I stood on the corner of the street, smelling of fear and stripper perfume. Sweat mixed with the saccharine scent I had applied to my wrists and neck. My eyelids were smeared with blue glitter and false eyelashes brushed the tops of my cheeks every time I blinked. Calf-high, shining black boots with devilish pink tongues tapped nervously on the asphalt, gradually warming as the day wore on, and above my knees rested a red, pleated tartan skirt. A tight black shirt stretched over my breasts and clung to my stomach with some uncertainty.
The tree-lined suburban road extended for three-quarters of a mile straight ahead of me, peppered with modest homes. I simmered in the mid-morning sun at the top of the hill just a few yards from where I lived. This was where they would pick me up and take me away for a while.
After about fifteen minutes of waiting, my stomach flipped at the sight of a clean, jet-black car approaching. An anxious burn crept into my throat as it stopped. The window on the driver's side rolled down and a liquid baritone voice shot straight into my gut: "Get in." I complied without a word; I sat down in the backseat behind the voice that commanded me.
The man sitting to my right folded his hands in his lap. "You look fucking ridiculous," he commented without looking at me. I didn't dare move my eyes from the back of the driver's seat. "I don't even know how you could look in the mirror without turning red." His voice was noncommittal, but I thought I sensed a smirk.
My thighs clenched and my hands moved awkwardly here and there as I tried to relax. Lying in the bed the night before, I had created a violent scene for that day: a bag pulled over my head, phantom hands groping me, tearing off my clothes and eventually binding me helpless and gasping. Yet there I remained untouched and anticipating beside a middle-aged man in a black business suit and leather gloves. Unconsciously I ran my right hand over the supple leather of the seat.
His hand leapt from his lap to grab my wrist and twist the skin there. I barely contained a wince. "Don't touch it. Neither the driver nor I want your dirty hands all over the interior. For God's sake, try to restrain yourself." My breath caught in my throat; the disgust and condescension in his voice were palpable, dissolving any dignity I might have had. However, after he released me, I found myself yearning for his touch.
"How do you feel?" He asked, producing a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket. A similarly silver lighter followed; hearing its metallic click made me turn my head. The man appeared to be in his early forties, with dark brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His head was turned toward the window, his gaze following a slender trail of smoke leaving his full lips. Rough hands smoothed his black silk tie as he took another long drag.
My eyes fixed themselves on the ember glowing at the end of cigarette. "I don't know, nervous, I guess," I answered quietly, an uncomfortable laugh escaping. Almost imperceptibly, he smiled. Wrinkles gathered at the corners of his eyes.
