Disclaimer: All individuals in this story are eighteen or older. This is intended as a work of fiction. The author does not condone sexual acts with non-consenting participants. Please enjoy. Constructive feedback is appreciated.
*****
I'd like to set the record straight. This is not an admission of guilt. I've changed the names of everyone involved for two reasons. One, to protect their privacy, as well as my own. Two, because some of these people are still in my life in some capacity, professional or otherwise, and I'd prefer that none of us end up in jail. Especially me.
Ok, I think I'm getting ahead of myself here. I should probably start at the beginning. Or at least, where it became interesting.
It all started during my favorite class, in the fall semester of my senior year of college. Econ 405, The Economics of Crime, taught by Dr. Steven Keller. During the first several weeks, we learned the economic and social dynamics that governed drug dealers, how they played on the dreams and ambitions of the desperate, generating massive profits with a work force making less than minimum wage. Like so many things I'd come to take for granted in my twenty-one years of life, even something as unsavory as a street dealer had a layers of complexity that were intriguing.
If I sound like a massive nerd, you're probably got the right idea. Economics in general, and unusual or exotic markets rank pretty high on my list of interests, right after sex. I know, I'm supposed to say God, or my family, or my boyfriend, something like that. Well, God isn't real, I don't have, or particularly want a boyfriend, and my family... I love them, but let's just say that sex is a lot more fun and a lot less complicated.
Seriously, how great is sex? It is by far, without a doubt, the absolutely best freakin' thing in the whole goddamn world. Whether it's with a guy who gently kisses and caresses me all over, or a girl who can finger my pussy like a Stradivarius, or a man who just bends you over and fucks me like his life depends on it, sex is definitely number one on my list of favorite things.
Which brings me to the chapter of Dr. Keller's class: prostitution. I was intrigued from the get-go. A subject that combines my intellectual interests with my more sensual pursuits. What's not to love? He explained how sex, like anything else that anyone has ever traded for anything, is a commodity, subject to the same basic economic principles as any other commodity, including the law of supply and demand. He went on to explain the class stratification within the sex industry, what separated the drug addled street walker from the high end call girl. I was eager ask more questions after class, but an email summoning me to the bursar's office kept me from sticking around.
I wasn't exactly looking forward to this conversation. Rumor had it that the college had suffered some financial setbacks. Apparently the new governor wasn't a big fan of higher education, or as he so eloquently put it, "socialist indoctrination camps." Bottom line, a lot of funding was getting cut. The look on the counselor's face said it all. My ears were ringing as words phrases like, "grants suspended," and, "scholarships withdrawn," were bandied about.
You know how I mentioned my relationship with my family being complicated? Well, let's just say my dad voted for the new governor. Mom is a stay-at-home mom who thought that women who tried to do anything different were all, "man-hating lesbians feminazis." Basically, we love each other, but we don't really like each other. Especially since my parents made it abundantly clear that they did not agree with me going off to college and had no intention of supporting me, financially or otherwise.
I was on the verge of a full-on panic attack by the time I staggered out of the office. I had till the end of the semester to come up with enough money to pay for my classes. That's three hundred dollars per credit hour, times fifteen, plus food, housing, fees, etc. Thousands of dollars, per semester. I was on the verge of tears when the notion of moving back home wormed its way into my head.
I thought about all the things that I would miss. My school, my friends, even my shitty little apartment. But above all else, my freedom. Dear old Dad certainly wouldn't tolerate me, "whoring around," under his room. No freedom, no future, other than becoming the brood mare of some high school football hero, spending the rest of my life in the same trailer park town where I spent the first eighteen years of my life.
-
As the sun started to set, I decided to quit feeling sorry for myself. You only live once, or as people with an IQ over 105 would say, Carpe Diem. I wandered out of said shitty apartment, where the sound of loud music and a boisterous crowd echoed in the distance.
I followed the sound a few blocks until I came upon a party, and a pretty kick ass one at that. I regretted not wearing something a little sexier, but I could make jeans and a camisole look pretty damn good, especially braless. I'm pretty well endowed, almost disproportionately so, but that fact was not sufficient motivation to subject myself to the elastic and metal monstrosity known as a bra. And if it gets me a little extra attention, all the better for me.
I was hoping I could find someone sober enough to string together two sentences, but drunk enough to fuck me and forget me afterwards. I was in that kind of mood. Naturally, most of the male population was completely trashed. Goddamn frat boys. I wasn't really feeling a lesbian connection tonight either. They always want to talk after. Men are at least decent enough to get up and leave or fall dead asleep.
Lucky for me, one of the few sober males started heading my way. He was cute, in that slightly geeky kind of way. Glasses, mop of curly dark hair, Batman t-shirt. I could get into that.
"Could you do me a favor?" he asked.
"You could at least buy me a drink first," I joked. He didn't laugh. Guys never laugh. I'm funny, dammit.
"I will pay you a fifty bucks if you'll pretend to be my girlfriend for the rest of the evening," he said adamantly.
"Seriously?" I asked.
He sighed. "My ex Lindsay is here and she's with an old buddy of mine. I guess she traded up. Anyway, I made up some stupid lie about being here with someone too. I need her to be real, and preferably gorgeous," he explained gloomily.
I felt bad for the guy. Breakups, even amicable ones, can be hard, and it was pretty obvious that this one was anything but. It'd been a while since I'd been with someone that meant that much to me, but I remembered the feeling. He was hurting and was trying to find a way not to.
Still, the economist in me wouldn't be swayed so easily. Rare commodity, limited time, motivated buyer. Price is in the seller's court. "Make it hundred and you've got a deal," I replied.
"Seriously?" he shot back.
I nodded. "Trust me, I'll put on a good show," I said with a knowing smile.
He weighed the pros and cons briefly, glancing over my shoulder in what I assumed was his ex-girlfriend's direction. "Deal," he said. He pulled out his wallet, pulling a crumpled stack of bills out. I was intrigued. Who carries cash anymore?
Nevertheless, he was good to his word, discretely slipping the bills into my hand. Four twenties, a ten, and two fives. Easiest hundred bucks I ever made.
I slid my arms around and nuzzled his collar. "Which one's your ex? Describe, don't point," I murmured.
