am I frustrating? I hope not, but if I am, I beg your pardon.
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I only saw the stains of other men on her floor after exiting the room. During the initial moments, I didn’t know what to do. Would I just drop my pants without saying a word and instruct her as I pleased? Do I converse with the prostitute despite paying for the convenience of avoiding courtship? Seeing how nervous and alarmed I was, she sat in bed comfortably and talked about the nap she just had. We stared at her TV that played a reality show of crowds of women fighting each other called “Baddies.” I told her I was nervous, and she replied, “many guys are during their first time with me.” She wasn’t threatened by me. I wondered if she had a pimp somewhere to protect her if I were to harass her. For her, thankfully, I just wanted to come and go. After a couple of minutes of chatting, I noticed her pull out a vape. It was an ElfBar. The fiend in me couldn’t help but ask for a hit so that I could calm my nerves. It didn’t occur to me that I was about to meet my lips to the mouth of a prossi. Lips that must’ve touched the promiscuous parts of many men. Many men who would wish death upon an escort, and by extension, me. She obliged and handed me her vape, and I took a rather large inhale, then exhaled, feeling the rush move through me. Moments went by, and she offered me head, which I accepted. Down come my sweats, and so does my pride, which she swallowed. Afterward, what stayed with me was not what was between her legs, but the texture of my own mind while inside her. What unsettled me was how little of this felt like desire and how much it felt like procedure. Once the act was done, which realistically only lasted 15 minutes despite paying for an hour, she offered some hits of weed from her bong. We went up to her garage where she had her setup. She sat on her purple couch. The scene reminded me of Cathy Ames, or Kate Trask, from John Steinbeck’s East of Eden. She handed me her bong and I inhaled the vapors yet again, placing my mouth on the glass pipe, thinking of the amount of flesh pipes I’m coming to contact with. After the first hit, she told me about another man who had come to see her. The encounter had begun much like mine, until she noticed bumps around his lips that she thought might be herpes. She said he grew desperate when she refused him, then forceful. She held her ground, afraid of catching something that would threaten both her health and her livelihood. Only then did the paranoia truly hit me. Leaving her house, I had the sense that I had not crossed a line so much as confirmed one. The part I can’t stop returning to is not what she did, but what I needed her to stand for. She was not just someone I paid. She became someone made to carry my shame, disgust, fear, anxiety, sexual contempt, maybe even my need to prove something ugly about myself. I think the real transaction was not money for sex, but shame for temporary relief.
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writing flash fiction is fun https://npcmanifesto.substack.com/p/west-of-b-city
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