I need to break away from the chronological. The last three posts have documented those (what seem to be) long gone first 48 hours. Here on out its going to be episodic, even thematic.
The most frequently asked question I get besides "Why? Why do you do this?", has to be "How long are you here for?" This question is often punctuated by my all time favorite assumption "Like a week or two, right?".
I usually pause for a moment, I giggle. "I'm here for the next three months." This statement usually brings a wave of shock that fades in seconds as they throw on their socks, I gather up the screw sheet into a bundle and like a happy hobo hooker and her favorite trick I offer him a drink at the bar, but usually end up waving them off through the door and I resume waiting for the next bell.
The whole process is pure repetition. It mimics an assembly line, filled with fast wit, timed responses and movements that become automatic if you party more than once a day. There's more meaning to the words "get em in, and get em out quick" in the these parts, and yes there's a sex joke in there too.
It's a good day if you can keep up your momentum, turning them in and out. The more you process the more money you make. All of this is punctuated by long periods of waiting, and even days of waiting. The assembly line goes on strike for hours to minutes to days.
These metaphors of course break down the personal, it tears out the romanticism or being a "working girl". Love has nothing to do with my job, of course there is love for what I do, I don't just sit around and agonize about my career choice, the assembly line is an adrenaline rush like nothing else. I thrive on good days, and the longer the strike goes the more I yearn to work. If you don't use it you lose it they say and it applies to hooking.
If you don't work in a couple of days the little voice in the back of your head pipes up and begins to tell you that your wardrobe is terrible, you don't wear enough make up and that a stair master is your only solution. This voice of course is a moment of doubt that you have to push to the back of your head because after all you know you're pretty and that there is no shortage of men in the world who would love to proposition you. Yet, dry spells do occur. Its the time of day, the time of season, and weather inevitably is you worst enemy.
Prostitution is a waiting game. Every woman sitting next you in that parlor is waiting, and what they are waiting for is the big one. The party that means a permanent vacation is in order. It's been known to happen from time to time even in this economy. One man with a bank account that has more zeros than overdraft charges can walk through the door, you never know.
Back in the heyday, about five years ago parties like this were common. The old school hookers did not want for anything, so they stayed in the business because the money was easy. They paid their bills, they bought all the things a girl could desire, and then the pot of gold went empty.
A good day in this era means that maybe you can afford to take a day off. So we work long hours, a twelve to fourteen hour shift, and some even for twenty-four, because in this game you have to play it right and be patient.
So far the winter is all about waiting, I get larger parties, but the days in between your big parties drag on for what seems like a century. So I begin to question the clothes I wear, the way I style my hair, and there's nothing more entertaining to do except to watch the snow fall.
The girls and I wait out each day in the hopes of making another dollar for those bills, those trinkets and whatever else we need to get by.
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