The deed having been done, she removed her hand from my clit and scratched my back, sending pleasant chills down my spine. By the time I had recovered from my temporary departure from reality, my desire to confess romantic feelings had grown strong, but I knew that doing so, however sincerely, would be objectively dishonest and would make both of us uncomfortable—I was being manipulated by the afterglow of physical intimacy. “You are cute when you climax. You make an adorable little sound, and you have such a lewd face.”

On top of the sex flush, I blushed. “Thank you. Did you… derive any satisfaction from my orgasm?”

“I relished it.”

“Good.” I gave her a passionate thank-you kiss.

“Alas, my hour is up, and as much as I wish to extend our time together, I have some… matters… to contemplate. It is time for me to return you to your new beat.” She abandoned me and got to redressing.

I caught a frown by its corners and kept them from hanging too far down. “Oh. Right. Fun’s over.” The prospect of money added an additional, intriguing appeal to sex, something pleasurable beyond touching and kissing and orgasming, yet I nevertheless felt the need to lie there and savor the post-sex high until it was over, to be with her, to appreciate her, to kiss her, to love her, to have her inside me…

“500 is a lot for just an hour of my time.”

“It is, but the service was well-worth the money. I am beyond satisfied.”

“But was your mind blown?”

She bobbed her head side to side. “It was… excellent.”

“But I didn’t blow your mind.”

“You came close.”

“‘Close’ isn’t good enough. Give me another—I’ll give you another hour to make sure you get your money’s worth.”

She nodded slowly. “One piece of advice, Andrea: unless you are able to blow your partners’ minds regularly and consistently, save the very best of your performances for the people who are not paying customers. Only the ones you truly care about are worth your best. As for free service… that is bad business unless you are attempting to build customer loyalty—which is self-defeating when you have no established regulars.”

((She’s right. My wallet being my newest erogenous zone comes with an important caveat: under no circumstances can I allow myself to set a precedent of giving out free time to johns—not half an eye blink of complimentary service, not even if I’m having the time of my life or feeling a deep and treasurable emotional connection.))

((To cheapen my services is to cheapen my pleasure.))

With my reluctance to wrap up the night overcome by the imperative of not screwing up my business model, I pulled on my panties and slipped back into my dress.

“Whether or not my mind remains intact, you performed admirably.” She pulled her wallet from her jacket pocket and quietly counted out some cash: “(1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.)” She held out the thick wad of bills, folded in half, and after a brief hesitation I delicately plucked them from her fingers. ((She’s giving me ten…)) Even though I had witnessed her count them, I unfolded them and double-checked… and there were indeed 10 virgin hundred-dollar bills, sequential. I ran my thumbs across the surface of a bill, smooth paper with subtly bumpy lines of ink. My head tingled, my skin buzzed, endorphins leaked out of my skull through my eyes and ears, and my clit swelled and throbbed. I looked up, incredulous as to her generosity. Sure, I had more than this in my bank account, 15 times over, but I’d only ever handled thousand-dollar transactions with checks and cards and electronic bill pay. Never before had I reason to hold so much raw cash in my hands.

“This is… a thousand. We agreed on…” It felt like a small fortune between my fingers. I wanted to hide it somewhere no-one else could find it—maybe inside a shoebox under my bed, or behind a loose brick in the wall of an unsuspecting neighbor’s house, or within a hollowed out book, or in a squirrel hole in a tree in the park. I wanted to kiss it and lick it and rub it against my skin and nipples and clit.

“I am feeling generous.” A manic grin slowly escaped on my lips, eliciting a matching grin from her. “You appear quite pleased to be compensated.”

“Yeah… I feel… good. Really good.” I knew that I had done a good job. ((Maybe, just maybe, I’m competent at sex work… Ah, who am I kidding? I’m a God damn prodigy of pleasure. And at the rate I’m going, I’m gonna be filthy rich.)) I refolded the bills and stuck them between my tits, which were being squished together tightly by my dress. I couldn’t wait to return to the street and hook someone else and show them a good time… and get paid again for being good at it.

“Maybe you are right about not becoming a detective. Perhaps you are truly a sex worker at heart.”

“Maybe.” ((And a damn good one at that. And I’m gonna get better at it, I’m gonna be the best fucking—))

((Damn it. I can’t switch careers. Solving mysteries in the service of Justice has been my dream since I was a little girl. I can’t throw that away. I won’t feel complete until I solve my first case, and even then only for a short time… not long after that I’ll feel the need to solve a second, and so on, like chaining cigarettes. If I stick with sex work… that itch will tickle-torture me until the day I die, spreading and spreading until my entire mind is on fire.))

((I can’t be a sex worker… not full-time, anyway.))

((But I can’t be a cop, either. Never again.))

Yet the captain’s offer screamed for me to trust her and accept it.

((N—Not ev—Not even an honest-to-God CAP)) Detective, saving people from danger and avenging the ones who couldn’t be saved.

“Let us return to your new workplace.”

She drove us back to Adams and parked in the exact spot from which she had contracted my services. “Andrea, I want you to know that what we shared over the past hour was the most fun I have had with a stranger in years.” She reached for my hand, then stopped herself and withdrew. “So… I have another offer for you. Wait for me on Saturday nights, on this exact spot, between 8:30 and 9. I will always come for you. 500 for one hour… unless you make me feel especially good. You already know how generous I can be.”

I had already decided that sex work wasn’t the right profession for me, even if I took immense pleasure in the craft, even if I had a sweet deal that could pay my rent in a single hour, even if this was honest work that was addressing a real need that others have and thus felt like a positive contribution to society, even if spending time with and among sex workers would help me overcome the prejudices that our Christofascist society had coerced me into internalizing as deeply as my instinct to breathe, even if my first time was effortless yet physically and emotionally fulfilling…

((And yet… assuming I can convince her to blab about the department’s secrets—getting into bed with a police captain on a frequent basis could present an endless stream of invaluable opportunities to gather intel.))

((And yet… she’s Vice, so she won’t have much reason, if any, to know about the goings-on in CAP)), unless I can convince her to snoop around for me—a fairly absurd prospect.

((And yet… as unlikely as it’ll be for the captain of the anti-hooker cop squad to start spying for the hooker detective, I still want to keep all possibilities, however remote, on the table.))

((And yet…))

((Actually, that’s where the whole line of thinking concludes. She’s an asset, both as a source of money and as a source of intel—at least from her own unit, but potentially from others. The correct choice is obvious.))

I smiled and told her, with sincere enthusiasm, “I’ll be right here, on this curb, waiting for you. I’m looking forward to our Saturday nights. And I want you to know that your offer is and will be at the forefront of my thoughts. I would never deny the fact that you are extremely generous.” I winked.

She smiled back slyly. “I am pleased to hear it. Enjoy your new job, Sweetie. But should you decide to give into temptation, you may give my assistant a call at any time to communicate your acceptance of my proposal.” She waited for a few seconds, then struggled to say, “I will see you in too long, Drea.” Once I had closed the door, she put her car in drive, hesitated, swallowed, and departed. As her ridiculously luxurious car cruised away breathing its own self-indulgent air of opulence to turn into posh carbon dioxide and sumptuous soot at 16 decadent miles to the exorbitant gallon in-city and 25 lavish miles on-highway, I thought to myself:

((Damn. What a woman.))