She pulls up in an old Datsun truck. The hotel rises before her an oasis of money in a land of poverty. She checks her makeup in a fogged up mirror. Foundation matte, eye brows arched sharply, lip liner, lipstick, and lip gloss. She stared at the faces of porn models for hours to learn all their little tricks. She wonders if she is too obvious. This is 100 dollars. This is one hour of her life. She figures it is a fair exchange. Her shirt, is tight, and low. Her breasts raise themselves angry mountains, they have been dusted in glitter. She steps carefully from the truck, balancing on her heels. Pulling her coat closer to her, she buttons it all the way down. Underneath it�s fiber she may be a whore but from a distance she could be a lady. She squares her shoulders, and walks to the front door.

The driver follows her in. He hangs back a bit, and she wishes that he would just stay in the fucking car. It would be nice to have a ciggy at this point. Her fingers fidget in her pockets, she can feel the lighter she put there. The doorman smiles. She smiles back and walks to the elevator. This is not my life she thinks.

He was on the sixth floor. She knocks on the door. Was it too hard? Did it sound like a cop? He is taking a long time to come to the door. The door opens. She doesn�t even startle, she just smiles, and says, �My god, you are beautiful.�

It was a room like any other hotel room. Two beds, those blankets with the flower prints that are a republicans artistic take on natures bounty, the stale smell of life inside walls, little soaps, scratchy hand towels. She thinks this is the loneliest place on earth, as she runs her hands down his thigh highs and slaps him on the ass softly.

He couldn�t make it past the hand job. She scratched her nails down his back softly, cooing in his ear, how turned on she was by him, how very sexy a man could be in women�s clothes, and how women didn�t deserve to have all the prettiness for themselves. She even played with herself while she slid her hand up and down his shaft. He looked at her with eyes glazed. When he came he cried. He pulled himself close to her, and the tears made her back wet. She faced away from him. She looked at her hand with a grimace. It was covered in his yellow gunk. Afraid to wipe it on the bed, she shushed him and excused herself to the bathroom. She scrubbed her hands as hard as she knew how. Thinking of the scene in Pretty Woman where Julia Roberts gets caught with the floss, she keeps expecting him to show up in the door and to see if she is doing drugs or stealing.

At the bed she speaks with him. He is married, of course. His wife has never known how he likes to dress. He is scared that she would leave. He has never had anyone call him beautiful before. He wants to take her to dinner. She declines, hugs him and leaves.

Coming of the elevator the doorman smiles. She smiles back. The driver is following her. She wishes he would just stay in the fucking truck. Her fingers fidget in her pockets. Five twenties rest next to her lighter. She walks carefully to the truck balanced on her heels. She sits down and lights a ciggy. The mix of her breathe and her exhaled smoke fog up the mirror. She checks her makeup, matt foundation, sharply arched eyebrows, lip liner, lipstick, and lip gloss.

She was wrong. It wasn�t an hour of her life. It wasn�t a hundred dollars. It was misery for misery. It wasn�t a fair exchange.

By Neve Hathor

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http://adipose.diaryland.com

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