking past the bar, recognizing them from around the avenue she decided to call out their name.
“Looks like you’ve had a long night, fancy a drink?”
It was the required billionth time that Spencer was doubting her life choices. Mainly what related to her job. She had just gotten herself together after “servicing” two wallstreet fratboys that were trying to prove something to each other by trying to permanently pound Spencer into the mattress. The display of fragile and brute masculinity had been pitiful and disgusting and the brunette couldn’t wait to leave the brothel behind. She was crossing in front of Anastasia’s, a slight limp in her step from a pulled muscle in her groin when she spotted Stevie’s familiar face, a smile creeping across her lips. “Yes. God, yes,” she responded with a sigh, approaching the other woman. “I fancy about eleven, but I’m willing to pay for at least half of those myself. Where to?”
» some nights, ofelia found herself overwhelmed by her own emotions. she enjoyed what she did, for the most part. but even so, she found herself caught up in a back and forth argument with herself. she felt ashamed but relieved. even though she enjoyed herself, she was ashamed of herself. embarrassed. but with the money she earned, she had a nice apartment, and she wanted for nothing. she’d had a long night this night in particular, and her body was tired and aching everywhere. she didn’t think it was possible, feeling so run down after being with countless people doing all the work.
so after her shift finished and she grabbed her cut of the pay, she found herself going elsewhere rather than straight home, where she would have overthought her life’s decisions before masturbating until she fell asleep. as she headed towards the bar, her shoulder nudged someone else, and she heard a clatter - along with a splash of wetness against her feet. she’d knocked a drink to the ground - though she was unsure if it was theirs or if they were taking the drink to someone else. ❝ god i’m sorry - please let me replace it. ❞
spencer had been nursing her same drink for the better part of two hours, conscious about what the alcohol could do to her issues and ever so conscious of the bills. Earlier, she had to refill a bunch of her prescriptions and the numbers of her bank account had severely declined. It was a slippery slope, welcoming client after client in a neverending parade, ignoring whatever it was they were packing and trying both to pretend they were the woman that had broken her heart and not thinking about her. The significant amount of money that landed in her hands was always gone almost immediately, because bills, bills, bills and so. much. debt. Vodka worked well in jumpstarting the subtle siren song of sleep, so thoughts and worries would mellow out a little by the time Spencer was ready to pass the fuck out in her bed.
Just as she was thinking of taking her drink to a more secluded corner, her diluted beverage was knocked out of her hand by a mortified soul. Quickly recovering from the shock and flagging down a bartender for a washcloth, Spencer chuckled quietly. “Hey, it’s all good. No harm, no foul. It was mostly ice anyway,” she tried to reassure the doe eyed girl. “You look like another victim of a long week, what’s your poison?” she asked, flagging one of their bartenders again to order more drinks.
allison williams, lesbian, cisfemale + she/her ➸ hey look, it’s SPENCER HAYES! they’re 26 years old and originally from DETROIT, MICHIGAN. now they’re in new york, working as an ESCORT at BITCH BITE BAR. i heard they’re pretty HEEDLESS, but i think they’re so WITTY at the same time. have they found their calling on the avenue?
tw: it’s fucking long because i am insufferable, mentions of parent death, chronic illness and lesbian debauchery
Spencer was born into a lower middle class family in Detroit, Michigan. As an only child, life was a little lonely but she kept busy with friends and after school activities. She was always the fearless one, never backing down from a dare, with broken bones and skinned knees, ready to climb the tallest tree and chase the monsters out from under her bed.
When she was 10, her mother who had always been sickly passed away and her existence got a little lonelier. People didn’t seem to get the pain she was in, let alone kids her age, so she developed a snarky, quick witted humor to keep people at arms length and to keep her grief from surfacing. The comfort she sought from her father was nonexistent, given that he had completely cocooned himself in his sadness, and Spencer was the spiting image of her mother. So just like the little girl did, her father kept her at a safe distance, always bouncing from one class to the next, from one playdate to another, packing Spencer’s schedule with as many things as he could so when they inevitably found themselves at home, at the same time, his daughter was too exhausted to interact and just left him to his own devices.
In her early teenage years, Spencer realized she never grew out of the “boys have cooties” stage, and it was girls who caught her eye. She kept it relatively quiet, trying to brush off the homophobic daily life microagressions she encountered and growing and harvesting her identity. it went relatively smoothly and before long, she was sharing her first kiss with a cute neighbor. Spencer belted the “i’m gay” at her father in a desperate bid to get his attention and he avoided her for weeks before apologizing and saying he had no problem with it. Yet, things were more awkward than ever. Spencer couldn’t wait to finally escape to college.
Having gotten her father’s “blessing” was the catalyst for Spencer to give into her precociousness, and soon enough, she was sleeping around with any woman that would give her the chance. Age be damned, but she did have a preference towards older females.
When graduation day finally came, she packed up her things and didn’t look back. Cornell University was her destination, and environmental engineering was her major. It was not bad for the resident nymphomaniac lesbian from her town. Having taken out loan after loan, job after job and scholarships and financial aid, Spencer was ready to embrace her freedom and find her path.
College of course, became another parade of one night stands and sexual rendezvouses. Never anything serious or that lasted more than a couple of months, Spencer was not going to be tied down. Until Reneé came along. Reneé, the stunning English Lit teacher with a PhD in weird poems that made no sense. She also called Spencer “pet” and had an arsenal of toys that would put any sex shop to shame. And God, was Spencer head over heels, like a puppy, ready to bring Reneé heaven and Earth as soon as she asked for them. Her life became Reneé, so happy being paraded in her snobbish circles and spending hours just getting ravaged and pampered by the older woman. A sugar baby, basically. Spencer almost punched herself the first time she blurted out that she loved her, but the older woman had just laughed and said it back. And then flew them to Cabo.
It was all fun and games until the aches started. And it wasn’t the familiar soreness that came after a night of wild sex. It was a relentless fatigue that had Spencer sleeping through classes and social events. Then the fevers and constant malaise, parts of her body seemed to always be rebelling against her. She was terrified, but Reneé was there, telling her it was probably nothing and they would soon be back in Cabo. And then the “nothing” turned out to be lupus.
Lupus, which apparently her mother had also been struggling with and nobody had the decency to tell her. Lupus, incurable and unpredictable, but she had Reneé and she made everything better. Until she didn’t and started pulling away. Spencer tried to push her body past its limits for her, trying to pretend like her disease wasn’t going to change anything and Reneé would always have her tireless pet, healthy and ready to please. But putting the older woman before herself just made Spencer’s condition worsen and Reneé could see it. Painful truths came out: Reneé wasn’t willing to make significant changes to her life or play caretaker, and Spencer definitely loved Reneé way more than she loved her back.
Their breakup was more painful than any damage the lupus could ever inflict on Spencer’s body and the cherry on top was the check Reneé left behind: $30,000. “For anything you might need. I’m so sorry.” read the note, and Spencer felt like she was being paid off. Like their relationship had been a business transaction and a sham. She fell apart and so did everything else, She dropped out of school, lost her job and her immense debt piled up even higher. She even had to resort to using Reneé’s “blood money” gift, something she swore she would never do.
Finally done with wallowing in her grief (and with the news that one of her kidneys is failing and might need a transplant), Spencer dusted herself up and tried to get her life back together. She enrolled in a couple of virtual classes and got as many jobs as she could to pay for her increasing medical bills, student loans and whatnot. It wasn’t enough. That’s when she came across the Avenue in NYC and saw how much she could make working a few hours every week as an escort. Always sex-positive Spencer was a loud and proud lover of the ladies but if it meant being able to pay for her weekly dialysis and lower her debilitating debt, she’d get on her (hands) and knees (or any variation) for anybody who could afford her.
So that’s where Spencer finds herself nowadays. She’s a sasshole, a flirt and a charmer, working her job as an escort, trying to lose herself in arms of strangers with money, trying to forget her demons and just trying to get her dumpster fire of a life under control.
