I knew a friend who worked as a prostitute. She appeared often and may’ve lived in a nearby apartment, or perhaps as a roommate. She was always around when I got in from work. She had short black hair that always as if she’d just fucked someone. Messy. Her indifferent eyes were sunk into the mascara and kohl-rimmed shadows and were her most attractive feature.
There was another girl there with whom I was amiable. She was definitely a roommate.
For several days I would get home and become immediately aroused for no reason other than I am capable of it. The first girl would emerge from a room somewhere and stroll by casually, cigarette in between chapped lips, and we would talk for several minutes. I immediately knew that I trusted her enough to talk to her honestly, openly, though I do not know what we discussed. Sometimes, the definite roommate of mine, a redhead, would emerge and sit on the couch to read a book, at which point the first girl would say goodbye and finish her smoke in the hall.
This kept on for many days until one day when I was sitting on the balcony. I had a brown liquor in hand and watched the sunset while nursing a raging erection. I stood and entered the apartment to look for the dark-haired girl, who surely enough appeared from somewhere unseen with a cigarette in hand and disheveled hair. She strode to the kitchen counter and waited for the microwave to ding. I produced a hundred dollar bill from my pocket and approached her. I asked, “What’ll this buy me?” feeling no moral qualm, nor sense of being cheap and tactless. She hesitated for a moment but instantly understood my meaning. She took the hundred and said, “Anything you want. Fuck me any way you want.” Her face was done up in a coy smirk. She took the hundred and went to wait for me in the giant bed that sat just a few feet away in the living room. The redhead roommate appeared to sit on the couch and although I was chomping at the bit to get started, I could not do so with her sitting idly by reading a book. I approached her and and explained: “Listen, can you see her over there? I am about to make her sing my name out. You can hang out, or…” She expressed what can only be called a disgusted whatever and gathered her book. I saw a flash of her parting her legs to reveal a golden bush, but it was only a dream within. “Actually,” I said, “that would be amazing. Why don’t you join us?” And then she was gone.
I returned to my other friend (who was impatiently waiting in bed) and proceeded to hold her wrists while I fucked her from behind, feeling that there was no other human state in which I’d rather be, all animal and fluids, making her sing my name out to a pitch black void.
At the end, a friend whose opinion mattered to me appeared at the station where I waited for my train each morning. She told me she’d been waiting for me in the innocent way of not knowing something deeply personal, smiled wide, and waved at the other two girls I’d just been with. The dark-haired prostitute and the redheaded roommate sat on opposite benches and appeared as they had in the apartment—engaged in cigarette and book, respectively. The train station friend asked me what I’d been up to. She was also someone I trusted. I felt no different than before I’d been with the dark-haired friend, and in fact was glad to have relieved what felt like an ages-long hunger that needed to be sated. But, for some damn reason, I did not want her to know what I’d done. I felt it was something I’d never be able to tell her until we were perhaps dead, floating spirits in the ether, free of the confines that made us imperfect and finally equal in all respects.