Her first day working the streets, she vowed to enforce certain other restrictions:
1. no kissing,
2. no drugs, and
3. condoms were to be worn at all times.
She managed to abide by the rules for almost a decade, mostly unscathed. (There was that one time she attempted mouth-to-mouth on an elderly client, which arguably broke rule number one.) It wasn’t until she was a seasoned professional that these rules came back to bite her in the ass.
Dusk settled in. Street lights ignited. A lone car rolled up.
“What’s your name, handsome?”
“You can call me Holmes, darlin’”
“Can I take a ride?”
He took the old highway then pulled off to a dry field. No barns, no cattle, no chit chat. He unzipped. Holmes was no regular john. This was going to hurt.
“I’m gonna take you from the back door, sugah”
“That’s really not a good idea. I just had a latte. My stomach gets a little—”
“Ugh. I don’t need to know. You better do something then.”
“Now, I have a rule,” she said, reaching for her purse. “Better safe than sorry in my line of work.”
“I know the drill. I brought my own.” He covered up.
As she sucked, she found herself thinking of her thirteenth birthday—one of the rare times Daddy and Momma were simultaneously sober. They treated her to a banana split—her childhood favourite—followed by a trip to the emergency room. She tasted the memory, a memory now tarnished by a latex tang.
A burning deep down. She removed Holmes’s member and sat up in the car seat.
“Tastes good.” She hesitated.
“Chicks love ’em. Check it out.” He tossed the ripped packet on her lap.
Fruitylactics. Now with REAL fruit flavour.
Heart rate increased.
“What’s up, darlin’?”
A full on inferno.
One final terrified whisper.
Mitchell’s creativity comes from a place somewhere between his heart and his head. Don’t underestimate the power of the Adam’s apple.