I am honored to say that Tricks debuted at #1 on the New York Times Bestseller List, in its very first week. Thanks so much to my fabulous readers for their continued and growing support! I couldn’t have done it without you. Tricks tells the story of five very different young people, from five very different parts of the country, who fall into prostitution for five very different reasons. For all of them, as for most real teen prostitutes, it boils down to one simple thing: survival.
Tricks Book Trailer
I Am Less Than a Ghost
I am a corpse, sleepwalking the streets
of Las Vegas. Sometimes I think
I should just head on out into the desert,
lay down on a soft mattress of sand,
close my eyes against the diamond sun
and circling black wings. And wait.
It might be preferable to this cement bed
behind a Seven-Eleven dumpster.
There are lots of us living on the street.
They say Vegas is easier than Reno. Warmer.
There are shelters, I’ve been told, where
you can eat free. Shower sometimes. Sleep.
But I’m afraid of the questions. Too many
questions. So when my stomach offers up
its acid; when I can’t stand the hollowness
for another second, I sell one more slice
of my soul. One slice, twenty dollars. I’ve been
here three weeks. Not much left of my soul.
As For My Body
It’s battered, scraped, bruised. The Tears
of Zion shift looks about a hundred years old.
I did spend a few bucks at the Salvation Army.
Bought a used skirt, two tank tops. Underwear.
I hate to think who used them, or why they gave
them away. But they only cost a dime a piece.
I stink, too. I’ve managed a four or five showers,
when the man of the hour wanted to spring for
a motel room. More often, it’s the seat of his car.
Quick and easy, five minutes or less. No emotion.
No pain. And the weirdest thing is, I’m not
the least bit embarrassed about doing it anymore.
That’s the worst part. That, and when my brain
insists on remembering Andrew. Thinking
about how he held me, rained his love down
all around me, brings devouring pain.
So I’ll think instead about the coming night, where
I might peddle the remaining tatters of my soul.
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