Lady of Sin City (BRENDON URIE)

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unedited

Lolita Jackson wasn't her real name. In fact, she used that pseudonym so often she often had quite a difficult time recalling her name. There were many nights when Lolita had to write down her name in pen on her bronze skin, but she'd find it quickly smeared on bedsheets and car-seats. She liked the Strip; she really did. She loved how there was also life, even in the dying light of the sun. That there was so much artificial joy to it, pumping anesthetics to its inhabitants as the thousands of hotel lights glimmered, each one competing for a weary traveler or hungry gambler. The Luxor sparkled in the distance, moonlight catching on its sleek ebony frame, making the edges of its pyramid glow eerily. Next to it, the Excalibur palace seemed comically childish compared to the Egyptian-themed hotel. And across the street, the bright and youthful Monte Carlo. So many hotels, each with windows sparkling with the lights of guests either going to sleep, gambling, or like most who ever decided to take advantages of Las Vegas's blind-eye to disapproving behavior; fucking. That's what Lolita's job was. She was older than most of the girls, most scarcely out of high school. Lolita Jackson was a name known by many, a linger on the tongue of the richest, the sleaziest, they all knew Lolita. "He found Lolita?" She had once overheard, eavesdropping with a smirk perhaps darker than the shadow of the tophat perched lopsidedly over her golden ringlets. "Yeah, man; paid double for her, even."

Now, you might ask Lolita; what a horrid lifestyle! She sounds like such a lovely woman, who could do so much more with her life, instead of sleeping it away.

Wrong.

Lolita grew up in the business, in a sense. Her mother was a whorish prostitute, and her mother before that. A brothel of sorts, long dissolved, operating somewhere around Treasure Cove. It was small, but not small enough. Those who knew of it were of the most elite of Vegas's guests, generally. Businessman, corporate drones, the boring ones in suits and ties despite suffocating conditions of blinding sun, what seemed to be a stiffly dry -5% humidity, and blazing heat. Maya was one of this brothel's best girl; barely 17, she had her age written as 20 for legal reasons. She went to school and acted pretty. Her mother had gambled away their money and her father was off fucking another woman in New York, so Maya was forced to work for her own. She had always been such a very pretty girl. Her last name, which will be only written here as Rivers despite the fact it was most definitely not Rivers, and all the ladies in her family were blessed with beautiful hair. Thick golden curls, rather short but full of sunshine and joy much needed in a shady world of one for, quite literally, a whore. Maya was a very resilient girl, unfortunately. Many nights she would not be able to sleep hours' after a client because her legs still shook and she was too weak to stand. There was also this painful and rather embarrassing fact that some clients just didn't know how to be naughty little boys again. These were generally the happily married, rather advanced in age, still quite sober men. Lolita's father was one of these men; the inexperienced, as Maya called them, and taught Lolita to call them.

Maya had decided to take pity on such a man. Nine months later, Lolita was born to a woman who had lost every dignity she might have possibly had; no job, no house, a disgraced prostitute, and a fatherless daughter. Rumor has it that Maya immediately found work again in an agency, due to the fact she was still younger than twenty, and taught Lolita in essence, the ways of prostitution. How to make them pay more, how to keep up appearances, those little things that added a little more volume in one's brassiere in the form of wads of cash. Lolita was used to having to sit in the bathroom, holding her hands over her ears whilst the walls buzzed with the vibrations of the bed frame hitting it repeatedly in an abusive manner. Not many questioned why a little girl came out of the bedroom after a session, holding her mother's hand tightly as said woman pleaded for a little more to feed her daughter. Lolita could now faintly recall her mother when she was nine years old:

"Baby, baby, I can leave it all now. Mama's going to fly, baby girl."

"But mama, what about work? And me? And what about Vegas?"

"You can go with me, sweetie." The shiny black object that her mother had acquired suddenly frightened the little girl. Screaming and crying like little children do, Lolita had run away as her mother blew her own brains out in front of her. Lolita hadn't been taken into the system; rather she had run to the agency and was put into the 'care' of Maya's best friend, Kiwi. Once Lolita was 15, she knew more about the profession than the average whore herself. She started with the small things; exotic dances, hand jobs, all the little sexual favors one generally takes for granted nowadays in a relationship. But the perverts who paid for this didn't honestly care that she was 15, educating herself. That she may not have been having the best education, but combining book, street, and life smart she'd outdo them all exponentially. Lolita Jackson grew up to survive, to be tough.

After all, she'd seen her own mother's lifeless body crumple and slowly bleed out with a hole in her skull. Only at seventeen did she begin the real things, and the reputation began. There were many reasons why Lolita Jackson was a favorite amongst the men [and women], who looked for a little spice during their stays in Sin City.

A – She was gorgeous. Lolita Jackson was described by multiple people who had been eager to tell her story as an, "epitome of golden light". Tall with features that could remind a cultured person of the Amazon warriors, with golden skin and hair and fierce green eyes that made her resemble a tigress in many ways.

B – Lolita had such a sense of humor and an extravagant, fine ability in literally "dressing up". Whether as a shepherdess or a masked Venetian lady, she always loved turning things into games.

C – The secrecy; we as human people are so inclined into throwing themselves into pitch-black ditches. The dirtier, the darker, the worse it is the more likely it will attract attention. There is nothing like a little arousing secrecy to flare one's appetite. Lolita, though popular, is still about as unknown as small white church in the middle of the desert getting burnt. They knew her {fake} name, and they had not a single grain of her story. People liked that.

D – It is the shameful dream of every man to ever have a partner anywhere close to 'talented' as Lolita Jackson was rumored to be. There is no explanation here besides the fact that all those who either professionally lie or tell the bold truth of their Lolita experiences, is that she is like an animal. "The tigress of Las Vegas", the "She Wolf of Sin City", the "Fox of the Strip" were all many titles Lolita Jackson had heard and listened to with that sly smirk of hers.

E – Such an amusing name, Lolita Jackson. Those with the knowledge of most literary works would point out the peculiar name; Lolita was a rather erotic novel written many decades ago about a man in a sexual relationship with a tween girl. Perhaps, the name was a way to show at what a brutally young age she was exposed to her business. Alas, no one has been gifted with the story behind the name. And Jackson; the picturesque surname with a boring neutrality that just makes it even more exciting.

Lolita liked rain in Las Vegas. It didn't rain often, and when it did it was never the moody drizzle that came with hazy gray clouds and sleepy skies. The rain in Las Vegas consisted of raw, explosive thunderstorms that tore through the sky as the heavens met the earth in white hot bolts of lightning. Nonetheless, she enjoyed standing in the rain. All the people had hidden in the safety of their hotels, an occasional tourist fleeing from hotel to casino to hotel, and that left Lolita alone. She wore a short trench coat, rather exposing her neckline and even a bit of skin that any religious person would purse their lips into thin lines and frown at. She held a matching umbrella up, walking in bright blue high heels that gave the illusion of even longer legs. She had a dainty headband in her frizzy blonde curls, and her lips were painted a stark red that made the rest of her features pop out brightly. Her eyelids were colored with smoky, dark colors that made her green ice colder in an intimidating way, and the way her lips twitched upwards slightly could make a stranger shy of even approaching her. Lolita enjoyed the sudden coldness of the city during the rain. The sudden emptiness and darkness it never usually had, even if it was daytime. It allowed her to finally breathe, to finally have the city as her own. Miss Jackson was moving in circles and no one was going to find out. She was, ultimately, the Lady of Sin City.