Where have all the good girls gone?

Here. Here.

Here.

I detest stories that give too much information about the characters you don't care about. The kind of stories that give you names you would remember as well as that unwashed dish in your sink or the color of your socks last Tuesday, irrelevant creatures that take up too much space on the page and no space at all in your mind because you've forgotten them before the sentence was completed. Yes, there have been much wasted space in a good story, but this girl, this woman – this womanchild – is not that.

As Erik and Christine engaged in their heated debate outside of the bedroom, a womanchild waited curiously inside. Her name was Luci. That is not her real name. Her real name has been so diluded by the monikers she's gone by that she wouldn't turn to it if you were to call her by it. She is running her fingers through the smooth waves of her dark hair carefully as she listens intently to the conversation going on outside of the bedroom door. She glimpse down at her cleavage and suppresses a grin at the memory of those hands that were just admiring them. Her nipples itch with embarrassment and excitement. If breasts could blush, hers would.

Had you not known who Christine Daae was, you would be more intrigued about her than Luci ever was. Here is a girl who had no interest in opera, singers, Erik's other loves, or jealousy. She was focused on the present, and as she blushed and fell back into the plush coverlet, the present was Erik…whatever his last name was.

I know what you are thinking. Who is this girl? Where did he find her? Is she a whore? Be patient. I will answer these questions accordingly. Luci was born on a Wednesday night at the strike of twelve. I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. What did I tell you about wasted space? None of that information is important. That the correct way to get introduced to someone is to first ask the question you are most dying to know the answer to. In this case: Is she a whore? Yes. Yes, Luci is a whore. But she is not just any whore (the oxymoron is lost on you). She is the most sought after whore in Paris, and she was nearing thirty.

She was a late bloomer in the business late, you see, wasted her youth away (though she doesn't consider them wasted, but earned) working as a seamstress after her husband left her for a richer woman. She'd spent her twenties picking up the pieces of his debt and being the caretaker of her younger sister. After her sister married, Luci felt as if a muzzle was lifted from her mouth. She could breathe and be free again. She could spend money on herself again. She could eat pastries and watch the little girls chase the pigeons in the park again. But with what money? Luci loved superficial things – and she could never get enough of it. This weeks skirt that she bought would not even be worn before she set her eyes on the next one. And before the next one was made, she would have already decided it was boring and she needed shoes to compliment it. Sewing made her no money, and she was too old to be married to a rich man (Rich Vicomtes, for example, who doted on young dolls like Christine Daae). No man wanted a poor, divorced woman, and the ones who do did want them, (and lets be honest) were old. So, unlike the poor teenagers who are tricked out of their train tickets and coats and forced into prostitution, Luci offered herself to her Madam. A brief interview later (lift up your skirts, let's see your best come hither grin, we waive responsibility of your pregnancy and have the right to exorcise you from the house should you give birth or let a man live here), Luci was eagerly accepted.

Luci never knew she had such a talent for sex. When she was with her husband, she enjoyed it, but that was all. Sometimes she felt it to be a bit of a chore when she was tired and achy and he'd be sweatily pressed against her, but she didn't mind it. But she never went outside of the norms of what was expected of a wife in bed, and her husband never complained. When she arrived at the whorehouse, she didn't know what to expect, so the first night, the Madam instructed her to watch another girl entertain a guest. Of course, the guest had to approve that Luci could stay and watch. That week, Luci learned many things. Silly things. Like her husband had had a crooked dick, for example, which, since his penis was the only one Luci had seen in her entire life, came as quite a shock when she saw a straight one. Other things, like most men aren't that creative, yet the ones that are are usually sick in the head or pedophiles or both, were less shocking. The most popular names requested by men to cry out during sex were "Daddy" and "Master" (not surprising), and balding men have the best stamina. Luci found all this quite titillating. She kept her own notebook of her favorite things to do, and often came up with lewd and fun games to play with her customers while they were naked in bed. In fact, her room was the only one that often burst with hysterical laughter. Genuine, hysterical laughter, for Luci didn't take herself too seriously, and that was her charm. If she cut herself somehow or a knife was pressed too closely against her bosom, she'd shrug it off as if the blood were sweat and she'd give you a kiss on the forehead for it. She wouldn't allow you to apologize profusely because apologies seemed so insincere coming from a man who had to sneak out through the backdoor so his wife could not hear him stirring. Luci rarely took offense to anything, and she found everything humorous, an irritating trait had it been bestowed on anyone else, but laughter, when radiated form Luci, was absolutely infectious. She had an awkward, loud, high-pitched laugh. The sound trickled down her vocal chords and sounded like a string of coo's from the owl shot out of a machine gun. You, and all those around you, would find it most difficult to suppress a grin, if not laugh at the laugh you just heard.

That was how Erik met her. Not at a whorehouse, but in the streets, as she was laughing at a drunk man who'd removed his pants at the sight of Luci and her fellow whore to reveal a semi-erect penis with a large gold ring around it. Luci and her companion were laughing rambunctiously, holding their stomachs with one hand and pointing at the drunkard's ringed peen with the other. Luci's laugh stopped Erik in his tracks and peer out from the shadows. What he was doing in the street and why he was there was not important – you want to know what he thought when he saw her.

He thought what every man thinks when they see two fake "ladies" laughing with their mouths uncovered – whores. But he saw her face too, and she was looking straight at him. She had green eyes and a mean pout. Collarbones jutted out of her bodice and held up a long, almost swanlike neck. Dark hair, gloved hands, ladylike lashes sitting above an unladylike smile. Yes, she smiled at him, and then raising one of her gloved little hands, she waved, as if to say "it's safe. I see you." He was not in the mood (as he almost never is for whores), and declined with a tip of his hat.

However he did remember her, and the utter lack of disgust on her face when she caught him staring. He was curious about the laugh, the hair, the mouth, and the company. He had been lonely without Christine. The funny thing was, Erik felt as if he had been forced to give up his pet when he let her go. He had terrible nightmares about her missing him and being miserable about it. He never once, contrary to popular belief, felt bad for himself. After all, he had been conditioned his whole life to living with rejection and unpleasant "humanness". He knew he would survive if Christine chose Raoul. He felt terrible that the reality of life was that she couldn't live with him and be happy. But again, he was prepared for that too. He had enough money to keep himself happy till his death, but he would never feel that humanness again.

Erik was also quite good at stalking, or perhaps, "discovering where one lived with very little effort" would be the kinder description of his talent. He located this peculiar girl with very little effort, since Paris only had one whorehouse whose girls had the audacity to feign ladyship by wearing gloves. That was at Madam Jacqui's. It was a weekday night, and the party had just begun to spin when Erik sent Jules in with a bag of money and a note for the old woman with the dark red rouge pattered too harshly on her cheeks. From the outside, he could hear her yelling a name, and a bustle of a heavily heeled feet trotting down the stairway with glee.

"Costumer? A où?"

"Outside, 'Uci, he paid in advance, so be sweet on 'im."

"Aw, Maman Jacqui, am I ever not sweet?"

A snort, another bustling sound, and then heals on the porch steps.

"Hello? There's nobody out here!"

The footsteps turned back towards the door, and then as if by some inkling of intuition, she swung her legs over the railing and leapt into the grass. Sure enough, her mysterious caller was waiting for her.

He expected her to be homelier up close, but he was disappointed. Simply taller, less hysterical perhaps due to the lack of peen, and a bit rosier than before. Her eyes studied him innocently and without suspicion (from hard practice no doubt), and then she broke into a smile and extended her hand most generously.

"How do you do, Monsieur?"

He looked at her ungloved, harsh fingers (scars. Seamstress?), and took them gently in his. He did not bring them to his lips, as he found it vile to do so to a hand where he had not seen washed prior to his arrival.

"Would you like to come in?" She gestured towards the lighted porch invitingly. Her fingers unfurled in a bawdy, yet still lovely manner and she nearly giggled. He didn't understand why he found her laughter so amusing.

"No, thank you," He said.

Here is where I should describe the wonder he caused in her when he opened his mouth. But I will save this for later.

"Then – what do you have in mind?"

"A conversation," he said.

Luci frowned internally. She had no love for conversations. Ninety-five percent of the time the "conversations" came form impotent men with sick fantasies who wanted to live out their gag-reels through an exploration of words. She wondered if this man was impotent or ready to confide his life's tragedy in her, but either way, she wasn't in the mood.

Yesterday, he wasn't in the mood, and today, she wasn't.

He could tell by her blank expression that she was not the conversing type of whore, so with a wave of his hand (I, too, shall explain her reaction to his hands later), dismissed the thought entirely.

"Nevermind," he said suddenly. His temper was quick and this made her insides jump with glee. "This was a mistake."

Luci held up her hands in alarm while laughing heartily, "Wait! Don't be offended Mr….Monsieur…"

"G."

"Monsieur G. Let "G" be Good-natured and come back another night. Or I shall look for you, if you tell me where to look. I have too much ale in me to give you the attention you deserve." She winked because she could not control it. Force of habit, but she regretted it immediately. He did not seem like the type of man who enjoyed puns and winks alike.

He was silent for a moment. She could not read his face, as it was well hidden in the shadow of his fedora, but she felt his body soften a moment.

"I'll find you," he said. "If I change my mind."

He turned and walked into the street, and Luci caught a glimpse of his pale alabaster hand peeping out of his cloak. Under the street lamps, he looked almost superhuman; he was tall – extremely, abnormally tall, and he moved like fluid across the pavement. He looked to Luci like a swift, languid panther whose muscles were tensed to strike, whose vast limbs, armed with strength, were cruel, fierce and warning of death. She had all the reason to shudder; yet her palms began to sweat from excitement. The farther away her walked, the more she anticipated for his return. Monsieur G. No doubt an acronym for his real name. Monsieur … Good. Monsieur…Gallop. Monsieur…Gob. Luci wouldn't waste your time making lists, so she walked up the porch and back into the boisterous horde within.