She looks at you with “bedroom eyes”.
Her hair falling softly over her face.
She knows exactly what she is doing.

You call her a whore, a slut, a tramp.
She just calls herself lonely.
As she lets a strap fall gracefully down her shoulder, and looks downward.

Men in business suits with Lexus’ and Escalades pull up to the building.
It smells of desperation, of pain.
The beads of sweat fall from their furrowed brow because they know what to expect.

The lady of the night is there, waiting.
She may be just a courtisan in his eyes, but in a previous lovers she was a soulmate, a friend.
She decorates her brave face with just the right amount of hussy.

She’s not cheap.
You will need to pay her well for the services of a professional vixen.
Her eyes hold the intensity of a panther ready to pounce.

For a minute you believe she is yours and only yours.
She is not just a trollop, a sex symbol, a skank.
She is not just a paid escort, a harlot, a prostitute.

She is with you, only you.
And as she loosens your tie while she kisses your neck, you ask her her name.
She whispers in your ear as she rolls her tongue across your lobe, “Anything you want it to be.”

The vixen has been called a heathen by the church, a loose woman by her peers, and a stripper who escorts on the side by her clients.
The man she once loved called her sexy, beautiful, darling.
She thought of him every time she allowed another man to enter her.

And when the curtain is finally drawn and the act has come to a close, you zip up your pants, leave some money on the bed, and take a last longing look at the woman you paid.
She stares at herself in the mirror, brushing her hair, putting on her lipstick, wiping her eyes.
You think she’s just getting ready for the next appointment.

She’s just trying to forget she has one.


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