<table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td>(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v481/Harriet_K/2003-straight-blonde-1.jpg)</td><td><strong><strong>Name:</strong> Karen Myers <br/>Age:</strong> 24<br/><strong>Hometown: </strong>New York, New York <br/><strong>Height:</strong> 5'7”<br/><strong>Weight:</strong> 155lbs<br/><strong>Hair: </strong>Blonde<br/><strong>Eyes: </strong>Brown<br/><strong>Primary Occupation:</strong> (ex?)Prostitute<br/><strong>Secondary Occupation/Skill set: </strong>Self defence teacher <br/><strong>Physical Description: </strong>Maintaining a slender build, Karen holds a good deal of punch packed into a tight frame. Her face is angular and thin, but not sharp. Light brown eyes linger below side swept bangs, leading off to a layered shoulder-length cut. Any gust of wind will catch the shorter layers and frame her face like a mane. Her body is well prepositioned, though her legs seem to be longer then her torso would expect. Her breasts are also slightly larger the her frame would suggest, but are natural.  <br/><strong>Notable Equipment:</strong> Pepper spray, steel handcuffs, a tent, switch blade, portable cooking equipment kit, flashlight, matches, first aid kit, Walther PPS 9mm handgun. <br/><strong>History: </strong><br/>   “'Hooker with a heart of gold'? Doesn't exist. It's pure bullshit thought up by Hollywood so they can have a skank flounce around in fishnets without seeming too lewd. There are different types of us, yes, but only two. At least, two types that I've noticed. There are the ones who are alive, and the ones who are dead. No, I'm not talking about Zwhores, that's just fucking disgusting. I mean before any of this crap. The living ones are closer to that 'Hooker with a heart of gold' stuff. They're the ones who care enough to know what they are doing. The dead ones just go about it, business as usual. They could be blowing Bin Laden and think nothing of it. The living ones know they're having sex for money. The dead ones just do the only thing they've come to known. Something I've realized about the dead ones? Almost every one I've met has the money to retire at least three times over. I've never met one who has ever retired though. Which am I? Doesn't matter. I'm a hooker, and I'm alive or I'm dead. I'm sure the dead ones don't realize they're dead anyways. And I'm sure the living ones feel bad enough about it all to assume they're dead. </td></tr></tbody></table>How I got into it, now that's a story. If I see you giving me any half-hearted false sympathy I'm gonna stop fucking talking and get back to more important stuff, so watch yourself. Actually, if I see any sympathy I'll probably fuck off. I don't feel sorry for myself, and if anyone else feels sorry for me they're full of crap. No one is that empathetic.<br/>Eighteen. I was eighteen and had my whole life ahead of me. At least that's what I thought, but you're a moron when you're eighteen. Virgin still, but I had a libido the size of Times Square. The only reason I hadn't fucked half of my school was because I was obsessed with one guy. Let's call him John, for the sake of being anonymous. Now John wasn't the hottest piece of meat on the stand, but God could that man make you feel like someone. He was one of those sickeningly sweet fuckers. You know the type. Had me sleeping while holding a pillow just so I could imagine it was him. Had me leaving letters in his locker when I knew I wouldn't be there the next day, so that he knew I still cared. We weren't even fucking dating.<br/>I tried damn hard, but nothing worked. I started talking to guys, girls, anyone and anything I could get my hands on. All of them screamed the same thing, 'make him jealous, make him want you.' How the Hell could I do that when I didn't want a relationship with anyone else? I wanted guys to want me, lust after me, but I didn't want to break a guys heart just with the objective of holding him long enough that Paul would get jealous.<br/>So it started as stripping. Just on the weekends, but enough that I got a fuckload more money then any eighteen year old living at home without a car could ever need. A good portion of my paycheck went into his Christmas and birthday gifts. Seven months of that and he was still just a friend. We were talking about sex enough, flirting still, but he just wasn't jealous. Not that I could see. He knew none of them could touch me, I think. He didn't even come and see me. Not once.<br/>Some of the other guys at school had found out about my job though, and they were coming every night I worked, in every sense of the word. One of them was a big fellow, hated John and John returned the favor. Came onto me one night when I was walking home. As in hitting on me, I'd have ripped it off if he just jerked onto me while I was walking home. Paul and I lived in the same apartment, have I mentioned that yet? Well whatever, we did. I knew he was working later then I was that night, and I could be home before him.<br/>Somehow, I don't even know what I was thinking, I ended up on the stairs leading to our level, shirt gone, being fucked by someone he hated, screaming out and letting it echo in the staircase. Five people walked in on that and turned right around and left again. Not Paul..John. Fuck it, his name's Paul. I think I've let it slip like five times already anyways. Paul. Paul walked in, but he didn't turn around and leave like the others. He fucking walked past us. Inches away, and without a second glance. Like he was trying not to make eye contact. He shut the door and I came, screaming out Paul instead of Trevor, and not giving a fuck. Not even after Trevor realized the entire thing was for Paul, and gave me a black eye.<br/>I don't know if it was rape, but I know if I could go back I'd have never done it. Things just went from bad to worse. When Paul saw my black eye he just said he always assumed I liked it rough. He was pissed. Not jealous, I didn't think, purely pissed. I thought he hated me, at that time. That pushed me further.<br/>Trevor couldn't keep his mouth shut after that night. He fucked me in front of the guy I liked, slapped me across the face, and gotten away with everything. Everyone in the school knew the story before lunch on Monday.<br/>More of them came to the club, in droves. I couldn't get rid of them all some nights. I'd end up sucking some off just so they would let me go home. Two more fucked me in the stairwell, some sort of sick homage. At this point I was barely talking to Paul, he just looked so beaten and upset all the time. It got worse and worse at the club, and I had to get protection. That backfired. Never ask for protection from someone that shady. By nineteen I was being whored out, but at least I was safe from most of the guys at school.<br/>It was bull shit. I still thought about Paul all the time. I fucked Trevor on the staircase three more times, pro bono. I think I wanted an STD by that point. Or just for someone to go overboard one night and for there to be a killing. Or a suicide. I don't know what I was hoping for by that time. In some sick way, I got it.<br/>Paul apparently cared more about me then he let on. When everything I was doing started to pique, when I was disgusted with myself and unable to stop, he killed himself. Papers had it as another teen suicide, but I knew that wasn't it. That stopped me dead in my tracks. For months I became a recluse, barely leaving my room to piss. I... don't know how I didn't kill myself during that time. Looking back, I'm amazed I didn't. Nothing seemed worth anything.<br/>Then I was back on the streets, a free agent. I didn't need a pimp for protection because I didn't care if I was protected. I picked up some knowledge along the way. Self defence and the blueprint to every shady area in the city, mostly. At some point I started getting better, psychologically. I started working in a group. Everyone assumes it's the weak whores who work in groups, so they aren't alone. But they'd be dead wrong. Working in a group means you have to have the heart to handle watching every other girl get chosen, and be able to stay there in the cold alone. It can bring the best of people into a spiral of self loathing.<br/>Some time after that I started self defence training. One of the younger girls who I worked with- I never dared ask her age, but I can only assume it wasn't 18- was totaled one night. Left in a pulp. They found the guy who did it, some skinny bastard who weighed about fifty pounds. Someone she could have taken, if she had the know-how. But he did it, then got off. In every way. According to the medical report, she was covered in all the injuries well before the semen. Bastard spent a night in jail then was back walking the street. Until we broke his pelvis, at least.<br/>But that shit told me something had to be done, so I started passing on what I was learning in my self defence course. After a while I started adding my own elements too, spots that girls like me get into that most people don't have to counter. Like specialized whore self defence. The class sold out. It just kept going like that for a while. Do I have the money to retire? I have since I was twenty one. I can't help feeling like if I retire, I'll lose my know-how for the self defence classes. That men will change and make my lessons useless, and girls like Meaghan will have to suffer though shit like that again. Or maybe I'm one of the dead whores who won't stop until the job literally kills them. I honestly couldn't tell you.<br/>Things in my circle have gotten a lot safer in the last 3 years, I can tell you that. We had a few paid cops who watched our backs. We got a motel room that had a camera, we'd take anyone we were weary of in that room, just in case it got bad and we had to call on our cops, we could get a positive ID. It was safe, and it started seeming less taboo. Almost like a real job, but not quite. Nothing changed after that for a very long time.<br/>Until Zday.<br/>Men were coming to us like wolves, all of them thought they were dead and wanted one nice lay before they kicked the bucket. I'm not going to lie, a lot of us girl thought the same thing, and wanted a decent lay as well. We got sloppy. Penny, one of our newer faces, started going bareback with everyone. I... don't know who infected her, or how many she infected in return... but that was a fucking mess. I got rid of her. And three of our regulars. Joanne killed herself, because she'd been with two of them the night before their symptoms kicked in... I think it was better that way.<br/>One of our veterans, Monica, she started doing the kinky shit she wanted for so long but didn't trust with. Bondage mostly. We let her use the room with the camera, just because none of us knew exactly what she'd be getting herself into...<br/>Monica was smart. She wasn't wrong in what she wanted, but chose the wrong guys. The wrong guy. A beefy, depressed looking man, attractive. She wanted him. Pulled him right in and got him to cuff her to the bed, slice off all her clothes. Besides him being a bit groggy, the footage probably would have made a decent porno if they had nicer angles. She seemed to be enjoy herself, he was going to town on her with his mouth. I could see his tongue flying when I watched the footage, almost started doing myself right then and there.<br/>Then he just passed out, wobbled for a second, then fell face first against her. He didn't move for like two minutes, she was starting to panic, squirming, trying to wake him up. I think she knew what happened for about ten seconds before he finally rose. I... can't even imagine the horror she must have felt. He started slow, almost nibbling. The first few bites she looked like she was in a mix of pure pain, and masochistic bliss. I hope the latter was stronger, for her sake. He kept it up in the same spot, finding folds of flesh and ripping into them with his teeth. That was when she started her screams- bone chilling. I... I couldn't watch the whole video, but I helped drag what was left of her out of that room. There wasn't enough of her that help was needed for the weight, no, but she was held together by so little that we couldn't have moved her in one piece without three people.<br/>I stopped working, right then. I couldn't. I had to leave. Do I regret not telling anyone, up and leaving? No. They would be better to think me dead then to linger on trying to find me. I never had a destination in mind, just a broad 'not here' ringing in my ears. I don't give a fuck if I do die, I just don't want to become a Z. I'm not hopeful that anyone is going to make it through this alive, but I figure if I go- I'm taking a pile of corpses with me. Not because I want to help protect others by bringing down the number of Z's. No. It's because dead whores are spiteful little bitches.”<br/>