South Park © Trey Parker & Matt Stone.

Chapter warning: prostitution, sexual content.

It doesn't hurt me.
You wanna feel how it feels?
You wanna know, know that it doesn't hurt me?
You wanna hear about the deal I'm making?

Kate Bush

Kenny McCormick – If you do it for the loot

It just happened. That's all. At least, that's what I said the first time, now I'm not so sure. I just have to remind myself why I'm doing this. I'm so desperate, and when I give myself a reason it makes it a little more tolerable. The places, beds, and bodies change, but the act itself is still the same.

I told Kyle I had some business to attend to. He didn't pry, though I could tell he wanted to. Or maybe he just wanted to imagine that I went to do something safe and okay. Asking me would have broken that illusion.

So I let this stranger put his hands on me. He rubs my bare thighs with his meaty fingers after I undress. He keeps most of his clothes on and I don't really mind because he isn't shaped very nicely and like most people, I hate to fuck an eyesore. There is drunken desperation as his rough, calloused fingers razor across my skin. It's like he needs this, and maybe, just maybe he does. I've met a lot of married men who have spent years trying to repress homosexual urges. They end up cracking at some point and driving around until they find a kid like me. The kind of kid who will do anything for a few bucks.

I lay back, feeling like a mess of poorly drawn lines and he just feels me. All of me. "What do you want to do?" he asks lowly.

"Whatever you want," I say, "You're the one paying me."

I let him take control. He likes that. I part my thighs in blatant invitation, playing the part of the whore. There are roaming hands, fingers, and then I feel his entirety against me. I relax my muscles and lift my legs up higher. He gives little warning as he goes in for the kill.

"Ow, Jesus Christ!" I hiss and he lets out a low chuckle, moving even faster in response to my complaint. I'm being exceptionally loud and squirming around a lot. He is probably assuming it's out of pleasure. It isn't. I'm in a lot of pain right now. I probably would have loosened up a bit, but every single fucking time I die; I come back with a brand new body. Yeah, that means I'm once again a "virgin". To be honest, that's probably one of the shittiest parts of dying. I guess it's kind of funny. I bet I'm the only person in the world who can say that they got back their virginity. I don't really think of it as true virginity, though. Virginity… it's more of an emotional thing. I guess Stan's sentimentality has rubbed off on me as the years went by.

The stranger continues pulling out and pushing himself back in. In and out, in and out, just like a knife. I wonder what would hurt worse. Just kidding.

I wrap a hand around my dick, feeling climax approaching as I curl my toes. I just want this to be over as soon as possible. I open my mouth and let out a string of moans, because that's what he's paying for. He follows seconds later, not paying any mind to how fake I sound. No one ever does notice.

Fuck, someone remind me why I do this to myself.

Oh. Right. Karen. I'm doing this for Karen. I have to keep that in mind. She deserves better than what my parents give her. She doesn't deserve to be picked on for her outdated wardrobe, and her paper-bag lunches. But she can never know. Never. It would destroy her. I honestly don't do this sort of thing often, just when I'm desperate. It's fast money. Easy money. Or, at least, it used to be.

"You know… you might as well stay here for the night, it's already paid for until tomorrow at noon," the fat fuck says, dropping a few bills on the side table.

I give him a nod and wave him away. He leaves soon after and I just lay there on the hotel bed for the longest time. I want to get up and leave, but I'm so tired. So, so tired and I can't bring myself to get up when my head hits the pillow. Hotels never feel like home. No matter how nice the bed is or what side you lay on. The smell that lingers in the air is a reminder of all the people that have been there before you. Hotels never feel like home and maybe that's why I always have an easy time falling asleep in them.

When I wake up it's still dark out. The clock says 3:16 AM. I get up off the bed and almost cry out at the sudden jolt up my spine. That man certainly wasn't gentle. An occupational hazard, I guess. I limp into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. My blonde hair hangs unwashed in my eyes, and I'm visibly shaking due to the strain on my body. I turn around and spread my ass cheeks for the mirror. Nothing looks damaged. I suppose I'm just being whiny.

I gather up my clothes and get redressed, pocketing the money that was left on the side table. Time to go. As I step outside, I put up my hood and tighten the drawstrings.

Stan thinks I prostitute myself. Wait. Should I say "Stan thinks" or "Stan knows"? I say that desperate times call for desperate measures.

Prostitute.

The word leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I don't want to use that word to describe myself. I don't even want that word to be in the same sentence as my name. Kenny the prostitute? No. I want to put myself in a different category than people like Old Frida fall into. A simple shower couldn't wash away all her filth. Even though I don't do this often, I suppose, in the end, I'm just as filthy, and it's the kind of filth that can't simply be washed away.

Rather than going home, I find myself in front of a hole-in-the-wall bar. I'm not ready to head home just yet. I guess I look sick or maybe just confused because the girl sitting on a stool near mine asks, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I shrug, "Sore."

"Rough night?"

"You could say that."

"Drink beer?" she asks. I nod and she buys me a bottle.

Here, they don't check for ID. I remember coming here many times when I was sixteen. I'm sure they knew I wasn't the right age, but they never said a thing. I think they must find it funny to get the kids drunk. They're a bunch of degenerate deviants.

"Thank you," I crack it open and take a long sip after loosening the drawstrings and pulling my hood down.

"Kenny McCormick," she looks at me and smiles a bit, "I thought it was you. You don't even remember me, though, do you?"

I look at her, really look at her, and cannot seem to recall ever seeing her before. "Um," I squint, "No, sorry."

"It's Lola. I attend school with you," she says, running a hand through her long, brown hair. "We… you know, did it once a few years back. You took my virginity."

How many times have I heard that one before? I make an 'o' with my mouth, but don't say anything.

"Well, it doesn't matter," she shrugs, "Anyway. What're you doing here?"

"I don't really know. Sometimes I just come here."

"What for?"

"Because I'm lonely?"

"Is that a question?" she smiles a bit.

"I guess so. I'm asking it to myself," I laugh bitterly, "I don't know the answer.

She nods and turns to take a sip of her drink. "I know the feeling."

I make some noncommittal sound.

"So, Kenny McCormick, how many girls have you slept with?" she asks. "It was clear I wasn't one of the first, and I always wondered."

I give her a look, "Why would you ask me something like that?"

"I hear things."

"What kind of things?"

"Oh, you know."

I think for a moment, "A lot. It's hard to say."

She frowns, "But you're so young."

"I'm a bit mixed up right now," I tell her. "And it's not even just girls anymore… it's anyone. I'm a prostitute."

She nods her head, looking genuinely sad for me. "I heard about your brother…" she mentions slowly.

"I think everyone heard about that," I cringe. Yes, everyone heard about the arrest of Kevin McCormick, but no one knows the actual story. They said it was drugs, which was the truth, but there was more to it than just that.

"I'm sorry," she says, sounding like she honestly is.

I nod, but don't thank her because I'm glad Kevin is gone.

"What happened after?" she then asks.

I shrug, "It doesn't matter. I'm doing all right, so is my sister. I'm making sure of that."

"Really? Surely this isn't the end… you coming to a bar and sitting alone. As a child my mother would tell me that if it isn't a happy ending, it just isn't the end yet. So what happens next?"

"I don't know yet."

"Hm," she muses.

I take a second to notice to her appearance. She looks nice. She looks good enough to fuck, but I'm not going to. I don't want to. I find it hard to sleep with someone once I know their name. It gives it a more personal feeling, and I really don't want that right now. It's as they say: once you give someone your name, you give them a part of yourself… I don't know if that's true or not.

I don't care about having sex…

If I said that, no one would believe me. I suppose, coming from my lips, it's a lie. Sex is great, but contrary to popular belief, I don't care much about having sex with most people. At a risk of sounding incredibly gay and emo, I'll admit that sex is a bit of a distraction for me at times. We're all just skin; although, some have it better than others and I'd prefer someone attractive. When I have sex lately, I zone out and it feels like I'm not mentally there anymore. I'll be thinking about my weekend plans, or what I might have for dinner. Sometimes it's better than me being in that moment and finding myself wishing I was somewhere else. It's extremely unpleasant to find yourself thinking "I need to get out of here" while you're in the middle of sticking your dick in someone's hole or vice versa.

I'd like to love someone, to be able to wrap my arms around another body as I sleep, but I don't think I deserve that kind of peace yet. I have a person in mind that I want to be with but I don't want to burden them with a stupid confession. That is the last thing they need right now. It's sad, because sometimes when I let myself think about it, I feel like I might really love them. I wish I didn't, because they deserve a little more than someone who would constantly be disappearing and dying and cheating. But maybe if I was with them, I could be faithful. Oh, well. I'll probably never find out. So I sit back and take what of them I can get and it's okay, for the most part.

"Would you rather feel miserable, or feel nothing?" I ask Lola.

She ponders for a moment with a finger on her chin, and then says, "I'd rather feel miserable."

"Why?"

"Because at least I would know I'm alive, you know?" she smiles a bit, "We have to keep living, no matter what."

"I suppose," I say, "I suppose that makes sense."

The rest of the weekend went by quickly. I died twice; good fuckin' times, and now we're back in are always the worst. "How was your weekend?" Stan asks as we all take our seats in homeroom.

"It was pretty good, I managed to convince Kyle to come to Bebe's party with me," I say, grinning.

"Really?" Stan asks, looking over at Kyle, who shrugs and nods.

"Is it really that much of a shock?" he mumbles.

"You hate parties, though," Stan says.

"Yeah, I know."

"Did you at least have fun?"

"Not really," Kyle says, giving me a dry I-told-you look.

"Fine, Kyle," I relent, sighing dramatically, wiping fake tears off my face. "I won't bother you about coming with me to parties ever again."

He scoffs, "I can't even say that I went with you, Kenny. You ditched me as soon as we walked through the doors."

"I know, Kyle," I say, but I don't apologize because I might do it again.

I turn my head; the window is cracked open and small rain drops are making their way into the classroom and falling onto the floor. I suppose it doesn't matter. Window open or window closed, it won't change the weather.

It's been raining a lot lately.

Kenny, what's wrong?" Kyle asks me later in the day, once we're seated at the lunch table.

I shrug a shoulder, "Nothing, Kyle. I'm just tired." It's not exactly a lie. I am tired, in many ways, and I can still feel the places on my body where the stranger's nails were digging the night before.

"Are you sure?" he pries.

"Yeah, I'm sure," I tell him. I don't want to worry Kyle. I don't think he would even believe it.

We were all nasty children, but Kyle grew up to be different. There's something softer about him. It has always been like that. It's a quality that Eric, Stan, and I don't possess. It's like we've all experienced more than Kyle.

Don't get me wrong, he can still be a fiery little fucker, but as he grew up, he grew more sheltered, thanks to his mum. There are things he still doesn't know, and I don't know about Stan, but sometimes I feel like I should protect him from horrible truths… Though, at the same time I want him to figure things out. I want him to figure me out.

Maybe I'm not giving Kyle enough credit. Nah, I know I'm not giving him enough credit. Kyle's a strong person. He probably doesn't need my protection.

Prostitution is on Kenny's list of crimes in the actual show, and that episode ("Fat Camp") is what originally inspired this fic. The whole "Kenny the prostitute" idea has probably been done before, but oh well.