A cup of coffee and a smoke

I wake up

I piss

I shower

I drink a cup of coffee and light a smoke at the sink. I brush my teeth for at least twenty minutes to get the taste of semen out of my mouth from the night before. Still I never feel clean enough.

At eleven each day I walk down the street to the Slide In. I buy five Four Lokos, a fifth of gin and three packs of ribbed condoms. That’s usually enough to get me through the days work without jumping out a window. It keeps me sane and gives me the illusion of being clean.

Ribbed for her pleasure is a lie you know.

A big fat fucking lie.

I go back to my room. The grime on the windows covered in condensation once the air conditioner kicks on.

Day after day in this hotel and it’s the same thing. The same curtains, the same bed linens and the same four wallpapered walls. There isn’t shit on TV and the porn channels are scrambled. I’m certainly getting my thirty eight dollars per night worth and my clients are getting their fifty dollars worth, netting me just under twenty dollars per trick.

Starting round six each night, one after another they come to the door, peeking around first when I open it and asking to see my tits or my pussy. Thinking somehow that will make them immune to consequences. If only they knew it wasn’t the police they had to worry about as they walked into the room.

I don’t fake interest because it’s business.

There is no small talk. I don’t want to know anything about them. The married ones though, they always talk. They don’t want anyone to think they’re perverts or bad guys. They need a therapist, not a hooker. They seem virginal almost, as though nobody had ever fucked them without a full orchestrated exchange of fumbling and foreplay. No wonder their wives don’t want to suffer through the ten minutes of grunting that they will never recoup in their lives. Boring wrist slitting exchanges of lights off and t-shirts on. There are no morning shower blow jobs for them. Sometimes they look at me though I’m the devil incarnate when I tell them they just need to fuck me and get out.

Fairytales are not part of the agreed service

I’m sure as hell not a fucking therapist

The married ones I always rob because they’ll be too scared to file a police report. The scumbags I just close my eyes with as they finish. There are big cocks, and small cocks. Crooked ones and straight ones. Some that don’t match their owners and those where I have to stop myself from vomiting on. Big strong men with itty bitty things hanging between their legs. Even a mildly retarded man who speaks with a lisp. A Marine who cut his dick off and had it reattached. It looks like a spoiling shriveled mushroom with scars from the stiches. He always likes to leave with a pair of my panties.

That’s $10 extra. They’re from the .88 cent bin at Walmart so its ok.

There are black guys that just like my round ass. Old men, that pay extra for me to wear white cotton panties. Men with big balls and little balls. Some that smell awful. Some with big round bellies where it’s clear that they haven’t seen their cock in years. So rotund in fact that the sweat causes it to stick to their thighs.

Worse yet are the sounds they make when I’m working. It’s nauseating. Even worse is when they try to talk sweetly. It elicits rage. Pure rage.

The ceiling continued to undulate as I lay here looking up and going over this fantasy in my head of what kind of hooker I’d be. Only to be disturbed by a knock at the door when my Uber Eats came.

Chow Mein

Kung Pao Chicken


Diet Coke

Digging into each box as I flipped channels I decided to stop when I saw that Julia Roberts was giving Richard Gere the girlfriend experience wearing that shitty blonde Halloween wig. I’ve been on the road three days now and it’s only a matter of time before he’s not appeared for work and people come looking for me.  Only a matter of days before the stench of Larry drew curiosity to the cab of his truck.

Then there was Roberto . Nobody would miss him but they’d know he had been with a strange woman. Me. I’m the strange woman.

I’m the monster under the bed now


There is no turning back. Yet as I sit here cross legged on the bed I couldn’t help be unnerved by the task in front of me. Seeing the opus through to the final act. Reveling in the fadeout with the dimming of the stage lights as I exit stage left.

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