“Hey hot stuff, ya lookin’ fer a date?”

            It’s always ‘hot stuff’ or ‘cutie’ or ‘handsome’. Even if the dude was old and had a belly wide as my boots are tall and has a face like a mud fence.

            I like the old ones, actually.

            Sure, they’re dried up old prunes, most of them, and the sex ain’t no good with them. But they ain’t kinky and most of the time they don’t even keep it up for long. I don’t think they can.

            Which is all fine and dandy with me.

            Old men’s also rich, mostly. Nice leather seats in a Lincoln with dark windows. And they drive slow and shit. I think most the time they aren’t for the fuck so much as for the company. Them old geezers are pretty lonely, most of them. They want to be adored even though they’re no longer strong and powerful and they don’t have no family or people listening to them.

            I think they also get a thrill out of fucking someone young enough to be their daughter. Or granddaughter. Fucking perverts, and they ain’t even any good at it. But they don’t ask much and they pay lots.

            And of course they’ve got the nice cars, even if they’re slower than molasses when they drive.

            I get into the black Cadillac and start workin’ it. He’s middle-aged, not as old as some… probably in his late forties to early fifties, and his hair’s starting to gray. He wears a tie and those tacky loafers with the tassels, and I purr and bare my teeth like a cat. We was taught this way. I tell him my name is Angelique when he asks. It’s really Frances but that’s a grandmotherly name, something sweet and innocent like I ain’t and it would make him feel guilty. Guys want something exotic and seductive and besides as if I’m really going to tell him who I really am…

            I keep my hand on his thigh, rubbing up and down slowly. I don’t rub anything but his thigh for now, but that just makes him hotter, ya know? I always keep my hands nice-lookin’. Other stuff… eh, ain’t that important. But I spend good money on getting acrylic nails red as virgin blood and keepin’ the hands pretty and soft with lotion. That’s important. They look at that.

            We reach the destination and this guy’s obviously got class because he’s not just popping to the backseat even though or maybe because it’s all leather and shit and instead he goes to a nearby motel and orders a room. He’s shy and tells me to get on the floor of the car, then offers me his jacket so ‘they won’t know that you are… you know’. Pfft. A gal waltzing in wearing black vinyl fuck-me-boots and a man’s jacket. Sure they won’t know. Huh… they’ve certainly seen this before too. Ain’t the first time I’ve been to this motel.

            We go to his room and he nervously orders us beer before I move in for the kill.

            And then we are on the bed all type of tangled and he rubs the ring on his finger even as I strip and strut my stuff in front of him, and then I tie his hands with his tie and I know he feels naughty and sinful from the glint in his eyes and that’s good, cause then he will give me more cash.

            I give him his money’s worth and then refuse his kind little offer of a ride back. No need… I know my way around much better than he does. And besides, there’s a stop I have to make first.

            The money switches hands for the second time that night and I sit by the dumpster, and take out the mirror and razor that I hide in the cuff of one of my boots and dump the white powder on the silver surface by the dingy sour-milk yellow glow of the streetlight and then, I’m free and flying… and it’s all colors and butterfly wings and silk voices and tickles and all that rainbowy shit that they had in pictures when you was an innocent little kid…