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.