Escorts Are Not Hookers

(Throwback Thursday — Originally published May 2013)

(Alex is sitting in front of her mirror, doing her makeup and getting ready for her first call of the day. Gabriel walks in, half-naked, expecting sex.)


Photo credit: CWZ / Found on:

Alex: You just don’t get it, do you? You only want to fuck me now because when I come home you won’t want to touch me. You hate me for what I do, but you don’t try to stop me. You need this. You need me to put my pussy on display (throws both feet up on the dresser, spreading her legs) and cover myself in makeup and tight dresses—you need me to become fake, so you can escape.

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A girl in her early- to mid-twenties with long blonde curly hair sits on her bed with a pill bottle in her hand and a textbook in her lap. Her bedroom is small and cluttered, with a queen sized bed, two dressers, and a TV on an end-table. Clothes and trash and toys and knick-knacks are piled on the floor in between her side of the bed and her dresser. Her dresser is covered with papers and knick-knacks and toys and trash and clothes as well. At the foot of the bed, next to the spotless second dresser, there is about a 3’x1’ area of actual floor, the only place to walk in the whole tiny room.

The clock on the wall above the bed shows it’s after noon, and the girl looks dishelvled, like she has just woken up. The girl pours the contents of her pill bottle—about ten small flat orange traingles; cut pieces of a film strip—out onto her phone. She sorts through them, picks a middle-sized one, sticks it under her tongue, and lights a cigarette. There is a knock on the door.

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