In the new series I'm starting, motivation is a problem at
the outset. Why would a beautiful and successful professional woman take up
night work in a high-class bordello? Here's a passage I just finished writing:
A seafood restaurant glitters like a diamond in the black
bracelet of closed retailers. The bright windows show diners at slim-legged
tables and waiters in white jackets. I could stop the cab here, go into the
restaurant, take a table for two, and pick up some young techie mico-millionare
to buy my dinner, take me bar hopping, and fuck me through the night. I could
never become a whore.
It's
the dark storefronts that drive me on. I hate shut-away things, secrets, walls,
the blindness of devotion. This anger is Michael's legacy in my heart. Time to
put myself on view. The crass openness of the bordello draws me. And the money,
the charm of owing nothing, financially or emotionally, to anyone.
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