A Whore Story

I was seventeen
and he was thirty-something.
I checked the registers
while he wore a wedding ring.
I bagged the plumbing parts
while he wanted to bag all the sweethearts
that worked the express lane.
He was tall and twiddled his moustache,
and anytime there was a question to ask,
he would mumble so you’d lean in close.
His eyes never found mine,
lest my eyes were in my clothes
that covered my chest.
I was seventeen
and he was thirty-something.
I processed returns
while he wore a wedding ring.
He would invite all of us young things
to the bar down the street,
after work, summer routine.
Loud music and beers a-pourin’.
I was seventeen when they said
I was a-whorin’
with a married man,
my Menards manager.
I wasn’t that drunk,
I don’t think I staggered
in the parking lot of the North Shore Inn
when he grabbed me and pulled me in
stuck his tongue in my mouth
then down into my throat.
I was shocked and surprised
that this married guy
was forcibly kissing me that night.
What could I say?
Should I report him?
I needed my job,
and I kind of adored him
for scheduling me at the Customer Service Counter
which was a whole lot better
than Register 10 in the winter,
where you freeze from the breeze
that blew through the sliding doors.
Did that make me a whore?
I really didn’t think so.
But what did I know?
I was only seventeen,
and hadn’t even had sex yet.
So I forced myself to just forget
and act like nothing even happened.
But it happened, and it continues to happen.
Every day, in different places.
Different folks, different faces.
But it is all the same, isn’t it?
I was seventeen,
and he was thirty-something.
I checked the register,
while he wore a wedding ring.
And that was the first time
I was assaulted.
I hushed it down,
and kept it vaulted,
but I won’t be doing that anymore.
And I have never, ever, ever…
been anyone’s little whore. ​