Philip

Studio 360 420 word story Philip Lustig

“Jeez, it’s cold out here.”
“Yeah, it’s bitter cold and we have to wear tight shorts
with our tits hanging out.”
“That’s advertising, honey,” laughing.
“How’s business?”
“A couple of OK’s and some weirdos.”
“Yeah, I get a lot of that crude, too. Must be because they can’t get it from their wives.”
“Yeah, sometimes I feel sorry for them.”
“Well, it’s just a job.”
“I never get it. They pay fifty bucks for five minutes to just wet their wittle, if you
know what I mean?”
“Yeah. I got this father driving up. “Hi, remember me?” he says.
“He’s got his sixteen year old son, and wants me to give him his first sexual
experience. He remembers how ‘gentle’ I was. He slips me fifty, gets out of the car
and we do it in the back seat. The kid says to me,”This is not my first, but don’t tell my dad. He was going like a rocket,” and then says, “Thanks a lot.”
“How’s your kid?”
“Good, she’s two. My Mom’s taking care of her. She doesn’t know what I do.
Maybe she does, but she bites her lip a lot.”
“You ever figure out who the father was?”
“You kidding me? I get, maybe ten johns a night. Doesn’t matter. She’s a darling.
It’s what I live for.”
“There’s a Mercedes. Your turn. Those rich bastards think you’re shit, and think they’re
buying a slave. Wonder what kinky stuff he wants.”
Half hour later. “Wow, it was good getting into a warm car. The front seat went down;
really soft, and he’s playing classical music. He’s pumping away with Tchaikovsky’s
1812 Overture blaring, and comes exactly when the canons go off. A hundred bucks, and he kisses me.”
“Wadda you know about classical music?”
“Oh, I went to Juilliard. I studied ballet. Got out and gained too much weight. No
ballet corps wanted me. I was screwing the ballet master. Funny! He was homo,
but he was good getting down. Then got stuck with student loans. Gotta pay the bills.”
“Jeez, honey, you’re something else.”
“Hey, isn’t that your pimp pulling up?
“Yeah. He wants his money. If I don’t get at least ten a night, he beats the shit out of me.
He’s a fucking bookkeeper. He knows more about profit margins than an accountant.
But he protects my ass if I run into a creep.”
“Weren’t you pregnant last time I saw you?”
“Yeah, lost him. The price of overhead.”

Philip Lustig

Downingtown, PA 19335

cybersagacious@verizon.net