I knocked lightly on the door and wait. I'm good at waiting, I've realized. In my line of work, it's a necessary skill. Waiting for clients, waiting for The Signal, waiting for them to be finished and pay me. It's all about waiting. That, and an extremely controllable gag reflex.
He opened his door halfway, and the first thing I noticed was the cane. Interesting. He didn't look old enough to need one, and yet, there it was in all its polished wooden glory. I almost asked about it, but I figured he got enough of that. No sense pissing off a client. Shondra did that once and she has the scars to prove it.
"I'm Paula," I said smiling. He didn't smile back. In fact, he looked kind of drunk. Well, no surprise there. Most of my employers have to fill themselves with booze before they can gather up enough courage to actually dial my number.
It must be a weird thing, calling a prostitute.
"Hey, Paula," the man answered after a moment. His voice was deep and gravelly. I peered closer at his eyes. They were deep blue…and they were sad. I could tell because my momma had eyes like his right before she left me at the adoption center. Hers were brown, of course, but still. I've been in the business long enough to recognize sad eyes. Each face behind those eyes is grim, and each has a story to tell. My customers always seem to need to justify why they requested my services, probably more for their own consciences then to inform me. 'I'm going through a bad divorce,' they'd say. Or 'I'm just lonely, that's all." I get the occasional 'I got fired yesterday,' but I make those guys pay up front. Usually they look at their feet, sniffle, and nod before reaching for their wallets and usually I have to glance away because they look so depressed. But I need the money just as badly. 9 times out of 10, the door will open and I'll see those sad eyes.
To survive in this world, I have to hope that a miserable man finds my number. I have to pray for sadness.
I hate my job.
The silence between us was stifling. He just stared at me.
"How you doing?" I finally asked. Hey, conversation is conversation. "You work over at the college? Or are you full-time over at the--."
"I'm looking for a distraction. You don't need to talk to do that, do you?" he interrupted. I wanted to reply; I wanted to keep talking because talking takes time. Hiring me usually causes more sadness and more complications. If I keep talking, maybe they'll think about…this and realize sex is never an escape. Prostitution is probably the only job in the world where you wish it truly didn't have to exist anywhere. That girls didn't have to sell their bodies and that people didn't try to use those girls as a type of therapy.
I need the money, but I wish I didn't have to get it this way. It's dirty to me.
But I take it anyway.
I smiled softly and shook my head. The man with the cane opened the door wider and gestured for me to come in. With my eyes to the ground, I entered and sighed when the lock clicked into place.
"The bedroom is this way," he mumbled. I nodded and walked slowly towards it. It looked like I'd be getting paid tonight.
I hate my job.