Party Princess


I am such a pretty princess.

And do you know what a pretty princess can get away with?


This wasn’t supposed to be a full time job. When I got laid off, I figured appearing at children’s parties dressed like Snow White or Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty would just be a way to pay my bills.

I have a master’s degree. Surely someone would want me.

But then I recognized the real value of this job.

In the past year I’ve earned twenty grand doing parties for kids. They’re super easy. Show up, sing some songs, wave a wand, eat some birthday cake, collect an envelope full of cash at the end. Even though times are tough, princesses are recession-proof.

Twenty grand may not sound like a lot of money. And it isn’t.

The trick is diversification.

For example, you can be sure that parents who can afford a real-life princess probably have some means. And with means usually comes pharmaceuticals.

At some point during every party I make sure to hit the bathroom, where a quick check in the medicine cabinet often reveals goodies like OxyContin and Xanax and Dilaudid and Seroquel. I take a few, because people with prescriptions like these are often abusing them, and won’t even notice that some are missing.

Even if they did, nobody suspects a princess as pretty as myself.

I’ve augmented my salary by another ten grand just by passing what I find off to a dealer I know. Whatever I don’t keep for myself, of course. Nothing in this world feels as good as a Klonopin and a glass of wine after a long day of being screamed at by children.

Sometimes it helps to have before the party, too.

Then, of course, there’s the sex stuff.

You would be surprised to find out how many grown men fantasize about being fisted by a princess.

Very, very surprised.

It’s never vanilla stuff with these sickos. There’s something about the purity of a princess that brings out the most vile requests imaginable. I spend a lot of time at the dry cleaner.

And I have made my dry cleaner weep.

But the sex stuff has pushed me past six figures. I’m making more now than I did in my last job. The opportunities are endless. Bachelor parties are good for moonlighting, but if you’re really enterprising about it, you can find clients anywhere.

Because some dads just really want to sneak away to the basement and fuck the princess over the dryer while everyone is unwrapping gifts upstairs.

Incidentally, this opens up an entire universe of blackmail opportunities.

Sometimes even the moms are game. Which is why there are certain supplies in my pretty princess kit that I find valuable no matter what kind of party I’m at.

Hand sanitizer.

Baby wipes.


Rubber gloves.

A strap-on.

And two magic wands.

One grants wishes. Come to think of it, so does the other one.

Spoiler alert: The other one is a vibrator.

If you think this might be the career path for you, please keep a few things in mind.

Pick a princess in the public domain so you don’t get sued by Disney.

Always park around the corner. Princesses are supposed to arrive in carriages, not a dented green Kia.

Parents will never believe you capable of hitting a child. Use that to your advantage.

Ambien has very low resale value. Only steal that for personal use.

Tea with a little bit of honey and lemon is great after a long day of singing. In fact, it helps soothe any kind of abuse your throat has to endure.

When the parents want to fuck you, make sure they know that costs extra.

And, finally, always remember to smile.

~ fin ~

Rob Hart is the author of New Yorked, nominated for an Anthony Award for Best Novel, and City of Rose. His latest novel, South Village, is available now. His short fiction has been published in places like Thuglit, Needle, Helix, Joyland, and Shotgun Honey. Non-fiction has been published in The Daily Beast, Salon, The Literary Hub, and Electric Literature. Find him online at @robwhart and