LITMIR.BIZ

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we loaded it into the Max. Following her directions, I headed north on Interstate 15 and then out into the desert on Highway 95. On the way, Victoria did most of the talking, filling me in on more of her views about women, sex workers, prostitution laws, and the “misogynistic double standards pervading our entire socio-political landscape.”

      She really talked like that. It was weird to hear that kind of dialogue coming from a platinum-blonde prostitute who sold lipsticks, and I was surprised to find I agreed with her more than I disagreed. I’ve never understood why people keep trying to make laws about what consenting adults do in private, and it seems to me that governments would be better off regulating and taxing prostitution than wasting money trying to stamp it out. Victoria still struck me as an exhibitionistic media hound, but I found myself admiring her courage. She was standing up to the bigwigs at American Beauty and to their high-powered lawyers, and she was standing on principle. The owner of the Beavertail wanted her to shut up, too.

      “I knew I was setting myself up for a public lynching when I went to Albuquerque for the regional pageant,” Victoria said. “But I also figured it was my big chance to really—finally—make a difference. You shouldn’t have to keep it a secret if you’re a sex worker. You should be able to tell people and feel proud that you’re in a profession that helps people. It’s kind of like teaching, or nursing.” I could see her looking at me in my peripheral vision, seeing what I thought of this argument and calculating what she would say next.

      “And even if you do nothing more than provide pleasure and entertainment,” she went on, “what’s so bad about that? Isn’t that what actors do, and singers? How come only prostitutes get treated like lepers?”

      I said nothing, but my mind was whirling. I didn’t know whether I agreed with Victoria’s reasoning, but I didn’t want to argue with her. I just wanted her to keep talking.

      “Sometimes I think it’s hopeless,” Victoria said, “and these days I worry a lot about my husband and my son. Richard—that’s my husband—he totally has my back, but he’s a private kind of guy, and now he avoids going outside the house or answering the phone. And we’re both worried about our son—”

      Victoria paused. We both sat silent for a few seconds. I could tell Victoria was struggling with what to say next.

      “Copper, I’ve got to finish what I started. Otherwise—well, what did I do any of this for? Meeting you was a sign. You showed up unexpectedly, like a spirit guide or—” She stopped herself. “I’m sorry. That’s just what the Crone Witch would say.”

      The Crone Witch? Who—or what—was that? Where was this conversation going? Maybe my family and coworkers were right. I had no business heading out into the desert with—

      “What I mean is, you came on your own time yesterday,” Victoria said. “You must really be interested in the issues.”

      “I am,” I said slowly, buying myself time while I considered what to say next. “But I don’t know if—”

      “Is David your boyfriend?”

      “What? No!”

      “Well, he likes you. That’s pretty obvious.”

      I could feel a blush creeping up my cheeks, and I hoped it didn’t show in the dark.

      “He’s just a colleague,” I said. “We went to the same college.”

      “I wish you were writing the story,” Victoria said.

      “David’s an excellent writer. He’ll do a good job.”

      “He’s a guy. Even my husband doesn’t always understand.”

      God, how could her husband ever understand? I wondered. I just couldn’t get my head around the idea of multiple sex partners. I’ve never bought into the “save yourself for marriage” credo, but I’ve always been a serial monogamist. So, pretty much, have my friends. It’s always been kind of an unwritten rule that you don’t warm the sheets with a new flame until you’ve shown the old one the door. It’s a mix of morality, self-image, and fear of disease, I think. It’s bad karma to cheat, unpleasant to be labeled a slut, and getting herpes is an obvious downer. But here was Victoria, a married mother, sharing her assets with all comers. Her marriage seemed to be intact, and she didn’t seem the least bit worried about being damned to hell or any other dire moral consequence. I was dying to know more about what went on inside her head, but I didn’t feel comfortable enough to ask, at least not yet.

      “Everybody always says men can separate sex from love with no trouble,” Victoria said, “but that’s not what they do at all. They just divide women into two categories. The ones they can take home to Mama, and the ones they can’t.”

      And which are you? I wondered. Does your husband’s mama know what you do?

      “Do you believe in love?” I asked.

      Victoria was silent a moment before she answered.

      “No. I don’t believe in love.”

      Well, that explains how you do your job, I thought.

      “Do you believe in toothaches?” she asked.

      “What?” I glanced at her. “I don’t think pain is something you believe in. It just happens.”

      “That’s how I feel about love. It isn’t a matter of belief. It shows up and—eats you alive.”

      We were both silent a moment.

      “Everything I do, I do for love,” Victoria said. “I do it for my husband and my kid, but the world thinks I do it for money.” She laughed. “Actually, they’re right. I ‘do it’ for money.”

      “It’s a business,” I said, trying to keep her talking without injecting my own views into the conversation.

      “Yes. It’s a business. And I care about my clients the same way a lawyer or a doctor cares. I don’t take them home with me, but I care.”

      “Who are they?” I asked.

      “Your dad, your uncle, your brother.”

      My brother. I sincerely doubted it. My dad? Never!

      “So—ordinary guys.”

      “And some not so ordinary. I just spent a few weeks teaching a half-paralyzed bull rider how to have sex again. His fiancée sent me flowers.”

      She shrugged.

      “And some are disgusting, frankly. Smelly, perverted, violent—you name it. But talk to a public defender sometime. They get bad guys for clients, too. It doesn’t make their work less valuable.”

      “What about romance?” I said. “Do you believe in that?”

      “Of course. What would life be without wine and roses?”

      I didn’t say anything.

      “The only real difference between a traditional date and a date at a brothel is honesty.”

      She paused, but I still didn’t have anything to say.

      “Think about it, Copper,” she said. “A guy buys you dinner and a movie. He’s expecting sex in exchange, right?”

      “Maybe,” I said.

      “No maybe about it. He does. But he never knows if he’s going to get it, and that’s why so many guys like brothels. No games. You pay to play, and everybody gets lucky. And let me tell you, I get a lot more than food and a flick for a f—for my services.”

      I found myself resisting her logic. I hadn’t worked out a coherent argument, but I knew there was more to dating than negotiating for sex. My relationship with Daniel certainly had a lot more to it. We’d hammered it out on many levels, and we were even beginning to think in the long term.

      “Here’s the turnoff,” Victoria said. “Make a left.”

      The

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