At the end of her line, a middle-aged hooker, addicted to drugs, will do anything hit. A John comes to her hotel room, but what he wants may be more than she's able to give.

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Inspiration for "The Hooker":

Inspiration for "The John":


I realize with disgust that the John probably just wanted to watch me to see when I fell asleep. Then he robbed me of my drugs and money. I knew there was something creepy about that guy, even if he was clean and handsome. I tentatively search for my ratty little wallet, then frown when I see that my money is still here. Not much, though. Not enough to buy more heroin, not even a dime bag of pot.
My head snaps up when the door opens without a knock. The John. He still has that polite knowing smile on his face, even as he steps in with a bag in hand. I want to shout, to accuse him of stealing my drugs, of stealing what I need, but the smell coming from that bag puts a stop to that. I’ve never smelled something so delicious before. My stomach growls loudly, causing him to chuckle.
Reluctantly, I sit down at the table. He had my attention if he’d brought food. Was that what he is paying with? Food is nice, but I can’t buy a hit with that. I think that he notices how I am shaking. He sets the bag down in front of me, then stands behind me. He brings his large hands to my shoulders. His touch is warm. He begins to gently knead and massage. I realize that those are the exact same motions that he’d done to his knees earlier. Had he wanted to do this then?
What’s in the bag?” I feel silly blurting it out, and avert my eyes when his head leans past my neck to smile at me. He drifts away from me and pulls out a plate, knife, and fork from the bag. Then silver cutlery and a china dish. I don’t care, I want to see the food.
He pops open the little carrier box it was in and gingerly plates the food. I tear into it the moment that he pulls away, inhaling the warm meal so fast that I can’t even tell what it is that I am eating.
Sternly, as if disappointed in me, he grabs my hands. His thumbs rub circles into my flesh as he smiles down at me, shaking his head.
“Slowly.” His voice is silken and authoritative, “This is duck confit from Balthazar’s. Treat this with respect.” He doesn’t let go of my hands for another minute, until he is certain that I won’t dig right back in.
This time, I cut a small piece off of the duck and bring it to my lips. I still didn’t eat it correctly, apparently. He sinks into the chair across the table. After a moment, he pats his knee, staring at me expectantly. I swallow, reluctantly moving to sit in his lap. He did want to pay for the extra service, after all. His body feels strong and solid beneath me and I shiver.
The smell of food returns my thoughts to the plate. I protest softly when he takes the cutlery away, wanting nothing more than to fill my empty stomach.
Like this, miss.” He slices into the leg with calculated precision, then brings it to my mouth. “Duck confit is special, you see. Let it sit in your mouth for a moment. Let it melt there.” I do as I am told, noting how this time, my mind is forced to focus on the flavor. I realize that I’ve never eaten duck before, or at least never like this. My eyes roll back as I slowly chew, relishing what was probably the best bite of food I’ve ever had in my life.

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