Prostitutes come and go. So do teenagers, students, unemployed, or even a fat bummer like the author of this text. Living in a former psychiatric recovery home turned apartment housing kinda money-mill, I was blessed with witnessing a lot, and occasionally getting drawn into, or becoming target of, violent crimes. Life in the disease-ridden underclasses. That old punchline once sounded merely another derogatory statement from mainstream folks. These days, I know better. Being streetwise simply does not help to make dying more fun.
So, young women often think that they are ready for the reality of it, playing it tough, being played only to make the next best prince charming learn that SHE already knew this and profits more from it than he ever will. Seriously, sometimes it is rightful retaliation by a female fighting back. Sometimes, not each time.
Jacqueline `Jacky´ Makumba was not new, and by what I could observe she had managed to elude police for years. When she was playing-people or deceptively showing-off, few would have believed that petite woman being a gang-leader. She also kept her competition at the proverbial bay aka away from her and her money. But, her choice of drugs was dangerous substance abuse, and I have always been wary of that outdated opium-spawn called heroine. Well, who cares, what old bummers think about anything, eh?
Three years of proverbially watching the show had taught me: Jacky had her little crew of criminal enforcers aka buddies, to us the local troublemakers of that summer. And, routine also showed us neighbors that Jacky had a habit of associating with a lesbian partner in crime aka girlfriend, when she had to get rid of her brutes scheming against her. Loyal lackeys, a rarity among hoodlums.
For many watching that young adult corruption spree would have been better than anything on TV. Not to me though, as I had found my wonder. Telltale Thrill, where the most beloved female storyteller of the planet unleashed her so much more enticing and so much more wonderful tales that I even felt tempted to forgive God. Dangerously fascinating. I guess, all fans are a bit like that? Back, to Jacky's show aka criminal activities.
Normally, the only contact I ever had with those independent prostitutes was meeting them on the stairway, or in the elevator. I shun elevators since that devil movie though, and because fat people using the stairs stay in better shape. Yep, keeping my gluttony on a factual leash by walks & workouts.
Jacky. Through all the ups and downs she held herself against quite some odds. Competing scum even worse than the truth behind her facade. For the most part, her lesbian partners left in a typical period of a fortnight up to a maximum of three months. Just, like last time.
But, in real life luck does not last, and I named her Jacky, not Lucky.
Her crew had vanished, and no street contact knew beep about it. Even, when Jacky was generous on the money offered for the info.
I had my suspicions. Based on observations us neighbors were not supposed to be capable of. The kind from beyond survivor's guilt. Streetwise.
Days later: I met the hottest suicide blonde of my life.
Jacky's rarity. The one Lesbian not pissing me off, before finding out why life pushed us towards each other.
Long awkward made short: With no good looks embodied, and poor, bankrupt, and sexist, the ONLY reason from her perspective was that I knew something she needed, or that would be of use to her. Fair enough, life ain’t no movie script.
Competing against prince dreamland does not go too well? asked I.
Instead of answering she just watched at my fingers making the money bill gesture, and challenged me to read her body language and mimics to get her reply. Never go unpaid, even good guys must pay the bills!
I got 50 bucks out of her and told her, where she can find me: Pointing at the level and door number on the corridor.
Some days later I received her visit.
Dressed to kill, or perhaps simply coming straight from work, she looked like everything a sexist WANTS to see in a woman. Admittedly, I knew I had to watch my manners and I knew that we won't even mention sex, let alone have some with each other.
Still, mother nature has her decree built into male brains, and any experienced prostitutes know what her gear of choice is supposed to trigger in supposed customers. I once heard it is one of many tricks, which separates the psychos from the horny.
I indoctrinated her, told her what she needed to know about our next and final meeting. The meeting we had yesterday evening.
Once more, queen gorgeous appeared both, sex-bomb and stylish casual in one. Forewarned that she would better come prepared to leave this city forever. Safety, when second place is the morgue.
She had her talk with Jacky, and Jacky was still on it, when the Prince of Dreams was a topic. Jacky fervently believed in dreams and tribal omens, I guess. Also, her inquiries about her vanished crew were still a dead end.
A while after 10 PM it began. Lucky us, so far it could not work out better.
I made her hide before I raised the curtain and extinguished the majority of lights. I also took a smoke, making sure time passed for real, not just in our imagination.
Then, I used the fact that my body mass could hide her with ease, and brought her into position. Sitting on the end of my bed, with a slim woman kneeling straight behind me, made it impossible to see her, until she made a mistake.
The feeling was still there, and people already asleep would probably have their dreamy meeting with whatever their brain made of it. Some called it sensitive, some say empathetic, some say spiritual. Nobody knows for sure.
As agreed upon, and as I was again paid for: I waited, till the feeling, which Jacky so enjoyed, was going for another high, another climax. The climax is the mental version of orgasm. Or of brainwashing, to specify my suspicion in contrast to a prince charming courting a criminal Jacky.
Next moment, I stopped playing nice mode and focused all my hatred and rage on that feeling swirling through the house. Ready to kill and enjoy it. Magick, shamanic journeys, channeling not of the ghost-talk tradition.
The woman, who so far only had pressed her boobs against my back because physics did not allow not to, tensed.
For, just as I had seen it so many times before: The moment that dreamy feeling, so harmless, soothing, and tempting, met with anything resembling a threat, it was not the feeling, but a hooded dude on the other side of the streets reacting to it. Agile, swiftly but stealthily moving away. Be it to flee, or to call reinforcements aka criminal backup. That latter part I never investigated due to lack of involvement.
But the smartest Lesbian suicide blonde of my life had seen it with her own eyes now, and she fully understood that criminal competition of that caliber, what I call psycho-active mugger types, was a real menace here. A menace easily explaining, who had transformed Jacky's brutes into lucrative victims.
It also explained, why I thought Missus suicide blonde better leaves the city before that stalker and observer returns.
I don't know, if she did, or stopped that cab aka taxi the next street corner. I never saw her again, as I awaited the return of my dreams, knowing that old me against a young and formidable criminal, hellbent on revenge for my interfering aka meddling with his schemes, might be my last fight ever...
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Andre M. Pietroschek.
Published on e-Stories.org on 02/21/2023.
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