Promiscuity: Part Three of The Cafe Journals

Let’s talk about 11:00 AM and prostitutes. The stain on the Earth’s surface, the vermin of society. They belong in the piss saturated alleys or on the street corners with their easy legs parted for the next meal ticket.

They do not however belong in the light, sitting in the fluorescent white for the families to see the sum of bad choices and mouth hungry for cock. They deserve the shadows, hidden away on the dark recesses so the rest of us don’t have to see the filthy sluts who get fucked against the graffitied wall of some motel back.

she doesn’t belong in the diner. Her with her bleached blonde hair, her skirt like a belt and a shirt that shows everything underneath it through the wire mesh. A red lacy bra, a belly piercing. An invitation to her panties basically tattooed over all that skin. Her panties as blue by the way, her short black skirt conceals nothing.

Her eyes are clinging hungrily to the door, like a shark looking for its next meal. She probably enjoys the feel of cock thrusting into her mouth, or maybe she like to be taken like the bitch she is. Disgusting. Her lips are parted, salivating probably for men to fill the void of her heart through the void between her thighs. The diseases are probably innumerable. STD’s from men of every age and race. Those who craves sex rarely discriminate as long as the money is crisp and everything else soft enough so she doesn’t bruise for the next night.

She is twitching, nervous. Shivering in the summer heat. Drugs. Obviously. These street girls chase away daddy issues with the embrace of product and powder, just like any girl. But their product isn’t lipstick, but the tracks down their arms, and the powder is the white smudged across their nose.

Lets talks about 11:00 and prostitutes.

Those filthy girls who sell their bodies and bring shame to their families. Those stains that mar the earth’s surface, the vermin that skirt around society. They belong to the piss saturated alleys and the street corners with their legs parted for the next customer.

They are children of the night, bred on darkness, embraced by it every time they find themselves pressed against the walls of back-lit streets, breathing in the night and the shadows when they moan. They don’t belong in a family diner at 11:00 in the morning when the sun burns down on her pale shoulders.

There is a certain look to a hooker that marks them out as one. Maybe it’s the walk, or her bleached blonde hair. Those stilettos with the insane platform. The girl was an invitation for sex.

But she didn’t belong here. Those red lips of hers parted, probably salivating for sex. Those crystalline blue doll eyes are fixed on the door. Her fingers are clenched into the thin fabric of a fur-lined jacket. Blatantly eager.

Maybe she hears the conversation a few tables back, see the two teenage boys crudely gesturing to her out of the corner of her eyes. Hear the fantasies that spill out of their mouths like a river of crudity.

Shockingly, the hooker doesn’t bask in their attention as she would have. In fact her face flushed and the hands buried in her jacket tried to pull the edges of a too-small jacket together. Was this a joke? The girl sold her body for money but a few words from some immature teenagers and suddenly she was shy?

She had sat so still for so long since she wandered into the diner. A skill learnt from laying with men who preferred them silent and unmoving.

But now she was alive with movement.

She pulled the jacket over her bared chest as best she could so only her midriff was visible. A napkin pulled across her lap. She picked up a spoon and stared at the warped women that glared back at her.

She dipped the end of a tissue into her water and doing her best she wiped off the red lipstick, the eye liner and the strong eye shadow. The gawky feather earrings disappeared into her tiny purse, and the bleached blonde, wild hair was pulled back into a low bun.

And suddenly she looked a hell of a lot younger.

The soft curve of her eyebrows. The delicate slope of her nose. The innocent look of those pink lips. She almost didn’t look like she enjoyed being bent over by strange men every night.

The bell rang suddenly, a man entered dressed in a grey suit, and those eyes of hers lit up. Ha! To think I almost pitied her. She was nothing but a hooker hungry for her next meal.

But her eyes weren’t for the man. It was the little boy standing next to the man, the one whose eyes lit up, like little blue Christmas lights, when they saw her.

“Mama!” He squealed and leaped into her arms. He was tiny, four years old, with dark brown hair. He pressed his face into her neck and giggled when she tickled him. She set him down on her lap, and her face, which was as warm as a cup of hot chocolate on the cold December afternoons, bent to whisper into the shell of his small ear. She smiled widely at him as she dug out a bright red car. He was pushing it along the laminated table top, making car noises when she looked up and caught the eye of the man. He flashed up his watch, tapped it and left to wait outside. The badge on his belt loop caught the light; social service worker.

She order a grilled cheese sandwich with fries but asked that they put lettuce between the bread too. The boy grinned at this. For herself, she wanted only a water.

As they waited for their food, she had him cradled in her lap, and he had given her a green car. They were both laughing to themselves and pushing the cars around a ketchup pile. He was telling her about his birthday, about how Ms. Smith got all the kids toys when they turned 4. Her smile faltered there. The food saved her.

She diligently watched him eat, watched him suckle on the lettuce leaves with relish and made sure he ate everything on his plate.

Finally, she smoothed the tissue over his cheeks to get rid of the crumbs and patted down his hair.

She tenderly kissed his cheeks, and she blinked back tears, and when the man comes back and gently pries the boy from his mother he looks up and says, “I’ll see you next month, mama.”

And just like that her son is gone.

The cheque comes. She sighs. She empties her purse into the bill, barely enough to get back.

She goes to the bathroom, and it’s the prostitute who emerges, with her make up redone and her hair loose. The mother had already left the building, alongside her four-year old son.

what do you guys think about prostitutes? do you think they deserve our pity or did they bring it on themselves?

Thanks for reading! Don’t forget to like and follow ❤
If you enjoyed it, here’s the links to part one and two :’)

Part One: Tragedy
Part Two: Loss

Or if you like poetry, head on over to my Poetry Archives



25 thoughts on “Promiscuity: Part Three of The Cafe Journals

  1. Ashutosh Gursale says:

    I finally completed all of the Café journals. It was wonderful! It’s like a part of my imaginary world, now. Will there be new additions to it?


  2. senafrost says:

    I love the tragic flow of this story. More often than not we find ourselves on the other side of the wall pointing fingers but with the same circumstances we’d probably be no better than them. Your style though; very fluid and narrative. I’m looking forward to the next one


  3. R.D. Maya says:

    Thanks :’)
    That’s exactly what I was trying to capture, how people judge so easily without knowing the truth.
    The next one should be in by the end of this week, so stay tuned and thanks again for the feedback ❤

    Liked by 1 person

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