It was...impossible! There he was, reflected in all his tiny, fine-boned glory. He could see little tricks and and turns in the face that confirmed that this was indeed a female version of Bruce Wayne, and a younger one at that. But...his skin was bad.
Pale and a little blotchy under the cosmetics. Cosmetics that were much too thick, yet skillfully applied. Bright red lipstick on plumply kissable lips. His blush was aggressive...his eyes smokey, heavily mascaraed and crowned with frosted cobalt shadow. With
his (her) black hair sprayed and teased into a wild mane, he looked like some underage prostitute...
"This can't be..." he said aloud, feeling disconnected and woozy. He looked himself aver again, and grimaced in disgust. His body was oddly sparse and undernourished, yet his breasts...his breasts...
They stuck out from his chest like a pair of gross Soccer balls, fake and plastic and screaming "whore!" like an air horn. He raised tiny hands (each thin finger decorated with cheap, costume rings and tipped with an acrylic nail two-inches long and
painted bright red) and cupped his gross breasts...and suddenly...suddenly...
(Tricked! The lawyers took everything! Mommy and Daddy dead! An orphanage? RUN! RUN! RUN! Dark alleys evil men. Ladies on the street so kind. Take her in. Keep her safe. Like a lost kitten, she'd passed from whore to whore, sleeping in their rooms and
being treated like a surrogate daughter. She says her name's "Barbra Wayne" but all her new mothers just call her "Baby Cakes" and as the days pass...months...years...never again to see the inside of a school room or do any learning outside of 'Sesame Street'...watching
her mothers...respecting and loving them...wanting to BE just like them. The day she was seen by one of the pimps and taken to a man who took pictures...passed around to rich men who payed so much money...money she never saw. "Show her th' ropes." someone
said, but she already knew who to walk and act. Her mothers had been her only role-models...a surgery here and a tattoo there...learning the trade...living the life...and here she was...sixteen last spring and just a toned and jaded as any lifer...shakin'
her ass fer all th' Johns an' showin' them that jus' 'caus she wuz younger then th' rest don't mean she ain't knows how tah take it in every hole. Makin' her moms proud an' showin' her pimp she could be trusted. She'd NEVER made a dime, an' she un'erstood
that th' PIMP kept awl th' cash. She wuz jus' another workin' girl, shakin' it fer awl th'...)
She cupped her massive, fake breasts, and though she knew it was wrong...she loved them. Remembered all the men (hundreds! Thousands!) who'd fuck her giant tits, her pierced nippled jingling as her plastic juggs bounced. She looked at her hands, and
she LOVED her nails! Loved to paint them and flaunt them. Knew she'd loved shakin' her ass down on th' corner wit her moms an' showin' dem that she remembered awl they'd shown her...
Desperate to calm the voices in her head, Baby Cakes (she'd had another name a million years ago, but couldn't hardly remember it) rooted through her tiny purse (leopard print, jus' like her tube top an' miniskirt) and found several hundred dollars
("That don't b'long t' me. Dat's muh pimps money."), a dozen condoms, half a pack of chewing gum, a few mixed tabs of XTC and Molly, a lighter...and a pack of cigarettes.
She drew out a cigarette, and though he'd never smoked a day in his life...she expertly slipped the cig between her crimson lips, lit it, and drew in a deep, double-lungfull of smoke. The nicotine shot to her head, and she could think clearer.
She was an teenage prostitute - a skanky little piece of baggage called 'Baby Cakes' by everyone - and she was in the ladies room of a little gas station that all the local girls used when they had to take a shit. She wanted to feel disgusted, or even
outraged, but no matter what Bruce Wayne would have felt...she was Baby Cakes now. And Baby Cakes wanted...t' walk th' streets an' makes some mo' money fer her pimp. Struggling with her inner demons, she sat down and started to cry...but knew she'd soon me
back out there, singing her eternal song as she walked the streets of Gotham ; "Hey Mista! Yah wanna date?"
She was disgusted. She was home.