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are interested, too. Can you
and I work out a quantity?
Just like that, I move from low
to midlevel dealer. Good thing
Brad’s connect is bottomless.
Can you come out to the ranch?
I’ll tell them you’re my sister.
Oh, you have to ask for Aphrodite.
If You’ve Never
Been to a fancy whorehouse
(and believe me, I never have
before!), you might be surprised.
I’m nervous, thinking the Pink
Pussycat will be scary—dark, sweaty,
with lots of peepholes, maybe. But a
better word to describe the place
is gaudy, with plush pink carpeting
and silver and gold brocade covering
the walls. If there are peepholes, they’re
hidden behind paintings of busty
naked women, like in an Old West
saloon. Only pinker. Pink. How
appropriate. It’s early for truckers.
Only a few haunt the “parlor,” perusing
a menu of services and a couple of girls.
Neither men nor girls are what you’d call
attractive. This is no place for romance.
Hey, sis. Long time no see. Robyn escorts
me to her room, much like she did several
times in the past, only this time she’s dressed
