Red. Ruby, crimson, cherry, rose, rouge, flush, flame, apple, candy-cane stripe, hot, fiery, cardinal, burgundy, blood, hellflame.
I'm a tramp, an easy lay, and a quick roll in the hay. Pretty painted lips and nipples to match. Spread legs decorated in heels and satin. Soft blonde hair that every man imagines seeing the top of. Blood tipped nails that have scratched backs and teased everything else. Pleasures for every man. You want a whore with the reputation of an angel. So I missed on the angel's reputation, but that still didn't stop your groping hands and sucking mouth.
All men want is a virgin-whore to screw then leave. I was a virgin once, though tell that to any of the 'respectable' ladies and they'll laugh in your face. To them, I was born a jezebel; I can't be a fallen angel, for I was never an angel at all. I danced my way to the top by saying yes. I'm worse than a yes man; I'm a yes woman.
Don't tell me about pain, please. I've heard your stories, and words don't interest me anymore. I've said my share of words; enough to know that all truths are simply lies. Enough to know that an angel is just a devil with prettier sins.
Men don't want me for companionship. That was a fact from the start. They want my body; they want me to tell them that they were better than my first. Are there times I want to use my pretty claws on their hungry eyes, are there times I want to tell them that of course they were better than my first, but not by much?
Better than my first. What a load of shit. How many of them would go running in the other direction, tail between their white legs, if I told them my first was in the back of some dark and ugly alley, when I was ten, with a rapist who tore the innocence from my body with a rusty razor? I can tell you that all of them would. They just want me to lay down, spread my legs, smile, compliment, then make them breakfast and leave like a good little virgin-slut.
Sometimes, I wish I could kick off the high, knife-sharp heels I wear, cut my hair and use my pretty nails to claw my way from this pit that I dove into so many years before. I'm getting older now, and the men still come. They get younger and younger, while I age. Younger women look at me and call me a washed up tramp, a woman trying to cling to her youth.
What the hell do they know?
My youth? Youth is innocence to them, and in that case, I was born old. Innocence is just another bitter joke in a world run by some horrific puppet master. Maybe one day, I think on the days that I feel weak, I'll wake from this nightmare, and find myself in the arms of a man that honestly loves me, happy and content. Then I lay down like a good little slut and spread my legs, knowing that the nightmare is the worst type.
If I'm a slut, if I'm a tramp holding onto her youth, and if I am, in fact, just a whore who slept her way to the top, then so be it. I survived, and survival is never pretty. I broke more than a few nails climbing my way up, something none of those professional, respectable women can say.
My name is Scarlet, and it isn't my title. My last name's not lady, I've never been a lady. Not even one of the night. My name's Scarlet because of the tears of blood I never shed while I made myself live through one more day.
My name's Scarlet. And if I'm just another virgin-whore, than so be it. Black is the colour of death.
But blood is red.
And so am I.
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