He tucks a fifty between my breasts.
I smile more.
I feel sick.
I feel gross.
I feel used.
“Thank you,” I say, standing.
He calls me a cold, frigid bitch.
I want to say I’m not for sale.
I want to say I see the pale mark where his wedding ring was an hour ago.
I say nothing.
Because I don’t want to get fired.
That night, someone walks us to the car.
I stay at Sage’s.
We spread the money on the floor. Cash.
Three hundred twenty-five dollars.
I don’t plan to declare the tips. Fuck it.
Sage has almost five hundred. Men tipped her more. Requested certain moves.
I feel like I’ve stepped into a secret life.
Into her life.
We take off our makeup. Open the futon. Turn on the TV. Curl up together under a blanket.
“I hate that I’m pretty,” she says quietly. “I hate that I have to use my body to make money. I hate them all.”
I smile sadly. I understand.
“I tried being an attorney,” she goes on. “No one took me seriously. They just looked at my legs. My breasts. So I got a boob job. I thought—why not use their weakness against them?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve never gone after a married man. I’d never do that. But sometimes it’s just so hard to afford a life.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s why I came to the city too. I don’t want to be a housewife yet. I want my own dreams.”
She nods. “At least here, we drink for free and make money while we’re out.”
“Temporary,” I say.
“Temporary,” she agrees. “But I feel better knowing you’re here.”
We squeeze hands under the blanket.
We tell each other our secrets.
