Thursday, December 19, 2013

A Junkie Hooker Tale Circa 1992

"I'm in love with love so I scatter it in the breeze, until I fall to my knees, wondering why the trail to reason feels like a disease..." 

My eyes and blue and my skin is a shade of grey. I hold my fingers against the mirror. The reflection is in a window. I see a skeleton with big eyes and a small smile. I brush my hair behind my ear. I put my hair on backwards. My audience awaits. People want to see me perform. the ups and downs of my routine played out in front of an audience of unsuspecting fools. Can they see that I control them all? Can the see that I blend into any setting and command my universe with a wave of my arm? 

I see you wanting to approach me. I am full now. I am so full of drugs my world is on tilt. I am beautiful and I control this corner of the universe. The cars circle the block. Each man is sizing me up to judge my imperfections while he turns on the street. Will this man be the lucky one? Will it be him? They are all so very lucky that I am willing to turn my attention to them. They are honored to be in my presence. The heroin makes me a shimmer star in the Tenderloin morning.

As the hours go by, the sun begins to rise. The sweat begins to form on my forehead. I have been sitting here for a few hours. I am too tired to stand on my little heels. As I get into each car, I take my life and hand it to the mercy of stranger. Finally- I see a decent prospect. The chills are crawling up my spine.

"Hi sweetie- how are you today?" My words are like a sugary nutty bar, like the milk at the bottom of the fruity pebbles. 

I flip my hair back and turn my head to listen to his bullshit. He wants sex and I want money. Occasionally, I meet a nice man. Sometimes, they are good looking AND nice. That is not this guy. The first thing I notice is his wedding ring. He has hairy fingers and a neck beard that goes all the way up. He has on a white polo shirt and grey shorts. All signs point to a quickie in the car. His glasses are slightly fogged. I suppose he has been driving around playing with himself while he selects the girl that will satisfy his needs. The car is clean with no cups or wrappers meaning this is either a rental or he shares the vehicle with his wife.

"How much for around the world?" He gets straight to business. Makes sense. He doesn't want to cut my throat. he wants to cum and go. 

"How much do you got?" I ask smiling and batting my eyes. I am trying to play the innocent young girl trip that just started in the game but he is making it difficult. 

"Are you a cop?" This man reaches out and tries to grab my snatch with one hand and hold the wheel with the other. He is also checking to see if I have a penis. Transsexual girls work this corner. Clearly, this is not his first time.

I smash his hand "Um no. I am not a cop. You have to pay to touch it honey. Sixty bucks and you have to wear a rubber." Most people don't realize that hookers use condoms for blow jobs. Well at least hookers that are not desperate for cash. And I am not desperate...yet. If I have to wait a few more hours or jump in a few more cars and make no money, I am not sure what will happen or at least I do not want to admit reality. I will accept less. I sell myself short many, many times.

 I see my reflection in the window of his car. I see my eyes. I am crying now. I grab a napkin out of my purse. I am not sure why I even carry a purse. The only thing in there is napkins in case i have to pee outside, condoms, lube, and syringes. I keep my money in my bra. It really isn't a purse so much as a junkie hooker survival kit. I wipe the tears from my face. He parked the car now in the parking garage of the Walgreens drug store. We are parked in the corner so no one can see.

He is giving me the "I haven't got all day look" or the "stop fucking crying and give me a blow job look".
He throws $40 on my lap. I guess he wants a little less of me. We are running out of time. All that getting to know each other crap and all has made him late. Now he has a crying hooker in his car and I don't want to get out. He promises me he will be fast. 

I accept what I can get from this man. I sell myself for less. Neither one of us really get what we want. He doesn't get his trip around the world and I don't get my $60- enough to keep me well for an entire day.
I decide to call my connect and pray he will come out for less money. As I cook up a dark shot in my dingy hotel room, I realize I will be beautiful again. As soon as the brown mixes with red, all my troubles for a moment. I am in control and in command of my universe with a shot in my arm.







5 comments:

  1. shit tracey, that's some good writing, the imagery makes me feel as though I experienced it. I'm sorry you had to live that way for so long, and so happy you found your way out.

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  2. My dear, you have a hand that can write. You make a small number of spelling and grammatical errors, although somehow you make those errors work in your favor. I feel as though I am you, a very real version of you while I read. The story you tell is brutally intimate and at the same time astonishingly beautiful. Until you stop posting I will be an avid reader.

    If your words are anything like who you really are, you're an amazingly interesting person. Please keep writing for yourself, and also for people like me who love to read the stories you tell.

    You are beautiful.

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  3. You are an amazing writer.

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    Replies
    1. Thanks for reading. My book will be out soon

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