North Beach, San Francisco
I eyed the brunette in the sparkly underwear as she whipped her long hair and draped her tanned legs around the silver pole, sliding one stiletto-heeled foot up and down, up and down.
Her breasts, naked and swinging, were bigger than mine, but she was about the same size and weight. No stretch marks. Hips still slim. Childless. No thin white band on her ring finger. Single. Fake diamond studs. Not doing this for fun or to rebel against daddy. Fuchsia toenail polish. Definitely not from the Bay Area. Perfect white teeth and flawless skin. Not a crankster. No identifying tattoos.
She would do.
I slid three twenties under the strap of her G-string and told her to meet me in the private room at her break.
Waiting in the tiny, mirrored room, I rummaged around in my bag for a roach, but came up empty. Must have smoked it last night. At the bottom of my purse, my fingers brushed some loose shake so I licked them and stuck them back into my bag. I poked around until tiny green flecks stuck to the pads of my fingers, which I licked again. I was plucking a few stray flakes off my lipstick when she walked in, wiping tiny beads of sweat away from her temple with a small white towel.
She leaned back against the door and untied her short silky robe.
“Hey, honey. What’s your name?” she asked, fluffing her hair. My back was to her, but I didn’t take my eyes off her face in the mirror.
“Gia,” I said and smiled. Yes, she would do perfectly.
“I’m Candy.” Sure, you are. She sidled up to me, pressing her bare breast against my arm from behind, trailing her fingers down my arm as we watched ourselves in the floor-length mirror.
“It’s not what you think,” I said, gently pushing her away.
Ten minutes later we had a deal.
I slipped back into the night, ignoring the groups of men huddled on the neon sidewalks outside, smoking and cat calling everyone who looked like they might have a vagina—whether they were born that way or not.