The Prostitute

She hooks her bra, pulls up her black sheath dress from her hip, and rests the straps on her shoulders. She sinks her fingers into her shoulder length hair, shaking her hair trying to tidy it from the mess. She grabs her black lacy panties that was on the bed and puts it in her purse, and turns her body as she grab it by the straps. She kisses goodbye to this man who she never met until 1 hour earlier, and smiles as she exits the hotel room.

She checks for any shortchange while walking to the lobby. It was a deal of $100, and she got nothing more, yet also nothing less. Despite having slight disappointment in not being given the tips she hoped, she is satisfied with the deal. She presses the button to the lift and steps in.

Looking into the mirror on the walls of the lift, she checks on her make-up, making sure that she’s good to go for her next appointment. She slides the screen of her phone to unlock it, and does a quick read of the message she received yesterday to know where her next destination would be.

She gets in the taxi that she hailed seconds ago, and she sits quietly waiting for the taxi to reach the next hotel. Wearing only the dress that ends at her thighs with no panties underneath, she closes her thighs to protect her modesty.

The hotel lobby is an impressive set up grand enough to make anyone feel important. She steps out of the taxi with the help of the doorman, and she walks away not feeling a need to tip the poor guy on duty. She checks her phone for the room number, and walks to the lift with confidence on her face.

She walks into the lift with the door already opened as if it has been waiting for her. She presses the button, and stands alone waiting for the lift to reach the highest level she is going. She feels a faint vibration coming from her purse. She pulls out her phone to check on the notification. One message received.

“Mommy, the payment for the overseas excursion is due tomorrow. Please don’t forget to pass me $400 bucks tonight when you get home from work. I love you.”

With some time before the lift reaches the level she’s going to, she replies the message. “I love you” were the only words she could use. She sends out the message, and before she puts the phone back into her purse, she glances at the background photo of her phone.

A photo of the man she loves who she will never get to see again.

41c1d-originalAndy Lawson is the average man on the street that you’ll not even trouble yourself looking at him if he passes by you. He’s sensitive to bullshit, and he hates mediocrity in most people. He is the author of his self-published book: Facts and Fiction of Fengshui: Facts that Masters are NOT Telling You. He doesn’t have Facebook or Twitter, because he hates to be associated with people who tend to be passive-aggressive online, but he does have a very limited set of vocabularies, terrible grammar, a twisted mind that makes himself God in his own twisted world and an ability to communicate with people who wish to be his friend.



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