You don’t have to put on the red light
Those days are over
You don’t have to sell your body to the night

You don’t have to wear that dress tonight
Walk the streets for money
You don’t care if it’s wrong or if it’s right


I loved you since I knew you
I wouldn’t talk down to you
I have to tell you just how I feel
I won’t share you with another boy

I know my mind is made up
So put away your make up
Told you once I won’t tell you again
It’s a bad way


By The Police, © 1978


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The cheap metal bed frame creaks beneath my buttocks as I glance at him before looking back out the window. I can’t see anything, of course, the curtain’s drawn, the neon red light switched off. It’s his third visit this week. I could tell Serge that he’s bothering me and Serge will take care of it – probably mess up his face and tell him he’s no longer welcome to fuck his girls. That’s the way it normally goes down in this business, and he’s just another John after all, but for some reason I don’t. I hold back from saying anything.

I twirl a piece of my blond wig between my fingers.

“I don’t want to have to share you with other boys,” he says, his pale face tightens with a commanding calmness. “I’ve made my mind up. Just put it all away . . . the makeup, too.”

He points towards the small white dressing table in the corner of my room and the haphazard collection of paraphernalia that sits on top of it: tubes of lube, a basket of condoms, my makeup bag with its contents scattered across its surface, two dildos, a set of ben wa balls, and the harness for the dildos draped across the back of a plastic chair. The matching mirror above the dresser has a crack in its corner where one guy had gotten a little too into his role. I had had bruises on my neck for weeks, which had hurt my business, but I got off lucky unlike the John. Serge had busted a bottle over his head causing the guy to stagger into the mirror with a glass cracking thud. Serge had taken the cost of the mirror out of my money, but had never replaced it. Bastard.

“Earth calling Roxy,” he whispers.

His soft tone gets my attention. I brush the wig’s hair back over my shoulder and angle my chin just a fraction, just enough for the kitten smile to have the right effect. The straps of my bustier are biting into the flesh of my back, but I ignore the discomfort. It won’t be on for long. I pat the mattress beside me.

He shakes his head, his slouch casual, but his expression not. His intensity is like looking into a burning fire – mesmerizing, but searing and a little bit uncomfortable. I try to keep my tone light.

“You don’t need to save me, darling. You just need to tell me what you want.” I use my sexy voice, pushing the biting strap off my shoulder in a slow, deliberate movement. The top of my nipple pushes up against the fabric.

“Don’t,” he replies, finally taking a step towards me.

“What?” I ask, playing the part of the innocent virgin. Some men like that.

“Not yet.” His voice is soft yet deliberate.

I shrug my shoulders and pull the strap back up. It doesn’t matter to me how he spends his time. I look him up and down.

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