The Prostitute in Need of Credit Counseling

One, of course, would be surprised to discover that there is such a thing as a poverty-stricken prostitute. Perhaps because of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, there remains–to the average outsider–a certain glamor to the profession. The lazy female who thinks that she might as well get paid for her non-enjoyment during sex as opposed to enduring it for free. Gwenyth used to think that way, too. In the days when she was still just a stripper, which, as we all know, is a gateway profession. And she might have kept at it had the boss not been so fond of stealing everyone’s tips–though hers above everyone else’s (she didn’t have enough seniority, he claimed, but six months in that dump felt like eternity). So when a regular patron of The Dimepiece by the name of Vinnie started to chat her up in one of the private rooms about an opportunity she might be interested in with his employer, she was all ears. She had hoped it would be something slightly more promising than hooking, but in the end, what alternative kind of connection did she really expect Vinnie to have other than to a pimp?

She didn’t bother putting her notice in at The Dimepiece. After her meeting and subsequent “agreement”–a verbal contract, if you will–with Pasquale, she never looked back on her stripping days. What was the point? It’s not like she ever got to choose the song–so there were no real joys, no sense of autonomy to the profession. At least whoredom had a bit of the latter quality. She didn’t have to bang anyone she didn’t want to. For the most part. Which brings us somewhat back to where we started in terms of when you have the freedom to make your own hours, you’re perhaps less motivated to enforce them–ergo a bank account that is resultantly not exactly “flush.” Even when you’ve got a pimp breathing down your neck to fuck other people when he’s not fucking you for free (save for the “compensation” of alcohol and maybe a pasta dinner now and again). One imagines that’s how Gwenyth started relying on her credit cards more frequently, procured from an era in her life when she was still on the grid. Still “a respectable member of society.” As far as she could tell, anyone who didn’t almost immediately cancel that membership was nothing more than a sucker, a simp and a blowhard (she’d blown a lot of those in her time).

Despite her determination not to partake of societal expectations–punch the clock, get a house, have kids, etc.–she couldn’t ignore that her cavalier approach was catching up to her. What’s worse, so was her age. And age is extremely relevant to one’s success in this particular field. To give herself something of a competitive edge as she entered her mid-thirties, Gwenyth started offering to pay for a “nice hotel” for her and her client to fuck in if he would increase his hourly rate by ten percent. To her, it seemed like an innovative and signature personal touch. To them, it came across as desperate, and as though she might be on crack cocaine. While, sure, she was from time to time, that wasn’t the real problem with her strategy. The real problem was that she still thought like a woman, not instantly understanding that the last thing a guy wants when he’s escaping from his own boring and steady girlfriend or wife’s pussy is “ambience.” No, he wants the antithesis of that–fucking her raw amid syringes and shit. No matter to Gwenyth, she still offered to pay for the “nice hotel” rooms, the ones near Hollywood Boulevard that favored nightly rates as opposed to hourly ones. This, to be sure, definitely aided and abetted with her rapid climb (or decline) toward maxing out every card.

****

“I’m just a little unclear on how your finances have gotten so out of control. Don’t you make a fairly decent living…doing what…you do…?” Trevor asked with trepidation in his voice, clearing his throat and adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses. Yes, horn-rimmed. Or “horny-rimmed,” as Gwenyth sniped.

That was before she chortled at his cautiousness in asking her why her “job” didn’t afford her with a better financial situation. “If it was so decent, every girl would do it, now wouldn’t they?” she barked, smacking her lips as she rolled her bubblegum around in her overly made up mouth, the lip liner too dark and intense for the filled in light pink color. It didn’t work for Kim Mathers, and it wasn’t working for her.

“You know what I’m getting at.”

“I don’t think I do,” Gwenyth spat, scratching absent-mindedly at one of the purple sequins falling off her halter dress.

“Well, I understand that you must have been very desperate to have come in here like this, and dressed the way you are, but, you see, I can’t really offer you any solutions if you have no actual proof of income.”

“Proof? You want proof.” Gwenyth hawked up her gum, well-overchewed by this point, spread her legs and revealed cigar burns along her thighs and leading up to her bare clitoral area. “Is this proof enough for you? Can you take photos and send them to the government or the creditors or whoever and let them know that I suffer for my work. I’m not just ‘lying around’ idly. I fucking work, and I’m still broke.”

Trevor gulped, his mouth unwittingly agape as he stared at the Sharon Stone-inspired shot. “I…”

Gwenyth rolled her eyes. “You know what? Fuck this. I fucking lowered my standards, laid my cards on the table, my credit cards–and for what? So you could reject me? I don’t think so. I’m getting the fuck out of here.” And as she rose from her seat, her silver sequin boots glistening as they caught the fluorescent light from the crumbling ceiling, she winked and said, “Wanna fuck me though? I could use the money. And I know you got some.”

The thing was, Trevor did want to fuck Gwenyth. It had been a longstanding fantasy of his to have sex with a whore. One that had plagued him as much as the thought of what his Catholic parents would think of such a thing. His mother more than his father. Like all males, it came down to a weird possession dynamic–as though the mother might get jealous if she knew too many details about her son’s sex life–even when he was well into his early forties. This was yet another reason Gwenyth had gotten her tubes tied even before going into “the industry.” She didn’t tell anyone that she did it, because she knew that those few who were close to her would try to talk her out of it. And she could not be talked out of anything once she had made up her mind. Fuck ’em all. That’s how she saw it. The more someone tried to convince her of something, of a certain course of action, the more she would go against it, exhibiting almost sociopathic behaviors to do so.

Debt forgiveness was something in Trevor’s power. Fulfilling a fantasy was something in Gwenyth’s. She even finally found someone appreciative of her offer to pay for the hotel room–it made Trevor feel slightly less icky–like his mom wouldn’t be upset as long as he had paid for it in a clean lodging situation. The mutually beneficial situation was the very definition of prostitution at its finest, when a quid pro quo outcome could be had. It was what made America function. Let’s not say, it’s what made it great. So Trevor drove them to the Capri Sun (seriously) Motel in Marina Del Rey (for an even stronger touch of sophistication to the little exchange of needs and wants). She fucked his brains out, he worked his magic with the creditors–didn’t get rid of all the debt at once, per se, but worked out a very reasonable payment plan. So who’s to say happy endings aren’t real? Even in Los Angeles.

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