I look back at Sharon. I still can’t see anything about her that comes even in the slightest close to her being a whore. She practically has no makeup on her face, not even bit of mascara over her eye lids. Her skin is baby smooth, devoid of any blemishes. Her hair looks clean and smells freshly washed. Her blouse is modest and covers her breasts. She isn’t even wearing the customary knee high boots that is synonymous with ladies of the night around the world. The kind they would make Julia Roberts wear fifteen years later in her role in Pretty Woman. If not for her miniskirt, she doesn’t look any different than a beautiful girl next door that us men fantasize about.

As I am taking her in, I am transposed back to Chicago. My friend Sandra and I are sitting at the bar of Ricardo’s. We haven’t seen each other for a while and we have a lot to catch up. As usual, she tells me about her amorous encounters – which she has many. Sandy is such an incredible magnet to men all over – and she loves them like no other woman I know. She is always heart broken or is the breaker of the heart. I am glad, we’re just friends. During the course of the evening, out of nowhere she comes out and says:

‘You won’t believe this, but from this very spot on the bar, I picked up a john last night and let him take me home.’

‘You mean?’

‘Yeah. I had always wondered what it would feel like to turn a trick!’

Now I have known about Sandy’s many impulsive adventures and her having brought home all sorts of males of the species, but never before she had ever mentioned a john.

‘He was good looking,’ she says with an impish smile on her face, ‘and I needed the money.’ Then she goes on philosophizing about how every woman at one time or another in her life thinks of an option of doing just that. Most of my girlfriends have fantasized about it. I guess, it confirms something deeper inside us.

‘Don’t worry. I don’t think I would ever make a habit of it.’ She concludes as an after thought.

Could be that Sharon is telling the truth and she is really a student and in need of money? The thought crosses my mind.

‘Let’s walk.’ She says and takes me by the arm. She obviously doesn’t care to stand in front of the revolving door and looking conspicuous. Neither do I. I obediently follow her to the steps, and suddenly stop.

‘Listen, you tell me how much you cost and I’ll tell you if I can afford you.’ She ignores my question and gently pulls me behind her.

‘Let’s sit in your car and talk.’ So we do.

‘That’s a nice jacket.’ She compliments. ‘And a nice car too.’ I thank her for the compliments and wonder whether she believes me being a student wearing a $200.- velvet jacket and owning a shiny, almost new Buick Skylark.

‘I don’t think I can afford more than twenty dollars.’ I divulge. Thinking she would probably push me away and exit the car in a hurry.

‘Okay, let’s go and make beautiful love.’

I turn on the ignition.

‘Where do you live?’

‘In Santa Barbara.’

‘Oh yes, you said that earlier, didn’t you? In that case, go straight ahead and turn right at the light.’

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