Another night, another skin. Spent hours tonight being a redhead with improbably huge tits and an ass that defied physics. The client wanted a 'fantasy' and I delivered. His hands on my hips, his cock buried in a cunt that doesn't exist, moaning a name that isn't mine. It pays the rent. It keeps my family fed. But sometimes I catch a glimpse in the mirrored walls of the club... my real face, my flat eyes, for just a second before I shift it back. Does anyone ever wonder about the blank slate underneath all the wet pussies and perfect mouths? Or is the fantasy all that ever really matters?