Date: Thu, 23 Nov 2023 19:28:55 -0800
From: N. <mecocklover@gmail.com>
Subject: Confessions of a Rural State Whore -- Chapter 2

CONFESSIONS OF A RURAL STATE WHORE

Author's Note: Special thanks for Gary and Terry for their suggestions and
proof-reading.  Any inconsistencies, spelling errors, typos, or grammatical
mistakes are therefore their fault.

Further note: While I only recently discovered nifty.org, the site has been
around and archiving gay stories for more than 30 years.  Running a website
costs money, and nifty.org does not rely on ad revenue.  If you enjoy this
or other stories on this site, please consider making a donation of any
size at https://donate.nifty.org.

CHAPTER 2

RECOVERY

For the next days and weeks, my body mimed living.  I ate.  I drank.  I
went to my job and performed the somewhat mindless tasks that earned my
living.  I did not leave the apartment except when it was necessary.  I did
not communicate with anyone except in short sentences made up of a few
words.

Co-workers noticed that I was being strangely introverted and quiet.  While
I had never been gregarious or "the life of the party," I had always been
willing to engage and join in.  That had changed as I retreated into
myself.  While I'd heard them talking low between themselves several times,
asking each other, "What's wrong with Nathan?" no one thought to ask me
what might be the matter.  To be fair, I doubt I would have told them even
if they had asked.

I had seen one of my co-workers, Erik, at The Underground bar before, and
he and I had been moderately friendly.  One day, about five weeks after
George had taken me home, he cornered me at work.

"Look," he said in a low voice, "it's obvious something has happened with
you."  He looked at me not with concern, but in a matter-of-fact kind of
way.  Before I could respond, he continued.  "Work probably isn't the right
place to tell me what's going on, though.  So you need to make it through
this shift, go home, and get ready, `cause I'm taking you out.  You're
going to get drunk, and you're going to start figuring out what you need to
do.  You can tell me what's happened or not - that's your business - but
your drinks are on me, and I'll be there if there's anything I can do.
You're kind of useless to everybody like this, and you're gonna get fired
if you don't straighten up."

I didn't say anything, but I may have nodded.  I went through the motions
of my job like I had been doing as the clock inched towards the end of the
work day.  My shift ended and I walked to my car.  Erik made his way to his
own vehicle and called out to me.  "Go home and get ready," he
half-shouted.  "We're doing happy hour.  I'll be by to pick you up in about
thirty minutes, `cause you're not going to be in any condition to drive
afterward."

"Whatever," I muttered to myself.  I went home and changed from my work
uniform into regular clothes.  Soon enough, Erik arrived and knocked on the
glass sliding door that faced the parking lot.

"Come on," he said plainly.  "Lock up your place and get in my car.  I'm
driving."

I followed his instructions unthinkingly.  About twenty minutes later, we
had pulled into the parking lot of The Underground and were walking down
the ramp to the entrance.  I got to the door -- the doorman did not start
his shift this early in the day -- and reached for the handle.  I hesitated
before I opened it, and Erik glanced at me quizzically.

We entered The Underground's front bar area, and it was mostly empty.  It
was only about 5:00 P.M., and it was the middle of the week, so there was
no reason why it should be as busy as it usually was on the weekend.  There
were perhaps four patrons scattered around the front area.  The same
bartender from my night with George was wiping an empty section of the bar
with a wet rag.

The bartender I remembered from weeks before looked up.  "Hey, whores," he
called.  "It's early for you, isn't it?"  He was youngish Ð late 20s, if
I had to guess Ð with dark, straight hair cut in a "pudding bowl" style
that doesn't really suit anyone.  He wore a light tan muscle shirt that
flashed nipples to the patrons as he waved us in.

Erik grinned and returned the greeting.  "Shut up, bitch.  What do you care
so long as we tip?"

"That's the problem with young guys," the barkeep scoffed.  "You don't tip.
What are you starting off with?"

Erik looked at me as we walked around the bar towards a quiet area near the
pool table.  "Nathan?" Erik inquired.

"Vodka and soda" I replied numbly.

"I'll get the drinks. You go sit down.  I'll find you."

I looked around, vaguely comprehending where I was.  My eyes spotted a
high-top table with an empty ashtray on the top and with three stools
around it.  I went to it and sat on one.  With slightly shaking hands, I
pulled a pack of cigarettes from my pocket.  I took one out, and put it
between my lips.  I could see it quivering as I put the pack down on the
table.  I took my lighter out of the left front pocket of my jeans (the
same pocket George's money had gone into, though that particular pair of
jeans was now in a landfill somewhere) and sparked it.  Bringing the flame
to the tip, I filled my mouth with smoke.

I removed the cigarette from my mouth and lowered my head, inhaling the
smoke and releasing it through my nose.  "Why did I put my lighter in THAT
pocket?" I thought.  While I was not wearing the same clothes as from the
night with George, his money had gone into the same place in those blue
jeans.  Guilt flooded my being.

"Jesus!  Smoke much?"

Erik had come to the table and was holding two glasses with ice and clear
liquid.  He looked pointedly to the cigarette in my hand, which had turned
to ash about half-way down its length.  I had only taken one drag off of it
that I could remember, though.  I must have just been sitting there for a
little while.

"I guess," I muttered noncommittally, moving my hand to the ash tray.  The
ash fell onto the table top before I could flick it.

"O.K., something's obviously wrong," Erik said, putting one of the two
glasses in front of me and sitting on one of the other stools at the table,
facing me.  "Put the ciggie down for a minute and take a big drink of this.
Let that sink in, and I'll be right here if you need anything."

I laid the smoking stick in the ashtray, with the filtered end resting on
the edge and pointing towards me.  I lifted the glass to my lips and filled
my mouth.  My eyes bulged as I swallowed.

"He forgot the soda," I coughed.  "This is just straight vodka!"

"Did he?" asked Erik sarcastically.  "I might have left that part out when
I ordered.  Or maybe he gave you the vodka and gave me the soda."  Erik
arched an eyebrow as he lifted his own glass and sipped through a straw.
"Now drink up because there's more coming, and you need to get whatever
this is that's bothering you off your chest and get past it."

Erik put his own glass down and picked mine up, waving it in front of my
face.  "Now chug this, bitch.  I'm not taking `no' for an answer."

"Fine," I said.  I took the glass from his hand.  I drained it as fast as I
could, coughing between swallows.  Then I took a piece of ice into my mouth
and sucked it slightly to numb my mouth before crunching it between my back
teeth.  "Happy?"

"Not yet, but that'll get us started," said Erik.  He looked back and waved
at the bartender.  Their eyes met briefly, and the bartender nodded,
holding up one finger to say "give me a minute."

"Now," Erik said, turning back to me.  "Can you tell me what's going on or
do you need more alcohol first?"

The first glass of vodka was starting to kick in already.  I had not eaten
before Erik picked me up, and I was a very skinny guy of 21.  It would not
take much booze to get me completely hammered.  What I had already
swallowed would probably be enough if we just waited a little while.

"Whatever," I muttered, looking up at Erik.  He had a look of genuine
concern on his face.  "Fine."

Taking a breath, I told Erik about the night weeks earlier with George,
beginning with how he had gotten the bartender's attention when I could not
and how he had bought me a drink.  I told him of how we had gone to a
different part of the bar and pointed to the table and banquette where we
had sat and how George had called me beautiful and kissed me.

"Nice," Erik intoned appreciatively, stirring his glass with his straw.

I continued with how George decided we should leave and how we kissed
outside of the door.  The words began flooding out with more speed as the
story continued to our kissing in his driveway and how he pushed me into
the bedroom after we got inside.

"This is getting kinda hot," Erik commented, fanning himself dramatically
with his hand.

I described the amazing rimjob that seemed to go on for half of the night
before George laid back and told me to mount him.  I told how he had
flipped me on my back to pound my ass into submission and bring himself to
his climax.

"Ohmygod," Erik breathed heavily.  In a different setting, he probably
would have already taken out his dick and started jacking it, but this part
of the bar was too well lit and there was nothing else going on to distract
any voyeurs that might be watching.

"And he kept calling me a whore.  Dirty whore.  Filthy whore."  Tears had
began to fall from my eyes and down my cheeks as the vodka started to
permeate my bloodstream.  The first salty drops fell onto the table and
mixed with the ash of my cigarette.  "And he made me take money off his
dresser and kicked me out of his house."

Erik froze for a moment before his brow furrowed in confusion.  "Wait a
minute.  He did what?"

"Filthy little whore," I repeated.  "Cheap little whore.  Little whore
ass."  I recited every degradation that I could remember.  "He thought you
were a hooker or something?"I looked up at Erik's face, my vision blurred
by tears and my voice already starting so slur from the alcohol.  "And I
took it.  I took his money.  And that makes me a whore, doesn't it?  I'm
just what he said I was."

Erik looked at me and then down to his glass.  One of the pieces of ice
clinked quietly as it melted slightly and settled.  "Did you," he said
quietly, "say anything about money?  Like before you left the bar or
anything like that?"

"No," I said emphatically in a half-sob.  "All I can think of is that I
said I drove a Ford Escort car when we were going into the parking lot."

"That wouldn't be it," Erik muttered.

The bartender finally had two more glasses ready for us by now.  He placed
them on a tray and began walking them to where we were sitting.  Since the
place was largely empty, this kind of personal service was possible. "O.K.,
here you go whores," he said sassily, placing the tray on the table.  "One
vodka and one club soda.  At least you guys aren't asking for anything
complicated."

He exchanged our empty glasses for the full ones on his tray.  He glanced
at me and paused.  Turning to Eric, he exclaimed, "Jesus, Erik, what are
you doing to this guy over here?  Guys don't usually get this weepy until
closing time."

"Not now, Jeremy," Erik said quietly but insistently.

"Jesus," Jeremy responded.  "Whatever.  Let me know when you're ready for
another round."  He took the tray and made his way back to the bar.

After we were alone again, Erik sipped his drink thoughtfully.  "Nathan,"
he said, "did you know any of that was going to happen?  Did you have any
idea?  Think hard."

I shakily took my own glass in my hand and drank deeply.  My throat burned
slightly, but less than it did from the first glass.  I still gasped,
though.

"No," I said.  "I just thought we were going to fuck and that was it."  I
looked up unsteadily.  "He looked nice.  He said I was beautiful."

"Well, obviously you were going to fuck," Erik said, frowning.  "I just
don'tÉseeÉ" He trailed off, blinking and frowning.  "Wait a minute,"
he muttered.

Erik looked at me sharply.  "You.  Drink" he ordered.  "I'll be back in a
minute."  Erik stood up from the stool and moved briskly to the bar.

I sat alone at the table for a minute, not moving.  I took my lighter and
another cigarette from my pack on the table and started smoking again.  I
looked towards the bar for Erik.  I saw him in an intense discussion with
Jeremy the bartender.  They leaned over the bar to each other.  Erik
pointed over his shoulder in a violent gesture to me, which caused Jeremy
to raise is hands defensively.  Erik then spoke again, this time pointing
at Jeremy, who then covered his mouth with his hands as his eyes opened
wide.

I looked down at the ashtray and took my glass with my free hand.  "At
least," I thought, "I might get to smoke this one."  I lifted my drink and
drained the rest into my mouth, swallowing.  I set my glass down on the
table and put my cigarette between my lips, taking a long drag and inhaling
deeply.  My cheeks were still wet from the tears, but the crying had
stopped.

Erik came back to the table with Jeremy in tow, and they sat at the two
empty stools and huddled over the table facing me.  Both looked at me
intently and uncomfortably.

"O.K.," Erik began.  "Something didn't sound right with your story, so I
asked Jeremy if he remembered you from that night."  He elbowed Jeremy.

"Yeah," Jeremy said coughing slightly.  "I remembered because I always
remember the hotties, and you're a new hottie."

I pulled again on my cigarette, my now-drunk brain vaguely recognizing that
this was supposed to be a compliment.  I exhaled the smoke across the
table.

"Anyway," Jeremy continued, "I didn't remember ever seeing the daddy-hottie
before, either, so that stuck out to me.  You were newish and he was new.
And he asked me about you."  He paused.Erik coughed purposefully and nudged
Jeremy's shoulder.  In a firm voice, Eric said, "Go on."

"O.K., gimme a chance," Jeremy protested dramatically.  "Jesus."  Turning
back to face my glassy-eyed stare, he continued.  "So, he asked who you
were and what you were drinking.  I said I didn't know either thing, that
you were just some little twink-ass whore who started coming to the club a
month or two before.  I didn't know your name or anything."

"My name," I croaked in a slur, "is Nathan."

"Yeah, but I didn't know that, did I?  Anyways he told me to get you
whatever you wanted.  Next thing I know, you both disappeared.  I figured
you were getting lucky."

"Lucky?" I barked sarcastically.  The other bartender looked sharply in our
direction from his station, and a couple of the other patrons also turned
their heads to look.

"Shhhhhh," Erik warned.  "You better keep your voice down if you don't want
everybody here knowing your business."

I sputtered, cigarette dangling limply from my two fingers.  I could not
continue as my eyes began to brim with fresh tears.  Erik gently took my
hand and moved it to the ashtray.

"Jeremy," Erik said seriously and softly, "that guy thought you meant that
Nathan was an actual prostitute.  He took Nathan home, and half-fucked the
living shit out of him calling him whore.  Then he just about threw money
at him when he threw Nathan out onto the street."

I thought that did not sound quite right, but it was close enough to the
truth.  Emotionally, it certainly felt like that's what happened.  Even my
brain seemed to be slurring as these vague impressions floated to the
surface and then disappeared into the fog of vodka in my system.

Jeremy looked back and forth from me to Erik, a skeptical look on his face.
"NooooooÉ"

"Yes," Erik said emphatically.  "And poor Nathan here didn't know what was
going on untilÉ"

"No," Jeremy insisted, more sharply.

"Yes," said Erik.  "For God's sake, look at him!  You think a fuck several
weeks ago would still be affecting him like this if nothing bad happened?"

Jeremy looked at me, somewhat startled and horrified.  "Oh, shit," he
breathed.  "What did I do?"

"You know exactly what you did," replied Erik.  "Dude, you can't go around
telling customers you don't know that people are whores like that."

"But I call everyone a whore!" protested Jeremy.  "It's my thing!
Everybody knows that."

"And look what happened to Nathan because you told a total stranger that he
was a whore," Erik responded accusingly.  I lowered my face in shame and
stared at the tendril of smoke rising from my mostly-smoked cigarette.
Guilt enrobed me again.

"Holy shit, dude," Jeremy said, reaching for my forearm.  "I'm so fucking
sorry."  He squeezed gently.  "I didn't mean anything by it when I said
that.  He shouldn't haveÉ He couldn'tÉ" Jeremy sputtered, releasing
my arm.  "That wasn't my fault, was it?"Erik spoke slowly.  "Not
completely.  You weren't the one who took Nathan home, but you were the one
who got that ball rolling, didn't you?"Jeremy appeared to deflate as these
words sank in.  He rested the sides of his head in his hands and sank in
shame.  "Oh, fuck.  I don't know what I can do to make up for this."

Erik put a hand on Jeremy's shoulder.  "You're about to officially take
your break.  Let's go see the person in charge."  Erik took Jeremy by the
elbow and they turned away, with Jeremy listening to Erik's intense low
whispering.  As they neared the bar, Jeremy pulled up sharply and looked at
Erik.  Erik nodded and continued talking in a low voice.

I picked up my glass again, and it wasn't until ice hit my lips that I
realized it was empty.  I opened my mouth to allow one of the frozen pieces
inside, and I began sucking on it as I lowered my glass back to the table.
I looked to the astray and saw that my cigarette had burned itself down to
the butt.

Sighing, I reached again for the pack again and saw that it was empty.  I
never smoked more than a few cigarettes per day, unless I was out at a bar.
I looked drunkenly at my lighter, not entirely sure I could have made it
work even if I had a cigarette to lite.

Eric returned and put another glass in front of me.  "OK," he said.
"Jeremy is taking his break in a few minutes.  He just needs to help the
other guy get a couple of things set up, first.  Then he's going to take
you into one of the rooms in the back where guys get ready for the drag
show."

I started to protest, but Erik raised a hand to silence me.  "Dude, he owes
you a serious apology, and it's not one that should be done in public.  It
might take a few minutes, but it needs to be done sooner rather than
later."  Erik leaned in over the table and took my chin in his hand, making
sure I looked in his face.  "What that guy did to you is not your fault.
It's maybe a little bit Jeremy's for what he said, but it's almost all on
this other guy.  He was the one who did something wrong, not you.  That's
true even if you did take his money."

He released my chin and leaned back.  "It didn't sound like this guy raped
you, but it was still wrong."  He pointed to the fresh glass he had brought
me.  "Now drink up.  I expect you to pass out when you get home, because
those dark circles around your eyes tell me you haven't been sleeping."

Trembling, I raised the third glass of vodka and sipped it.  We waited
silently for Jeremy to come collect me.  In time Ð it could have been
two minutes or twenty Ð he appeared at my shoulder.  "Come on, honey,"
he said softly.

I slid off the barstool and stumbled.  "Woah there, tiger," said Jeremy,
putting grabbing my elbow firmly and putting his other around my shoulders
to steady me.

Jeremy looked sharply at Erik.  "Jesus, bitch, how much have you been
giving this guy to drink?"

"You should know," replied Erik.  "You poured the damned things.  Now go do
what you need to do."

Jeremy made a face at Erik as he helped me make my way to the door that
lead to back area where the dance floor was.  He pulled it open and held it
for me as I sloppily made my way into the darkened room.

"This way, sweetheart," he said, hands on my shoulders, guiding me.  There
was a long (currently unmanned) bar along the left-hand wall and a booth
where the DJ worked in the back left corner.  There was a door between the
two areas, and that was where we were heading.  The door was unlocked, and
he helped me through a twisting hallway and opened another door.  Reaching
inside, he flicked on the light switch.

"Fucking queens!" he exclaimed in disgust.  "Stupid bitches never clean up
after themselves."  He led me into the cluttered room.  There was an old
desk with a cheap round mirror tilted upwards sitting on one corner.  The
top of the desk was scattered with half-empty lipsticks, an empty jar of
cold cream, and the lid of a mascara bottle.  Loose sequins from who knows
how many cheap dresses littered the floor, making it sparkle
repulsively. Jeremy twisted around an old office chair on casters with a
rip in the back and tossed a ratty wig to the floor.  "Sit down, honey," he
offered.

In my inebriated state, sitting was vastly preferable to standing.  I
plopped down limply onto the chair and watched the room starting to spin.
Jeremy remained standing.  "Look," he said, roughly tossing a loose wad of
bills onto the desk. "This is all the cash tips I've earned tonight.  It's
yours."

"Don't wantÑ" I started, as Jeremy knelt down in front of me to put his
face level with mine and put a finger to my lips to silence me.

"Sweetie," he began haltingly, "I'm so sorry for what happened to you.  I
just don't have the words."  I looked into his face and saw his lower lip
was starting to tremble.  At least, it looked like it was starting to
tremble as his face swam unsteadily in front of my drunken gaze.  "Nobody
deserves to be treated like that.  And it's my fault."  His eyes began to
tear up as mine had done earlier.

He reached his arms around me and pulled me into a tight comforting hug,
sniffling slightly.  Drunkenly, I lifted my arms to hold him in return.  My
left arm went found his back easily, but my right arm slid through the
large sleeve opening of his muscle shirt, and my hand felt the bare skin of
his back underneath.  The skin was soft, smooth, and warm.

We held each other, Jeremy burying his face softly into my shoulder for a
few moments. I couldn't understand why Jeremy was upset, but then I also
couldn't remember why I was so upset earlier thanks to the alcohol numbing
my brain and my emotions.  I stroked his hair awkwardly with the hand that
had been over his shirt.  I could smell the lightly spicy scent of whatever
cologne he used.  The hand that was under his muscle shirt slid down and
back up, comforting.

I felt him sigh and turn his head to face my neck.  As I continued to
stroke his back, I felt his hand reach up to the back of my head to run his
fingers lightly through my hair.  "I really am sorry," he whispered, as he
pushed his lips out to gently kiss my neck.  "But you're so drunk you're
not going to remember me saying this.  I'm probably going to have to do all
this again in a couple of days."

"Nah. Will rebemÉremmerÉrebemerer." I grunted.  I removed my hand
from the back of his head and slid it into the front of his muscle shirt.
He was holding me, and he smelled so good.  He had also offered me money.
I lightly -- but clumsily -- fingered his nipple.

"Woah," he objected.  His muscles slightly tensed, and he was obviously
surprised by what my hand was doing.

I turned my head to whisper drunkenly into his ear.  "Y'know, we couldÑ"

"No, Nathan," he said low, interrupting me.  "Another time and another
place, and maybe we could have had some fun."  He broke our hug and leaned
back on his haunches, looking into my eyes.  "But not now and not here.  I
have to get back to work, and you're way too drunk."

"It's O.K.," I mumbled leaning in.

"No," he said, putting his hands on my shoulders.  "It's not.  You might
want it to be, and you might think it is, but it wouldn't be right.  Not
after what happened because of me, and not after you've had that much to
drink."

"I promise, though," he continued, wiping his eyes slightly, "that I'm not
going to call you a whore anymore, not even as a joke."

"But AM a whore." I spoke haltingly.  Between the alcohol and pent up
feelings I had released earlier, I was no longer capable of a coherent
sentence.  My brain had started making connections, though.  I had been
miserable for more than a month because of what George had done.  Maybe
Ð just maybe Ð I didn't have to feel that way.  What would happen if
I decided to play the role in which I had been cast that night?  What if I
continued to play it?  "Took his money.  Makes me whore."

"No, honey," Jeremy protested.

"Uh huh," I insisted.  I pointed to the wadded bills on top of the desk.
"Paid.  You did, too.  Should fuck you."

Jeremy looked at the money and then back to me. It was difficult for me to
read his face.  Well, either of them, since my eyes seemed to have stopped
working in tandem.  "That's not what that was for," he insisted.  "That was
toÑ"

"Paid," I insisted.  "Can have me."

"I can't do this right now," Jeremy said in exasperation.  "I'll make you a
deal, then.  I'll take the money back so you don't think I'm buying your
cock right now."

"JermÉmenÉJermenyÉ"

"We could probably fast fuck out a quickie," he continued.  "But if we did,
I would regret it, and you wouldn't remember it.  You're not in the right
state."  His voice softened a bit.  "If we go to bed, I would want you to
remember it.  If you still want to after you sober up, then we can talk."

"Paid," I insisted.  My brain sloshed stubbornly around this single
thought.  I was not going to let him out of the transaction if I could help
it. If I was going to be a whore, then I needed to follow through when the
cash was on the furniture.

"Good God!  You're stuck on this, aren't you?."  Jeremy's eyes flashed as
he inhaled deeply and let it out.  "Since you won't let this go, I'll make
you a deal."  He picked up the wadded bills.  "I'm taking this back, but
only for now.  Once you sober up again, if you still think you're a whore
because of that the creepy old fuck did to you, come find me."Jeremy waved
the cash in front of me.  "I'll give you this if and when we screw at some
point in the future if you still think you're a whore then.  Do you think
that'll make you happy?"  His voice softened.  "I don't think that's what
you really want, though.  You are not a whore, Nathan.  You're not a
hooker."

"Yes, I am," I whispered as confidently as I could even though I could no
longer feel my lips.  Somehow, the conjunction of events and liquor and
catharsis were leading to my inevitable embracing of this scheme.  Knowing
more of how that night had happened combined with all the vodka in my blood
and the money on the desk, and ideas were being solidified in my head.

George had wanted me badly enough to give me two hundred dollars without
even discussing it with me first.  Jeremy had, in a roundabout and maybe
reluctant way, indicated that he would also be open to the idea.  If these
two men were open to the idea of paying me to fuck, there would surely be
more.

As Jeremy took my hand and lead me through the hallway and abandoned dance
floor, my decision had been made.  Where George had called me "whore" to
demean and humiliate me, I would embrace the term.  What Jeremy had called
me in jest, I would pursue seriously.  If George thought I was worth two
hundred dollars, I could easily work my way to being worth at lot more.

We entered back into the middle section of the bar, where Erik had been
waiting for us.  "Nathan," he said anxiously, "are you two good?"

"Oh, I'm good," I said.  "Him too."

Jeremy fluttered his hands in our direction as he went back to the main bar
to resume his shift.  He didn't know it (and neither did I), but his slip
of the tongue several weeks before was going to result in a nice
supplemental income for me for several years.

After three glasses of straight vodka, I was in no condition to walk myself
back to Erik's car.  He took my elbow and walked me out the door,
apologizing to the people I bumped into as I bobbed and weaved unsteadily.
When we got to Erik's car, he had to practically pour me into the front
seat and fasten the safety belt around me.  As he bent over me to insert
the buckle into the latch, I kissed his cheek and thanked him for taking me
out.  I fell asleep before he even got into the driver's side of the car.

I awoke the next morning stretched out on the futon in my living room.
Erik had left a note saying he was locking my door and putting the keys in
the mail box.  He also encouraged me to take two ibuprofen and drink lots
of water when I woke up.

I went upstairs to the medicine cabinet and popped a couple of
over-the-counter pills into my mouth, dry swallowing them.  I undressed,
turned on the shower, and got in.  As I stood in the warm water, I opened
my mouth and swallowed a few mouthfuls.

Despite Jeremy's reassurances that I would not remember what happened in
the dressing room that night, I did.  I remembered realizing that there
were men who would pay me for sex, and I really liked both having money and
sex.  I remembered Jeremy saying that we could have screwed but the timing
was wrong.  I remembered the smell of his cologne and the feel of both his
apologetic kiss on my neck and his nipple between my fingers.

I had some planning to do.  If I was going to do this properly and start
having sex for money on a regular basis, I needed to put some thought into
how I was going to go about doing it.  How would I find likely customers?
It would be essential to protect myself, both physically and medically.
Portland was not a big city with a wide pool of potential clients, so I
would have to figure out how to get the word to travelers that my services
would be available.  Then there was also the question of what my services
were going to be and how much I was going to charge.

I showered away the guilt of the previous days and weeks.  My sense of
shame left me as I set my mind to getting paid for getting laid.

I was going to be a whore, and I was going to have a ball doing it.

But first, I was going to close my eyes, think of Jeremy, and jerk a big
wad of cum all over the inside of that shower.  Even whores have needs.