For most of my life on your world I’ve made my living working in an elegance palace. Before you ask, the place I work at is really nothing more than a bordello. I don’t know who came up with the name elegance palace, but I have to tell you, neither I nor any of the other girls working there find anything elegant about it.
The elegance palace is secreted in a building that looks like any other office building, only this one is filled with nothing but adult-themed shops on each floor. I call it prex melata, which in my native tongue translates as ejaculation building.
The thing I really hate about the prex is that it only has one entrance and one elevator. When my shift ends, no matter how I time it, I always manage to get stuck in the elevator with potential customers, who know who I am because I’m the only person on the planet who looks like me.
The thing that doesn’t belong. The piece that doesn’t fit. I don’t know what you do by trade, but try to imagine that after an arduous day of ending the lives of horny men through intercourse that you now have to ride in a crowded box with men who just had some other girl service them and all of them eyeing you and thinking that they’re the one who could probably beat the odds and survive.
I hate it. I hate the looks, I hate the arrogance, and I hate the sameness of it all. Eventually they all will come to see me. Eventually they all will die.
At least in the elevator there’s hardly any conversation. I envy girls who don’t have to talk to the men they sleep with. I, on the other hand, am legally obligated to strike up conversations with everyone interested in sleeping with me. I’m the only elegance girl that comes with a Surgeon General warning. Sleeping with me will kill you. You must be made fully aware of that and sign legal documents to that effect.
Occasionally, though, I’ll get a customer that asks, “Do you work here?”
Well, duh, is what I think, although I answer, “Yes”
“I’d like to visit you. What’s your name? What floor do you work on? Do you see customers outside of here?”
I want to tell him not to come. Tell him that I don’t want to see him. That I don’t talk to, let alone service, customers outside the shop, especially to men who have not paid to talk to me.
Some men do that, the smart ones. They come in and lose their nerve and I don’t blame them. They still have to pay for my time but I cut them a discounted rate. And while I don’t enjoy talking to people who view me as a sexable piece of flesh, I take pity on the ones who back out at the last minute. It must be similar to talking someone down off a ledge.
If I do happen to get a talker on the elevator, I don’t smile or make eye contact. I simply answer their questions as curtly as possible and walk away abruptly when the elevator doors open. This usually avoids them feeling comfortable enough to follow me on the street. It’s what scares me the most about the job, no joke.
I have a friend, well, she’s more of a colleague, in the business we call the sexociates, and I don’t know if it’s a vibe she gives off or what, but she attracts more gawker stalkers than all the rest of us combined.
Gawker stalkers are creepy men that lurk around the prex and watch the girls as they leave the building. It’s gotten so bad that Tawni, my sexociate, not her actual name but I doubt even I know her real name, has a taxi on call that she runs into every night as soon as the elevator doors open.
Gawker stalkers never do anything to the girls, to my knowledge, they just watch. But it’s still creepy. I get chills thinking about the possibility of some strange guy following me home. They should just commit and pay the fee and get to play a little bit rather than being a loser that skulks in the shadows and goes home alone, unsatisfied.
When people find out what I do for a living, they seem so fascinated with the concept of dealing out sex for money. I almost regret letting people know because all our conversation after that point turns to them pumping me for kinky-or-weird-but-true stories.
And that’s when my relationships begin to die.
I don’t have any eccentric stories. My vagina forces orgasm and death, and if that isn’t enough to interest you, then what else do we have to talk about? My life is boring, really. So boring that no one wants to hear about it.
How about you?
Will you please read my lonely talk?
To be continued…
©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys