He was my first trick, my first paying customer. And three years later still one of my most reliable. But now instead of in a cramped stall in the Chick-N-Flips’ restroom, we meet up behind the courthouse on Main Street and I fuck him for sixty bucks in the passenger seat of that same old Mustang.
Every ho out there has done what she had to do to make it. No matter my past, present or future, I did what I needed to in order to make the work tolerable. Be it that I tossed back three shots of tequila before I had to work, or smoked a little weed in order to mellow the twist in my stomach, I did what I did to make it through the night. Tricks weren’t my biggest headache, sure I’d get dates who’d get a little rough or out of hand, but my major problem seemed to be the other prostitutes who tried to fuck with my six squares of sidewalk I called my corner. That was right; I claimed eighteen feet of high-trafficked prime real estate. I’m not gonna go into the graphic details about how I inherited my pavement. Let me just say it was gifted to me after one of our own hooked herself a sugar daddy. She wasn’t ever gonna have to sway her ass on a corner or worry about some John getting too rough with her or even how she was going to feed her two kids by two different fucks when the rubber broke. She pounded her way to the cat house. That’s what she wanted, some girls get lured into brothels or picked up by pimps and taken up to be escorts. I’d been approached, threatened, even taken, but I’d always find a way to make it back to my six squares of real estate before some other ho tried to claim it. See, Sybil and I were known as renegades or out-of-pockets, hos without a pimp. I wasn’t ever willing to give my money to some fucking asshole who never really protected me anyway. Let those girls who wanted that life take it. Selling my body wasn’t something I wanted to do forever.
Get enough money to get the fuck out.
I glanced at the clock. Damn, it was two thirty and I had no motivation to get out of bed, maybe because last night was nothing more than a total fucking loss. That drunk-ass guy, then the Shane thing with Crystal; all of it really cut into my profits. I was going to have to work twice as hard tonight, maybe even head out earlier than usual, in hopes that a handful of well-to-do horny dates needed a late afternoon dip or blow.
My mind twisted off in thinking about Shane, the Laundry Man. How polite he had acted last night with Crystal, jumping to her rescue. Visions rumbled through my mind, as I wondered if he’d only treated her that way because she was in trouble. Would he have been so ready to help her if she was just doing her job? There weren’t many men out there like him, they just never existed in our line of work. If men like Shane existed, we would’ve done everything in our power that kept dates like that coming back. But, there wasn’t enough hours in the day where we wasted time hoping for something that would never happen to us. Back to reality, Rose.
I pulled my phone off my nightstand and looked to see if any of my regulars needed something special today. Nope, just a couple random texts about my data usage and a couple of missed calls from Brie. I listened to the messages she left, mostly just updates on how Crystal was doing after last night.
Those of us that have been in the business long enough that we have the same ol’ saying ingrained into our minds, would it be fair of me to call Brie back and recite the same fucking words? “It’s just the nature of the business. Sometimes you will be taken advantage of. Just be grateful he didn’t drag you off and kill you.” Yeah, seemed harsh, almost uncaring, but the more she realized she wasn’t in Nevada, the better off she’d be. We didn’t have the luxury of TV’s bullshit depiction of The Bunny Ranch, or the Cat House. I gave up that twisted dream of some fat bald fuck who kept me safe. It just didn’t happen to girls left on the streets to make their way through the world.
I just needed to shower again, get something to eat before I headed out to make up for the lost money last night. I glanced across the postage-stamp-sized studio apartment I share with Sybil and noticed her bed hadn’t been slept in. Still made, a wrinkle-free, pulled tight made bed, to where you could bounce a quarter off the blanket, she never came home. Actually, she wasn’t in the pub either, when I texted her last night she said she was gonna pull an all-nighter for two hundred and fifty bucks. But no matter, she should’ve been home by now. I shuffled over and noticed a little pink note resting on her pillow.