Can you give me some advice on my short introduction to a story about teenage prostitution?

Sarah F: Can you give me some advice on my short introduction to a story about teenage prostitution?
Introduction:
My underwear was too dirty and too loose. I wondered if I could pin it discreetly in the back to keep it up and if that would look weird. I was self conscious of the pink and white patterns, patches of feminine polka dots, plaid, and stripes, that loosely patched together to form this lingerie. No. Not lingerie. Lingerie was a word too sophisticated for what I was wearing. It implied beautiful, sexy girls in lace, who could speak French and kiss well. Long legs and lipstick. I, on the other hand, speak a half-assed Spanish and and am stubby. I’ve had few boyfriends and lipstick only adds attention to my yellow teeth. I was not wearing any lingerie. No. The patterns that loomed and wove themselves self between my legs instead lent another word. Panties. Sluts who strip to pay rent and sleep with married men wear panties, not lingerie, but panties. And I was, indeed, wearing panties, somehow on same level of the strippers and seductresses.
The fabric was too thin in some places, too thick in others, the colors fading. The white tinged with pink from the time I accidently washed them with the colors instead of whites. That time now seemed like ages ago. They looked childish, girly, young on my adolescent legs. Vulnerable. I wondered how many people were paying to see me to look exactly like that. I imagined creeps in the audience, both disgusted and pleased at the same time to their own b0ner for the ugly teenager. A virtual child.
I might have hated my job, but I can’t deny that it’s what I’m good at. My panties started to sag in the back and pulled them up a bit, my shaky fingers slipping on the silky fabric, struggling to make them stay in the desired position: not sagging around my @ss, high on my hips. My mom bought them for me about a year and a half ago, expecting them to only be worn under jeans and tights, only to be worn when my cuter underwear was in the wash. She never intended them to, obviously, be worn like this. But here I was. In panties. Behind the curtain, soon to be lifted, a small veil shielding me from the perverts on the other side. It distanced me only feet away from the creeps’ ready penises and repellent grime. I was so many worlds closer to them then I wanted to be. My audience was made up of people I’d naturally avoid on the street. The kind of people who would never have to be left by their wives, because no one would marry them in the first place.The curtain was lifted, and I was greeted with yells and bright lights. I heard the usual. Slut. Whore. Strip. Choke. Grind. Btich. The abuse was my applause. It meant I was doing it right. It was flung at me and I had no choice but to accept it gladly. I shook my skinny, awkward hips a little and they gave me approval. Fukcnig Harpy. Take off your bra. More. I tried to vacate my mind, lend it to their vacuum souls, lend it to the glitter pole and false glamour of the moment. My panties came off with a smile.

Answers and Views:

Answer by THE CANNIBAL
there is no advice i can give you.to me it seems perfect.this i really liked.good luck on your book.