cont

This case is no different. I shake the girl. I ask for payment, 300 dollars is my normal fee. She hands over the cash and I can already tell she is short. “The number we discussed was 300” I explain. “You need to give me 100 more.” She tries to put on this sexy look which is not impossible to her due to the fact that she is still high and has slept for a total of probably 2 hours (not that she was going to win any beauty contests anytime soon). “You will get it, plus 100 more if you decide to stay a little while longer” she koos. 400 dollars is 400 dollars, but I decline. I probably couldn’t go again anyway. It’s a wonder I am able to perform most of the time when I do. She offers more blow but I decline once again and asked for the money again. She pays and I leave, as fast as I can. I notice that every time I leave, it seems to be in a hurry. I guess I should feel sorry for the girl. As sorry as you can be for a forty year old cokehead that pays for sex. Then I realize that this would be a normal human being feeling and of course being the sympathetic person I am I walk right out the door. I try to hail a cab. Each one speeds past me obviously showing the fact that they don’t pick up homeless looking people. This is probably for the best considering the fact that I need to spend as little of this money on anything but food. I decide to take the train.
I’m an hour early for the train. I am now soaking wet at the station waiting for this stupid subway. I am freezing, and probably should have stayed in the woman’s room till the conditions improved. Even though this sounds like the rational thing to do I simply cannot and will not stay. If I did it would become personal and this is something that I cannot afford to do. My contacts are still dry. They are still retaining the little bit of moisture they have from the tears in my eyes. A homeless man sits next to me. He offers me a drink. He thinks I am one of them, not that I blame him, I certainly look the part. I take a swig of the oddly colored stuff, its warm. I drink the horrible shit anyway as he starts to blabber. He talks to me in a way that astounds me. He acts like we have known each other for a long time and that I know the punchline of every inside joke he has every had. It’s very obvious that I am not listening. I don’t think he cares. At least I am someone to talk to, another ear for him I guess. Ill humor the old man for a while before I ride the subway home.