The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 1g

I relaxed and looked at my clothes. “Yeah, I thought so,” I replied. “The bar doesn't give us anything?”
She shook her head. “The boys'll probably ask you to have a drink first. You speak English?”
I nodded.
“Good. Charm them as much as you can. That way they'll buy more drinks. And after they're all liquored up, they'll take you upstairs. It shouldn't take you more than 15 minutes per drink. The more you have, the more money you'll make. The waiter will give you a ticket. Whatever you do, don't lose them. You hand them in at the end of the night for money. Sometimes you make more from the tickets than you do upstairs.”
“Don't you get really drunk?”
“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. Usually when my friends said that they laughed like it was some great joke. She was stoic. “It helps when you go upstairs. Drink as much as you can before that. And when you do go, don't laugh at them! Don't laugh about any part of them.”
I was quiet for a moment. So was she. “You did?” I asked.
She broke out with a chuckle. “Once. I won't make that mistake again.” We shared a laugh together. “You've got a good laugh,” she said. “Use that as much as you can.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“And don't ever get close to any of them. They're your customers. That's all. No matter what you feel for them, don't.”
I thought I would be passed up all night. Waiting was still the worst part of the job. Half of me wanted to be picked, and half did not. Until several hours passed and I didn't get picked. Then the part of me that needed money took over completely. I would have fucked a monkey if one had approached me with thirty bucks.
Then the moment of truth arrived. He was a fat man with a beard. But those weren't the first things I noticed about him. The first thing I noticed was his wedding ring. I wondered where this wife must be. What she must think. If she was sleeping alone tonight.
We had drinks together. Every drink gave me a ticket that was worth three dollars and fifty cents to me as long as I didn't lose it. Three American dollars. This was a whole day's pay in other places around my home in Rosarito. But this was Tijuana where men would empty their wallets for a look at what I see in the shower every day. He stammered as he spoke English to me. He made constant excuses for himself. Blaming the reason he did this on a bet he had with some co-workers. I just listened. It was fascinating. Like the man with the hook penis, he was more afraid than me. That helped me relax. So did the beers. I did as my friend told me, one every 15 minutes. But the real money would come when we went upstairs, and I didn't know for certain if it was leading there, or if he was wasting the time that I could be spending with a paying customer.
I zoned out of his excuses and wondered what my kids were doing. I hoped Little Daddy was living up to his name.
At last the fat man brought me back by suggesting we go upstairs. I stood up immediately and we left.
We were both new to this, though I didn’t tell him I was. When we arrived at the counter to get a room I didn't know what to say. And he didn't know what to ask. I think we both turned red.
“Name?” the person at the counter asked. I looked at the man who was renting my body for a half hour. I kept reminding myself of that. He's renting the body. Not me.
“I think he means your name,” he said.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. Maybe this wasn't the man's first time here. “My name?” I thought quickly. Claudia used to call me her Little Niña, which meant little girl in Spanish. I was like a little daughter to her. “Nina,” I told him.
The man at the counter looked around at a group of shelves whispering, “Nina. Nina...”
“I don't...” I stopped myself, afraid that revealing I was new might lose me a customer. But I had no choice. I needed whatever he was going to hand me. “I don't have anything here yet.”
“First time, huh?” the man said, breaking the mask.
“Hot dog!” the customer said. “I get to break your cherry!” He didn't run.
The man at the counter gave me a towel. A sheet. A bar of soap. A condom. He told me a room number. He nodded with a look on his face that said, 'Good luck.' I nodded and carried everything to the room.
It was small and dark with a lamp to one side and a square, hard bed in the middle. Before I had time to take it all in the man was naked, standing before the door. His penis was already growing. “Well?” he said impatiently. “Aren't ya gonna get naked?” It was as if all his fear and kindness was gone. Replaced by a demanding drunk.
As I knelt down to give him head, I left my body. For a moment I was looking down on myself. On my knees in front of a stranger. I was embarrassed. Ashamed. I saw myself for the first time as a true whore.
When I was a child I had seen myself as a teacher. Or an oceanographer. Or both. I saw myself swimming with whales and saving dolphins. I had stared down a shark at the aquarium where there was glass below the surface of the water and you could watch them. They seem dead in the eye to most people. But I saw a soul there. More recently I had seen myself as a psychologist. Saving lives through insights and advice. But no...
There I was kneeling before a man like he was my king with my mouth wrapped around his unit. When he was ready for more he propped me onto the bed. Onto my hands and knees. And stabbed into my vagina from the back. I couldn't avoid looking at myself again because there was a mirror at the head of the bed. So I stuffed my face into the pillow and thought of my reason for being there. My little children.
I began a habit that would continue for all the time I worked there. I counted down. Thirty minutes. This session is only thirty minutes. I can take that. Twenty minutes. Only twenty minutes left. What's taking him so long? Fifteen. God, I can’t take any more!
Later I would wash up. I would look at myself in another mirror. I would spit on myself. And I would break down crying. I would cry for hours, unable to control myself. I would fall on the floor and hate every molecule in my body. I would curse the day I was born. And I would curse my sisters. I swore they were my sisters no more. I would sob and moan. And when I had no more tears left, I would rise up and look at myself in the mirror. And I would swear that I will never cry again.
Ten minutes left.