Broken Girl(8)

“Are you kidding me? You’re walking up on me wearing a Giorgio Armani suit worth more than the car I drive and you’re gonna stand here and tell me you can’t come up with another five bucks so I’ll suck your cock? Get the f*ck out of my face, you cheap-ass bastard.”

When you sold yourself for money that was how you had to treat all these cheap-ass motherf*ckers. Pull out your toughest trait, own it and wear it like a glove; let them know you aren’t desperate for their money and always be willing to walk away. If you don’t, they’re gonna whittle away at your profit and the next thing you know you’re sucking them off for free.

“Shit,” he spat as he dug into his wallet fat with cash.

He collected up forty bucks before he twisted it into his fingers, he held it up between us. “You better be worth it.”

“Put away the money and don’t pull it out until I say. What the f*ck, you trying to get me pinched?” I growled staring him down.

He slipped his cash into his front pocket.

“Now, are we doing business in your car or all Adam and Eve style?”

His eyes narrowed, he looked around before he cleared his throat, I knew by his body language he was about to say something that made him look like a total douche.

“Just follow me,” I mumbled as I began to walk up the grassy knoll.

I should have known he didn’t want to use his car. Another perfect example of why I’d rather f*ck a dusty old fart, hopped up on Viagra in the back seat of his rusty Cadillac, than deal with *s like this, where his briefcase was bigger than his cock, and the value of his pinstriped charcoal gray suit was worth four times anything I owned.

In the far corner of Preacher’s Square there was a grove of Eucalyptus trees surrounded by tall juniper bushes. Behind it, a twelve-foot-tall stucco wall that separates the upper-middle class neighborhood from the park, secluded enough to be private but it still gave you a clear view of who was coming over, a perfect place to do our business.

“You don’t have to keep looking around. It makes you look guilty of something. Just walk casual. You ever done this before?” I asked.

“Yeah, in a car, or a hotel room, but not like this.”

“Let me tell you, first, nobody gives a rat’s ass about what you and I are about to do. And two, the busy people will still be busy walking down the sidewalks, dogs will still be taking a shit on the edge of the square and their owners will still be the *s who leave it there to f*ck with my profession and lastly, as I drop down and give you one of the most ball-tightening blow jobs you’ll ever have . . . we’ll have an audience. So when your eyes are rolling into the back of your head and you’re about to blow your wad, remember there’s always a couple street rats that sneak back here and jack off to the show, just make sure you give them one. You ready?” I asked as we slipped behind the sparse juniper bushes.

“I guess so, sure.”

His eyes darted from where we came, a couple of straggling joggers passed by but never noticed us. He worked to get his cock out. A smirk crept across his face and his eyes gleamed sadistically, as if he had just bought my soul from Satan himself.

“Whoa, slow down there, cowboy, I need the dough before I blow. My policy, payment before any service is provided.”

“Of course, forty bucks, right?”

“B.J. only, right?”

He answered with a nod.

“Then yeah, now you can pay me.”

He pushed into his front pocket and pulled out the cash he tried to give me earlier. And like every prick in a business suit, he slipped it between my tits. I have hands, *. To make a big deal out of his classless actions would have been just wasted time, it wasn’t worth the argument. I pulled a rubber from my purse and tossed it at him.

“I don’t do bareback; cap your cock.”

Most of the time I’d put on a show, prop the rubber between my lips and teeth and roll it down as I went to town; but, f*ck it, not this time. He wanted something like that, at least offer me your car or take me to a hotel room, but behind the juniper bushes? His dick wasn’t getting special treatment. He ripped open the package, pulled out the rubber and started to roll it on, I could smell that motherf*cker the minute it hit the air . . . cough syrup, cherry flavor, just my luck.





“MY FUCKING FEET are killing me!” Sybil moaned as she plopped down on the couch. It was four thirty in the morning and all I wanted to do was shower, wash off the residue of the night and go to bed.

“Imagine being on your feet since three thirty in the afternoon. Talk about f*cked up, I hate afternoons.”

I sat next to Sybil, kicked off my heels and started to rub my toes.

“I don’t know why you keep on going to Preacher’s Square,” she pushed.

“Because I just love being picked up on by snot-nosed pimply middle schoolboys, that’s why.”

Sybil knew Preacher’s Square was the best place to catch up when funds were falling short for the month. It was a necessary evil in our profession, but we had to go where the money talked and the bullshit walked and trust me, everything about selling sex is ripe with bullshit.

“Was the take at the Square any good?”

“Five hundred thirty-five bones. Listen, I am beat. I’m gonna take a shower and hit the sack. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”