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Dani
Music plays throughout my apartment as I shamelessly shimmy my hips to the melodies of my favorite eighties rock. My curls fly out in a mess and I let out a high-pitched whoop that probably sounds more crazy than anything, but I don’t care. The neighbors can stick it. I have a two-bedroom to myself and it’s incredible! There’s so much space that I can hear my voice echo as I bounce around the living room like a ping-pong ball.
Of course, I know I need to start the search for a new roommate asap, but since Carolyn got married and moved out, I’ve really enjoyed having the place to myself. I can walk around naked. I can go to the bathroom with the door open. I can play my music at maximum volume, and cook fragrant curries without being worried that Carolyn will faint from the spicy scents. It’s absolutely wonderful, and I love everything about my apartment.
Okay, maybe not everything because suburban New Jersey isn’t exactly my cup of tea, but it’s a nice neighborhood. Plus, now that I have the place to myself, I’ve changed the décor to suit my tastes. There’s a charming brick wall in the main living room that I’ve plastered with colorful paintings. The other walls are painted a subtle cream, and there’s a plush tan couch that’s ancient but soooo comfortable for watching movies on. The kitchen is small, but it has all the essentials and more than enough storage, which is unique in these old apartments.
But my bedroom is actually my favorite room. I’ve painted the walls a sheer shade of lavender, and fairy lights are strung from my headboard in a gorgeous twinkling tapestry. The down comforter is a deep eggplant shade, and I painted my small vanity a cheerful white so that the purple vibe doesn’t take over.
But as much as I adore my apartment, I can’t afford it on my own. Unfortunately, scooping ice cream at the Frosty Freeze in Nassau doesn’t come close to covering the rent on a two-bedroom, so I need to find a new roomie fast. Even worse, I’ve been moonlighting as an escort to cover the rent. It’s not something I planned (hell, who wants to work for an agency called Three Hole Girls?), but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Despite its ridiculous name, at least my agency does a pretty good job of vetting the clients they set us up with. They sell themselves as a high-end escort agency, but what kind of man would even deign to use an agency with a rude name like Three Holes? Seriously, what’s wrong with normal names like Luxe, Deluxe, or Entice? Whoever chose Three Hole Girls is a raunchy bastard with little to no business sense.
