(This blog is named after an acquaintance of mine, Carlos, who is the first Mexican I've ever met with bright blue eyes. Each post is a standalone work of micro-fiction.)
(The text contained herein is, in its entirety, fiction. Any resemblance to people, places, things or ideas in real life are entirely coincidental.)
They have all sorts of names for people like me: slut, whore, hussy, hooker.
I call myself a Woman of Questionable Virtue.
There are thousands of us, both male and female, who sell our bodies. Our reasons are our own. Some work for pimps, others are freelance. Some can quit whenever, others are dependent on the cash. All of us need it.
I remember when I started working the streets. I remember why, too.
I was twenty-three and had just broken up with a long-time flame. I was disgruntled and hopelessly horny, sitting on a bench outside of my ex-boyfriend's apartment in an old minidress, trying to decide whether I was going back up to his loft or going home. A car pulled up. The window rolled down. The driver called out to me. "hey baby, home much for a good time?" I didn't care about the money. I just wanted the sex. When we were done, he dropped me back where he'd found me.
The next day, I dressed up and sat outside of my bank. I had three "clients" that day and made roughly three hundred dollars.
I sell my body because I'm addicted to the sex. The money is just a perk.
Hey, it's cheaper than therapy, right?