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A Whore's Dream 

Turning tricks is no treat

We stepped out of a groovy Boone restaurant and into a winter evening that was surprisingly mild. Usually in the mountains at any time other than the dead of summer you have to brace yourself against the cold's evil plan to rip your face's skin off, so the balminess was welcome. Pausing to take a deep breath of air that wouldn't burn his nostril hairs, my companion declared, "This is a whore's dream."

"What's that? Is that a saying?" I asked him. The way he'd emphasized "whore" over "dream" had somehow given it the ring of a tried-and-true expression, like "a rat's ass."

"No, I just mean it's a good night for whores because it's not freezing."

What a guy, concerned about the working girls! The description he used that evening, "a whore's dream," still chimes musically in my head every once in a while.

Actually I spotted a whore just yesterday, the first I've seen in years that I know of. I was driving down a highway service road and at the sight of a woman walking slowly along it, my brain instantly announced, "She's a whore!"

"How can you be so sure?" I asked myself. It's not exactly like I've lived a whore-heavy life, although I did once reside right next door to two call girls in -- of all places - South Park, but we'll get to that.

My brain's first clue was the fact that the woman in question was sauntering down the highway service road. Something I know about service roads from my years as a traveling saleswoman is that they're always desolate and weedily unattractive. Although they serve a purpose, being scenic isn't it. If circumstances forced the average non-whoring woman to walk along one, she definitely would not saunter.

The second clue was this lady's shirt, which practically flagged me down all by itself. It was 10:30 on a weekday morning, and she's wearing a shiny skimpy top in the bloodiest of reds with teeny-tiny straps, the better to show off the tattoos festooning her back and shoulders. Are tattoos the latest come-hither accessory for ladies of the night, or mid-morning, as the case may be?

A whore is like a drink: somebody is having one somewhere in the world at any given moment, so you might as well go ahead and have one, too. Occasional attempts to get rid of hookers are laughable because these creatures are immune to extermination. If ever there's a nuclear explosion, whores will survive along with the roaches, scrabbling out of demolished civilization's cracks in those incredibly stacked Lucite heels.

My brain's third clue as to the nature of Miss Flaming Flag's true purpose was the deliberate way she turned around to check out who was driving the car as it came closer. Nobody does that but teenaged girls looking hopefully to see if they're getting ogled, and whores. If you're a female at the wheel, you're a bust to both groups.

Me-oh-my, what a face swiveled toward me! Seen from behind, her body wasn't bad and her hair hung in girlish curls, but her mug looked sharp enough to split wood. It had a hard line for a mouth and two dead eyes that narrowed in calculation of what worth I might have for her. The effect was the same as a death's-head rotating around on the neck of a haunted-house ghoul to confront me.

It was those eyes that reminded me of the two gals who lived across the hall from my very first Charlotte pad, a condo in South Park. They didn't have tattoos or scarlet screw-us-now clothes, but they did have eyes deadened as if light had been permanently shut out of them. Apparently having sex with guys you don't know or like really does a number on you, and that's when you're getting paid!

Now it wasn't like they had men knocking on the door in the middle of the night because apparently they were the kind of whore that delivers, and even if they did I might not have thought much of it since I'd had a midnight dog or two come scratchin' on my door, and a couple of boyfriends mistook me for the sex-dispensing equivalent of Wendy's late-night window.

No, my biggest tip-off that something was unusual about their set-up was that they kept no regular schedule whatsoever. Their Mercedes never left its parking slot in the morning like the rest of our cars. You absorb the rhythm of your neighbors without even noticing, but you do notice when there isn't any.

I told another neighbor I suspected they were prostitutes and he exclaimed, "I know they are!," describing how he'd witnessed them working the crowd at a black-tie benefit. At least I could rest assured that it was nothing but high-society hookers for my new home of South Park!

A whore's dream? A mark behind every wheel, or maybe a world with no johns and no need for johns, just roaches, who probably make better company, anyway.

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