Blow Jobs and Burning Dreams

She made a point of not thinking about it too much. It was a means to an end; jump in the cab in the dead quiet of early morning, quick blow job, fifty in her hand.

It was her pimp and dealer that seemed to cause her the most grief in life these days. What with his cut and the cost of shooting up these days. One day she’d quit, that was what she kept telling herself anyway. After seeing the old girls on the street corners; worn out, tired, with only the desperate paying them half what the lorry drivers paid her. She’d tell herself, I’ll never end up like that.

She’d found a little niche market for herself you see. It was during the drive back to her patch, with her pimp driving, that she’d first noticed it. He was doing his usual gabbing about future plans. She had plans of her own. On that particular morning she happened to notice a queue of lorries in the lay-by near her place. A few days later, she’d taken it on herself to go round knocking on a few cab doors; just to see what came of it. A few hundred that first morning was what had; happened to have paid for some decent gear that.

Now, on one of her increasingly rare straight days, she sat watching telly. It was showing a repeat; one of those glitzy show biz awards ceremonies. There she was, Julia Roberts. Such a beautiful woman. Remembering the film Pretty Woman, it struck her as absurd, how the fairy tale romance within the film, was so far removed from the reality. Absurd, that someone such as the character Roberts had portrayed, would turn to prostitution to pay her way through college. Ridiculous.

She was under no illusion; could see the links and connections of why she did it; it was all she’d ever known: sex, men, being used and payed for it. Her own father had introduced her first paying customer; her uncle as it had turned out. Bastards really, the lot of them. As if Richard Gere’s character would need to pay for it. Such a load of old bollocks. The more she thought about it, the madder she often became. What a thing to do; glamorise the lowest and oldest profession of all. Julia Roberts was no better than her, just better paid. Best not to think about it too much. Her mind turned to the little stash of oblivion hidden away in the wardrobe.

Sound asleep later, her last thoughts would be dreams of her mother, and how her father had smiled after they’d cremated her. The building she was sleeping in was a high rise block; cheap with hundreds crammed in, it was home though. Everyone was so surprised at how quickly the building had caught. The inquiry later pointed the blame to the cladding on the outside. Surprising really when you think of it; so many souls in one place, so much precious life inadequately protected from harm. Still, she never suffered, never got old, never had to face anymore horrible reality. Those that had known her doubted she would have ever clean herself up anyway. Gone now, no matter.