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Snuggled deep into the rat infested slums of Port Royale, even deeper still in one of the most dilapidated inns, you'll find me waking up fairly late in the morning after a hard night's work. Believe me, working is hard. Perhaps not the most desirable career, having breasts and a starved figure is enough to make ends meet. Even if not the other girls are as slim. Anyone could do it, but you have to know how to do it right to get the money.
Now I am straying off my story. Back into the old inn, ran by a man by the name of Evans, I prepare for another day of entertaining men of all castes. Even some of the nobles are known to stroll down the very main street of the slums, Smokestain Lane as we call it, for that's what it is, a black mark on the 'pristine beauty of what belongs to the town of Port Royale, Jamaica'. After finding a clean dress and making sure it was small enough to show off some skin, but also leaving some to the imagination, as most of the nobles prefer, I reach into a hole in the mattress chewed out by a rat to pull out the remainder of my money. A shilling. Unless business proves to be really good tonight, then I will have to go hungry for a couple of days.
After putting the money in my boot, I quickly comb the once golden strands of hair into a bun, securely hiding the the loss of it over the weeks due to malnutrition. I apply a small layer of rouge over my cheekbones and smooth out my dress, making final adjustments in a grimy mirror taking up a whole corner in the tiny room. Careful to avoid the landlord Evans because I haven't paid rent for the last month and a half, I slide my way through the narrow corridor and out into the bright sunlit street that made up the shadow lands of Port Royale.
Children with no shoes run wildly through the streets, learning to become expert thieves by practicing on outsiders. Especially to the newly recruited pirates. They were still virgins to the lifestyles of the impoverished, which makes them perfect targets. You sometimes even catch even the most notorious pirates roaming around. But not so much as it was a decade ago. Port Royale used to be a sister to Tortuga, providing residence to pirates, thieves, whores, smugglers, and runaways. Anyone considered outsiders in higher societies became a part of our world. But all this was before our beloved mother country decided it was time to clean up a bit. They sent Governor Swann and his army of redcoats to bleach the scum out. As successful as he was, there was always that stubborn stain that could not be burned out if he even tried, which is why Smokestain Lane is here today. Even the Governor's beloved noble daughter got mixed up in the likes of miscreants.
Oh, to be Elizabeth Swann. She is practically the Governor herself, the way she can manipulate her father. It is said that she even sailed off with the infamous Jack Sparrow on the Black Pearl. She apparently gave up a lifetime of security to marry a blacksmith. To be that rich and that free would be a blessing to all if only it were offered. I sometimes sit on the beach and look up at the Governor's house, wondering what Miss Swann was doing at that very moment. It was certainly not thinking of how to pay for that night's dinner, or worrying about catching pneumonia.
I look down at my own worn out boots, wondering how I'm going to afford new ones. Saving money is not particularly easy, especially when you have to pay rent, buy food, and still manage to look good enough to attract customers. Speaking of which, it is still very early in the day to find anyone who'd require my services, so I venture towards Emma's. She runs a small tavern, and if I manage to catch her on a good day, she gives me some ale and bread from time to time. After a hearty meal from the rosy-cheeked tavern owner, I suppose I have time enough for a walk.
Careful to stay away from the disapproving eyes of the respectable townspeople, I venture off to the beach and take a peaceful rest of the day. Mostly I think about what life could've been like if I had tried to become more that a desolate prostitute. But when it all comes down to it, I'm literally lazy. Being a whore has it's benefits. You can wake up whenever you wanted, sleep whenever you wanted, refuse anyone undesirable, and be practically free in a limited section of life. But I also sometimes wonder what it's like to have total freedom. If I had the skills (and a penis), I'd be out there on a ship, sailing wherever I'd fancy being. And even if you didn't much care for ship life, you always had the option of sailing to a new place and starting all over again.
I lazily watch as a ship sails into harbor and anchors. Just another load of lusty men whose testosterone's got the better of them. I really hope they haven't been out at sea for too long, for God only knows what they want you to do if they have. It's nearing late afternoon. I suppose now is as good as time as any to start work. I saunter off back to Smokestain Lane, noticeably this time. If any wished to follow, I'll gladly make it easy for them. I wink at a few men, who obviously seem uninterested because of the way they quickly look away and mutter something close to 'filthy whore'.
I linger near my usual place, careful not to cross into someone else's territory. There are any disputes amongst us whores about who gets what spot. But I'm content. One of the best taverns in Port Royale is situated right behind me, and I always get the best room in the inn above.
Why don't I just sleep there the whole night instead of staying at Evans, you may ask. It would indeed save me some money, but could you stand sleeping in the same room where marks of your own disgrace are left in the sheets? I really do have morals and guilt, even if they are buried deep inside.
I show off some leg as a pirate walks by. I catch his attention and he makes his way over to me. Another fish in the net. After a quick discussion of prices, I lead the lost soul to the tavern.
"Same room, Kat!" I shout to the owner behind the bar.
"Alright dear, but you had better leave a little somethin' extra if you plan on me cleanin' up again."
The pirate follows me up the narrow staircase and down a hall to the second room on the left. The familiar smell of sweat and alcohol fill the air. And the rest is pretty much history. All I have to do is what the customer wants. As long as I do it right, then I get a little bonus.
And thus the same routine over and over until the exhaustion takes over or I have a full purse. Every once in a while, I stop out of pure shame. Like tonight, for instance. It was my fourth customer of the night, and right in the middle of a session, and awful feeling takes over and I just stop completely. A feeling of guilt and shame take control of my body and it's all I can do not to break down into sobs. And the brute continues to have his way with me as I mentally lose control. I fall limp with a silent plea to God to take me out of this life. Just end it now so I won't have to suffer this anymore.
The man slakes his lust and makes a comment which I don't hear and spits on me before redressing and leaving. I don't even bother to clean myself, but just lay there, tears washing away the sweat on my face. I cry myself to sleep into a world of troubled dreams, and then wake up in the morning and start the whole process all over again.