Broken Girl(7)

I hated to do business in the late afternoon. The only dates who showed up on the stroll were cheap ass motherf*ckers looking for an early bird special. I end up wasting half of my afternoon getting these stingy bastards to cough up three-quarters of my going rate . . . no discounts, no exceptions. I should actually charge them double because the risk of being pinched was so much higher.

I had my time and price per service mathematically down and memorized. So when the cheap bastards came out for an afternoon delight I could work the numbers to my advantage. Dip and lips ran the gamut, from the young stud construction guy needing to get his rocks off on his lunch break, to the senior citizen that wanted to pop before he hit the early bird dinner special and went to bed. Both were always hot for * and for the most part I could talk them in circles before they unzipped and end up more than happy to pay my evening rate.

It was the uptight-businessman who wanted something for almost nothing. Broken by the wits of these middle-aged pricks, it was rare that I could get them to unzip for my evening rate. Big f*cking briefcases with small cocks and if I had a dollar for every time they told me they’d never done this before, I’d be rolling up in a Benz dipped in gold. They were the stingiest f*cks around and yet pulled up to the curb in eighty thousand dollar Porsches, walked around saturated in Armani and Christian Dior, with Rolex watches strapped to their wrists and twenty-four karat gold rings wedged on their short pudgy fingers. The only positive, they would be so wound up, they’d blow their wads after a couple of dips. Sixty bucks for a three-minute f*ck wasn’t so bad.

I hopped out of the shower and collected what I was gonna wear for the entire time. I slipped into my black stretchy tennis miniskirt. The same skirt that if I bent over everyone would get a peek at my merchandise. I pulled on a tight shimmery pink halter top that made my tits look unbelievable and rummaged through the pile of heels next to my bed and found the most comfortable pair of stilettos I could wear without having to take them off every half hour.

I blew out my hair, helping the natural wave curve around my face before I dragged the sparkling peach lip gloss across the swell of my mouth and the earthy green shadow across my eyelids. I used to think there’d be a time, where the life that sparked behind my eyes would return. Come to find it was wishful thinking, dreams of a little girl who thought the world cared. It was a mistake I’d never let happen again.

I grabbed a variety of rubbers from the lead crystal bowl on my dresser. Two strips of ribbed, three or four Magnums and a handful of assorted flavors; I hated the cherry ones, but if it was the difference between choking down a Robitussin flavored cock for a quick three minutes or losing forty bucks, I’d live with the taste of cherry cough syrup. I tossed a half-smoked joint and a handful of airplane mini bottles of tequila in my purse before I snatched my keys from the bookcase, straightened the seams of my miniskirt, as I double-checked my bulging cleavage in the full length mirror behind the front door. There, now it was time to make some money. I strolled past the threshold and didn’t look back. No use in turning around when I wouldn’t be meandering back this way before four AM, I never looked back anyway.

I pulled into the parking lot of an office building a half block down from Preacher’s Square, an oxymoron at its best. I had always parked my ‘92 Le Baron far enough away so nobody would see me drive up. It was a car older than dirt and smelled just as bad when I had ran the heater. Two years older than me, it’d been around the block as much as a middle-aged hooker.

Preacher’s Square was designed to give hardworking people a patch of grass to eat lunch and bring the kids to play, instead it had become nothing more than a cesspool for runaway teens who wanted to get high and hos who needed a place to do their business.

I downed two of the mini tequila bottles and took a couple hits off the joint I had before I readied myself for the hunt. It didn’t take but two minutes before I got a hit, a businessman looking for an afternoon blow job. He leaned in close enough to be heard but still far enough away so he didn’t get caught. Day jobs were more difficult and easier to get arrested. All it took was one cop who wouldn’t trade for a tuck-and-pull from any of the girls in the park and we’d all go down. Fortunately, one of the new girls showed up or the cops were having a shift change because there wasn’t one in sight.

“Hey, sweetheart, what’s it cost for you to . . . you know?” he said as he pointed to the stiffy in his pants.

“That depends on what you want. Lips are forty, a dip is sixty and if you need both, seventy-five.” I sounded like a broken record.

“Well, that little piece of ass over there told me she’d give me both for forty-five.” He tossed me a thoughtless smile as he pointed over to a girl who was rockin’ her shit back and forth, his eyes were as big as drink coasters.

“You know what, if that ho is willing to bargain basement her coochie for forty-five bucks, I suggest you run your cheap-ass over there and tap it, because I guarantee her prices are all ready going up as we speak.” I stood there waiting for him to respond. He couldn’t, we both knew he was lying, because I knew Patsy and she wasn’t willing to give up her snatch for anything under fifty bucks. Maybe if she was feeling generous she’d blow you for thirty-five bones but nothing less. “Pay or get the f*ck out of my face,” I spat at him.

“I only have thirty-five dollars. Come on help me out,” he whined as he dug pudgy fingers into his suit pants.