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3871 words | 0 |2.17

My father had this “Friend,” but then again, he told everyone he was a “Chef.” #Prostitution

He only cooked for us on special occasions, but when you’re little, you don’t understand the difference between that, and managing a kitchen at a diner. I thought that Libby was a spy, because she had this great long coat, and floppy hat, like Carmen Sandiego, only it was dark purple, instead of red.

She also had 2 names, I thought her code-name was Tina, because that’s what some of the men called her in the hallway. She kissed them goodnight, and they’d say “Goodnight, Tina,” but she was Puerto-Rican, and her full name was Libertine.

Then, one Friday, mom had to come by the diner to get the money for the bills, and shopping. She sent me in, and waited in the cab, but Tina was there, drinking a cup of coffee. I’d never seen her in her work clothes, with her coat off, and the hat on the bench across the table from her.

I said “Hi Libby!” and went to talk to her, while daddy finished counting out the payroll for the cooks, and dish washer. Let’s just say that she wasn’t dressed very warm, for a cold rainy night. She had on a mini-skirt, a crop top that showed her tummy, and bra straps. The same high heels she always wore when she went out in her coat, and hat.

To cover up her work clothes, but then daddy came out to give me the cash, and sent me to “Run along.” I said “Bye, Libby.” I looked back from the inside door, that was glass. Before I went out the outer door, I got out my umbrella, but I saw him taking her down the hall to the restrooms, and the back door to the kitchen.

He stopped, and she hugged him, kissing his neck while he got out the keys to let her out back, but she left her coat, and hat in the booth. That’s when I realized that he was cheating on mom, with Tina, but I didn’t get the rest of it, right away.

It wasn’t until later, when we got back to our building, and Tina was hanging out, with a couple of her friends. Other women, dressed like her, with warm clothes over skimpy ones to show off their bodies to men, who pulled up n cars to talk to them. Leaning over the passenger side windows, with their coats hanging open, and their low neck tops. .

Mom rushed me in, and called the cops. I heard her yelling, loud enough in the other room. Complaining about the whores, turning tricks outside our building, and even giving them Libby’s name. Well, she called her “Liberty,” she never bothered to learn her real name, because she hated her, and never talked to her.

She didn’t know that she was there, that one night. When dad got payed, and we had to pick up the money for bills. Because I didn’t tell her that I saw her, rubbing her body up against him, and kissing his neck. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, nor break up the family, because I knew kids who’s parents got a divorce. Because of cheating, and I even heard the mistresses sometimes called “home wreckers.”

I liked Libby, but I didn’t want her wrecking our home, so I had to go visit daddy, or mommy on weekends. Whoever had to move out, while the other one kept the house. Finally, she hung up, but before the police showed up to get a report, they were already done, and either come inside, or gone back home, wherever they lived. Maybe they stayed the night with their Johns, or got rides home with them, I didn’t think to ask.

I had a lot of questions for mom, though. So, that was the night where she told me about prostitutes, and why she hated Libby so much, she barely even looked at her without getting mad, and having a bad mood after that.

I guess as role-models go, the resident call-girl wasn’t a real good one, but they have to live somewhere, and it’s hard enough to make a living without trying to find a building where there aren’t children around. I just wanted her side of the story, so the next time I ran into her, she was checking the mail. Wearing regular clothes, not dressed up for work, but the first thing I asked her about was that one time, she came by the diner.

I followed her up to her floor, we lived higher up, but I kept the conversation PG, until she let me in. Then, when she shut the door, I asked her if she had sex with my dad, for money.

“That night?” She shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t remember.” So, I told her what I saw, from the glass door, when he took her down the hall by the restrooms, and the door to the kitchen.

She blushed, “Yeah, probably. It sounds like, one of the nights he took me in his office.” Of course, sometimes she came up to our place, and did it in their bed. Others, he could go down to her apartment, but other than him, and other men in the building. Or ones that worked there, she didn’t like to do it at home.

“Why not?” I was so curious about what she did, for a living, ever since I thought she was some sort of spy, like Natasha Fatale. Of course, she didn’t have a Pottslyvanian accent, but she laughed, when I told her that. “No,” she leaned down, and lowered her voice. Looking around conspiratorially, and joked. “I’m a spy for the US government.”

“The CIA?” I guessed.

“I can’t say, it’s top secret.”

So, I kept her secrets. The real ones, too. Like her having an affair with daddy, or being an escort.

“Not a hooker.” She said.

“What’s the difference?”

“A call girl goes out, while a hooker walks the streets, and has a pimp.” So, I reminded her of the night that mommy called the cops on her, for hanging out with her friends, in front of the building.

“Well,” she smiled. “Okay, yeah. They’re hookers, and I forgive your mom, for that.”

“You knew it was her all along?”

“i had a pretty good idea, but I fucked up. It was my fault for shitting where I lived.” Okay, she had a potty mouth, but considering what she put in her mouth, for a living, I couldn’t exactly judge her for the words she slipped out, in front of me.

So then, I slowly made the choice, that I wanted to be more like her when I grew up. I guess I was 12, or 13, and she didn’t make it seem glamorous, like Pretty Woman. I remember when that movie came out, and a lot of conservative moms were against it even being made, because it might give girls the wrong idea, and lead them into a life of prostitution. My mom was one of them, but honestly, give us a little credit.

I know that girls are supposed to play dumb, and not make guys feel insulted by us, having working brains, and stuff. Honestly, it’s not like we believe that we’re all Princesses, and there’s enough Prince Charmings to go around. After a certain age, I mean yeah sure, there’s probably some that really are that dumb, but I was never one of them.

They also expect you to believe in Jesus, or that special someone you’ll meet, and fall in love with, to make your life complete… You pick up on the pattern yet? It’s all the same story, whether it’s the diamond in the rough, who’s only 1 makeover away from becoming a beautiful woman that can get any man she wants. Or the damsel in distress, or the paint by numbers romance where the man lies to her to seduce her, she finds out, and then she forgives him so they can live happily ever after…

Libby was the first woman I knew that told me that there was a way out of the housewife trap. I knew my mom, and practically all my friends were also chasing that cute boy like a carrot on a stick. Our while lives planned out for us, how to act. “Smile, you’d look so much more attractive if you weren’t such a sour puss.”

Of course, the downside is women like my mom, who’d call the cops on you, for hanging out on the stoop with your friends from work. Okay, you can get arrested, because it’s against the law, and also there’s men who just want to hurt women. So, they like to target prostitutes, drug addicts, and runaways.

Hanging out with her, at her apartment, I also got to meet other girls, with different stories. Ironically, they made me feel like a princess by comparison, because often enough, they got their start, because they ran away from home. That not only ment living on the streets, but also the kind of home where you’d rather do that. Freeze, and starve, then turn to men for money just to survive, because that was better than staying at home.

In some ways, Libby was more like me. Yeah, she’s Puerto-Rican, and she helped me do a report on Puerto-Rico, so I could tell the whole class that they’re American. Just as American as any one of us, it’s not Mexico, or some other south American country.

Skipping the civics lesson, she described it as “Growing up in Paradise, which ment tourists, and working in resorts. When you work in resorts, there is always the men, who will offer you money for things.”

“Sex.” I nodded.

“I turned them down, for years, but then when I started. I started with the good looking ones, the ones who wanted to take you out to dinner, stayed fit, and had a good tan. Take pictures to show their friends at home, of course they won’t tell them that they payed you to be there, but it isn’t always just sex.”

“They want a date, like an Escort.”

“Yes, exactly. They would offer to take you out for a date, so I learned to laugh. Joke about maybe for a million bucks, and they would joke back. They don’t have that kind of money, so we would work it out in the bar. Maybe over dinner, you laugh at their jokes. Tell them what a good time you had, and go back to their room, so they don’t feel so lonely. The money was so good that I was able to afford a ticket here, to live in Philly.”

“You like it here?”

“In summer, it isn’t too hot, but in winter, it is too cold.” She shrugged, but that’s basically her story.

My story was I grew up in a building with a mother that hated whores, a father that passive aggressively slept with one to secretly get back at her, and followed in my father’s footsteps. I guess I wanted to get back at mom, some girls smoked, or shop-lifted, but I knew that the one thing she would hate, most of all was her daughter becoming a whore.

Also, I liked boys, physically, but I never wanted one. To keep me, marry me, pump me full of kids, and lock me in the kitchen to feed them, while they went out to bang the secretary, if not pay to have affairs with whores. I like men, but I don’t love them, and the money is good.


Crystal (Alias)

Or Christy, even Christina, but not “Tina.” Never Tina, even though I have to give credit, I don’t want to copy her, too much.

I got the rain coat from a boy from the building. He outgrew it, and the Trenchcoat Mafia phase along with it, but instead of being black, or Plum, it was army green. Olive Drab, only faded, but it was pretty much free.

I pretty much invited myself in, when I found out his family wasn’t home. So, we had the whole place to ourselves. I told him it didn’t fit, and “You know what your problem is? All the girls think you’re creepy, skulking around like Stranger Danger, and that hat makes you look like you’re premature balding.”

Years, and years later, they had a name for guys like that. “Well, actually,” I got to him, and gave him much needed fashion advice, before he got old enough to grow a neckbeard, but I also played dumb, and “Uh huh?”ed tuning out his constant lectures on what’s wrong with the world.

He grew a ponytail, and eventually a goatee. Started smoking a pipe, and hanging around art galleries until he soaked up enough culture through osmosis. A hipster, back before it was cool.

Also, my first John, but I started out trading fashion advice for my work coat. You have to keep warm, and I had to sneak out of the house under the watchful eye of my “You’re not leaving this house dressed like that,” parents.

“Like what?” A whore? Well, we didn’t have a fire escape, so barring enough bed sheets to tie together, and reach the ground, 4 stories down, I had to go right past them, to use the front door. So, I had to wait for it to rain, for an excuse to wear the rain coat, and basically play Flasher to drum up business.

“Hey guys!” Flap. They’d come over, to the fence. That was the next trick, giving them a sneak peak, without them chasing me down, and taking it. That’s the main risk, of dressing for success. “She was asking for it, look what she was wearing!”

“If you want to see more, it’ll cost you.” Even before freshman year, I quickly found out who had jobs, from John. My first John, the pre-hipster loser from my building? Yeah, the fixer upper, after I showed him how to dress, I told him that girls like a man with money. He wasn’t a man yet, just an overgrown boy, but he wanted to be a man, so badly.

So, he got a job, and some friends. He still didn’t know how to talk to girls, and listen. That was his problem, he just talked, and “You know what your problem is?” He’s the one I got that line from. Sexy!

The other work clothes were simple. What I didn’t outgrow, so they were tight around the bra, and hips, I sawed off to mini-skirts, crop tops, and deep necklines. Eventually to show off cleavage, but it took a while for me to grow into that. I was 14, skinny, pretty, and I didn’t even have real hips yet, but the nice thing about the coat was it had belt loops. So, I could make a waist, and show a little chest, wearing it like a bathrobe.

Believe it or not, Johnny boy got his girlfriend, all on his own. I didn’t have to set him up, or nothing, but it took a couple years. To learn to keep his mouth shut, and at least act sensitive, instead of like a fucking psychopath. At least he stopped dressing like a psycho, but I learned later that there’s no cure for that shit. They’re born broken, and they don’t want to get better. They like being psychopaths, so the best you can do is teach them to Act better.

Still a psycho. She hated me, of course. I was the “Ex girlfriend,” but I already knew how to handle her, from watching how dad, and Libby handled mom. For years, I don’t even know how many years it had been going on, but more than long enough for me to go through childhood. The hard part was not laughing in her face, when she told him how good he was in bed.

Well yeah, I taught him everything he knew? Every time he wanted to kiss her on their next date, he came to me. So, I could show him how to make his move like a reverse Cyrano de Bergerac. His every move, “Now how do I get her to second base?”

Eventually, he stopped having money for me, because he started spending every paycheck on her, but I don’t give out free advice. So, you figure it out, just don’t look for advice on Men’s forums, because you’ll just get the same bad advice he bought into, before I stopped him, and taught him right.

So, I guess the next thing was my first assault. I got lucky again, it wasn’t too bad, but by then I had Johnny Boy buying me rubbers. He was 18, I wasn’t, so he could buy me birth control. The problem is that some guys don’t like them, and they don’t always take “no” for an answer.

“Oh, come on. I’ll pull out.”

“You want AIDS?”

“No, you don’t have AIDS, do you?”

“No, because I always use a rubber.”

That usually worked, but then he grabbed me by the arm, and twisted it behind me. To turn me around, and bend me over the trunk of his car. I tried to run, but he caught me, and wannabe cop that he was. Girls, if he owns his own hand-cuffs, that’s a red flag. I had to refuse to try bondage with him too, because I knew what kinda guy he was. The kinda guy with money to spend, on a teenage prostitute.

He got one bracelet on, but he couldn’t hold that, grab my other arm, and keep me from screaming, so he hit me. “Shut up, bitch!” Then, he bashed my head on the trunk, so I was too weak to fight him, and he got the other arm behind me. Thank god, some little old lady started yelling, and throwing shit out of her window. She called the cops, and he took off in his car before they showed up, but I barely got a chance to crawl out of the way, before he ran me over.

He tried to, he even hit the steps to somebody’s back door that I was hiding behind, and I can just call it luck that he didn’t hit me. I just curled up, and cried, but then the old lady came down, and asked me if I was all right. She took me in, and gave me a cup of tea. She even made tiny little sandwiches with pimento cheese, and spread them out on a plate for us like a fan.

She knew what i was doing, she noticed how I was dressed, and even saw me negotiating the deal in the alley, but she told me. “I don’t like lose women, and what you’re doing with your life disgusts me, but I can’t just let that man do that to you. Or any man, to any woman. Nobody deserves that.”

She cried, and told me about what had happened to her, when she was younger. She was raped, and nobody did anything about it. Her husband left her, when he found out that she had another man’s baby. I picked up some racial undertones from what she didn’t say, but the colors didn’t match. She couldn’t have it killed, so she gave it up for adoption, but her rape-baby was “It.” She didn’t even give it a name, or say what kind of baby it was.

I feel bad about having the good fortune of being witnessed by a survivor like that, but I made sure to wipe the cuffs off before they showed up. For fingerprints, I told them that I was “Out at a party.” Since I was too young for it to be a bar, “He tried to get me drunk, but I don’t drink.” I lied, but I could have blown an 0.0 if they got the breathylizer out, “And then he offered to take me home, but instead he drove me to the alley, tried to handcuff me, but I screamed until somebody called the cops.”

I lied, he was a regular John, and I knew where he lived. One of the nice thing about having regulars, so you don’t have to pick up strangers off the street. I also knew a psycho, who collected knives, and swords, and would kill for me. At least he said he would, but he didn’t. He just cut him up real bad, but I guess he lost his balls before he finished the job, and I don’t know how to feel about that.

I was out of my mind, to even call Johnny, and tell him where he lived. I didn’t know who else to turn to, but he said “I’ll fucking kill him. I’ll cut his dick off, and shove it down his throat so he chokes to death on it.” I was feeling so hurt, and betrayed right then that it actually sounded like pretty sweet revenge, but I regretted it. I felt guilty, and afraid that he would actually go through with it, but at the same time, I flip-flopped back to knowing that he was out there. He knew me, and he could get to me if he wanted to shut me up.

I never saw him again, I don’t know what happened to him, or even how badly he was cut up, other than he went to the hospital. It could have been worse, but with any luck, it never would have happened at all.

I have to say, though. It’s kinda nice to know someone sketchy enough to do something violent for you, when you need him to, and also able to pass for a decent human being, instead of broadcasting to everyone he knows he’s a psycho.

It also helped that he thought that he was in love with me, so he would never hurt me. He thought he loved his girlfriends, too. Then his fiancee, and then his wives, but he was lying to himself, too. Love is a human emotion, one that he wasn’t capable of. He just didn’t know the difference between that, and sex. Seeing as sex is my business, I didn’t risk my paycheck by trying to explain it to him.

To ask him, that was his power over them. He was like a reverse wife beater, that’s how he controlled them. Instead of pain, and fear, he gave them pleasure, so they would obey him.

Like I said, I taught him everything he knows.


^There’s really no end to stories like this, until they die. This has gone on long enough, but as always, I can go on;

Just have to add that the reason why it’s not very erotic is because it isn’t. Not for the prostitute, it’s a job. That’s pretty much all it is, but part of it is lying to you, and telling you it’s sex.

It’s actually closer to an acting gig. Honestly, she never had sex, with anyone, just went through the motions without any emotions. It was just a means to her ends, a commodity. The only one with any real value in her life.

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