By Fred Vogel
My father used this term to describe someone who needed to take a moment for themselves, to not be controlled by others. I doubt my father ever dealt with any ladies of the evening, he just imagined what that world must be like—always serving, never enjoying the fruits of your labor.
He ran the Chevron station in town. Maybe he saw himself as a whore. When he died, he left the station to my cousins. Years later, I realized he had done what he thought best—shielding me from being just another whore working the streets without holidays.
Nice. Smooth. After reading I felt like I had just taken a shot of a finely aged Scotch.
Beautiful. A deft summation of a lifetime.
Thought provoking work. In one of my stories my protagonist is a well paid call girl who lives in an extravagant pent house. Her only friends are solitude and success.
Very good. A favour rendered, not a whore’s habit either.
Nice!