once there was a whore (2)

She did not like flashy gifts. It was always hard cash, which she put away in the bank. She explained that she would not be beautiful forever, and when she settled down, she would need the money. If a client were especially generous, she would allow an afternoon at the spa and salon, or membership at a gym. The client would then be rewarded with a special night with the fresh and revitalized Jane.

Jane was especially fond of an aging congressman who wanted to give her a car and was persuaded to convert it to cash. He had considerably fattened her bank account. Jane indulged herself with a weekend in Boracay and caught herself three ‘big fishes’ in the bargain.

She was bright and funny. I went to see her often, sometimes just to share a drink at the bar, sometimes to bring her back to the pad. Jane always looked ready to have an orgasm when she saw me, but then perhaps she could do that to a dozen other men.

One night, several months after we met, I asked her why she wouldn’t marry. “There must be men who have offered you marriage,” I said.
She looked at me with tired, sad eyes. They were eyes that had known a thousand rejections.
“In the real world, Mike, girls like me get fucked. Then the men leave. I can’t dream of loving men like you.” But I could see that she did want to dream.
“Don’t you love me?” I asked.
“Of course I love you,” she teased. “You pay well.”
“Then why can’t you live with me?”
“Because then I wouldn’t be able to earn, and you won’t pay me anymore.”
“You can afford to do that for a while. Remember your fat bank account?”
She looked at me. “Why would you want me here?”
I said, half jokingly, “So you could cook me dinner and I could be your dessert.”

To my complete surprise, she said, “I would like that.”

once there was a whore (1)

She sat alone at the end of the bar. She was wearing a black dress, cut low in the back and cut high at the hem. Her legs were shapely and smooth in the dim light. A lone gold bangle glittered in her arm when she lifted her drink. She caught my eye and smiled slightly. Her makeup made her eyes huge and mysterious.

That was how I met Jane. I brought her to my pad and paid two thousand pesos for the night. She was, as she called herself, ‘a first-class call girl.’

I saw her again a month or so later. It was a particularly difficult day, and I longed for female companionship. I remembered the bar, and I remembered the girl.

She chose her ‘clients,’ she said. She was careful not to get pregnant, and she had monthly check-ups to make sure she did not get STDs. Most of her clientele came from the professional working class. She preferred bankers, lawyers, and senior college students with flashy cars and money to spend. She attended social gatherings as an escort of not-too-important politicians. She read the newspapers a lot; not tabloids, but major dailies. She said it helped her English vocabulary, for when her clients were foreigners. She was also discreet. She has never told me a single name of her clients, though she regaled me with outrageous stories about the men.