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First pages


Most people think I talk like a guy, but I couldn't give two shits about what they think. Suffice it to say that when you've sucked as much cock as I have, you tend to pick up bad habits from the male species; that includes drinking and smoking. I know a proper lady would do none of those things even when they are locked away in their bedrooms with their God-fearing soul mates, but let's face it, that's why we have prostitutes. If a prudish wife started doing all kinds of kinky shit for their husbands, sooner or later those husbands start to question the virginal histories of their immortal beloveds and well, I'm fairly certain the witch trials of Salem were started that way.

But I digress, ranting on random topics—this isn't what I had in mind. The whole point to typing this out (currently on a semi-restored Antares Parva typewriter—yes, I'm a big fan of Bill Burroughs) is to get my thoughts down on paper from my experiences both as a prostitute and a time traveler. Both occupations have been equally taxing, but in the end, I wouldn't trade either for a quiet life. I submit this is equal to some atavistic quality left over from millions of years of evolution. When a house cat gets a taste of the outside world for too long, they just can't go back. They're feral forever.

That's me. I'm feral.

But it's not so bad. There are dozens of benefits to being an asshole in female clothing. You can judge for yourself after reading this whether you agree or not. In the end that will probably say a lot more about you than it will me, so be forewarned.

So where to begin? It's probably best if I start back to where I remember. That was ten years ago. Everything before that is a blank. Why I've never been able to recall my past before the amnesia hit is a big mystery, as is the reason that I got amnesia in the first place. Some people say I fell down and hit my head, while others say I just laid down on the floor of the saloon and went to sleep. I reckon one day I'll see something from my past life that will trigger a memory, and I'll have this big moment of reckoning, but it hasn't happened yet—probably because I'm rarely in one time period for very long. You can thank Tesla for that.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's go back to that fateful night in 1904, south side of London. The premiere dive-bar whorehouse in that neighborhood was the Piccadilly. It was owned and operated by the notorious Martha "Ma" Dugan. Few customers ever crossed Ma and that includes men. I saw her shave off a man's ear with a straight razor once and not even blink. She built the whorehouse after marrying into money and then offing her husband, so the story goes. But she could be charming and even beautiful if pressed. Even though she's a squat little troll, I've seen her all dolled up in lace and chiffon with an elegant swoop to her gray-haired mane and, even with a dash of turkey neck, she can still be sexy. But I don't want to get side tracked on other people's lives just yet. This story is about me.

So I'm told the evening was a fine one, not too hot, not too cold. The watered-down liquor was flowing and everyone was in high spirits. Because supply could not meet demand—not because there weren't enough prostitutes, but because there weren't enough rooms—there were always plenty of customers in the lobby or at the bar chatting it up with the girls. I can imagine Ma Dugan staring out her large oval window from her office up on high looking down on everyone. She'd be disgusted by all the humanity while at the same time waving her sloe gin in her hand, should any of the patrons notice her.

At about 11:00 pm is when I strolled in, the locals tell me. I was dressed in what can only be referred to as a "crazy outfit" with lots of silvery shiny pieces to it. I've since turned the entire house upside down looking for this dress, but to this day, I haven't found it anywhere. It is as irrevocably gone as is my memory.

Most of the customers assumed I was one of the working girls as I laughed, hugged, and swooned over any man who would buy me a drink. When several of them realized I had no intention of sleeping with them, they complained to management. There was a scene, I smashed a bottle over someone's head, I was nearly stabbed by one of the girls, and when Ma got involved, I was on my way to being physically thrown out the front door.

That's when it really went to shit, or so I am told.

About three feet from the door as I was being half dragged, half carried by some goons, a faint blue lightning began to ripple from the walls. That night I don't remember it, but I've seen the phenomenon many times thereafter. Before the lightning begins, there is a faint hum in the ground, like you're not sure if you feel it in your ear or in your bones. As the lighting dances and arcs from wall to wall in slow motion, the high pitch squeal begins. You want to hold your hands over your ears while at the same time, covering your heart because your chest is caving in from some overwhelming amount of pressure. Then comes the thunder, the bright light, then dark and then POOF, you're no longer there.

I am told that Tesla himself was sprinting from the building with a wrench in his hand trying to escape through the front door and pushing a goon out of the way, thus, dropping me to the ground. Who is Tesla you say? If you are living in a time period with Internet, look it up. He's one of the founding fathers of well, wonder and awe.

You see, while high fallootin' places had light bulbs, the south end of London was still stuck using gas lamps and candles. It put a nice moody glow to any room (and hid just how ugly your whores were) but Ma Dugan was always eager to take it up a notch. She had been approached by Tesla who offered to give her a self-powered generator that would not only give her lights but keep her icebox cold without having to pay for ice blocks. Since the project was experimental and he feared it would fall into the hands of his competitors, he had to have someplace to test it off the beaten path where no respectable inventor could be found. Ma Dugan was reluctant to trust him, but drunk on the idea that she'd own the only whorehouse in the south end with light bulbs in every room, she gave in to his demands just so long as he didn't fire up the contraption on a busy evening. She'd be ruined if there was a fire and customers got trampled because some hack inventor was playing God in her basement.

He apparently fired up the contraption anyway. What followed was sheer bedlam. Janine has told me this story countless times, and in every version, she is the only person to drag my body out of harm's way before I am trampled to death by a mob of flustered, half dressed men. Her whole story could be bullshit, but since I was out cold, I really can't say. More on that twat later.

Along with me, apparently all the girls passed out, even Ma. When they came to, all the men were gone. Their clothes were still there, smoking and smelling of overcooked steak, but their owners were never to return. Some of the girls like to think that when the time jump happens, any man still inside the whorehouse just gets left behind, and I think that's great being an optimist when you fuck for a living, but frankly, it's pretty obvious to me that any man still present within these walls is fried into dust. That's just how it works.

Why? Fuck if I know. I don't like to go down to the basement if I have to because that contraption is still down there and well, pretty much has a life of its own. As in, if you try to fire it up, it might not turn on, even if you're desperate. Then ten days later, something happens and suddenly, that hum is in the ground and you know you better get your ass back to the whorehouse quickly. Otherwise you'll be stuck in some part of history where women are cattle or everyone shits where they eat —or worse.

One thing we've learned after jumping through time so much is that the contraption won't respond unless we perform some sort of odd "activity" in that time and place. What kind of activity? Sometimes we have to solve a mystery or find a missing person, other times, it's something simple like, pushing someone out of the way of an out-of-control horse carriage. One time, this bitch named Queenie went out hunting for deer and shot a small Tasmanian tiger right between the eyes. Minutes later the hum started and she got back just in time (dragging her Thylacine carcass behind her) before the house jumped. She was lucky—others, not so much.

Yes, I've seen a Tasmanian tiger, although it was in fact, very dead. It had beautiful black stripes on its haunches. No bigger than a German Shepard, Queenie ended up skinning it and the skeleton is in a glass case in the foyer leading to the saloon. I watched her skin the thing and then cook up the steaks. Fucking barbarian. Those tribes in America do some crazy ass shit—and I had to room with her for a month!

So generally, we have to perform some good or odd deed before we can jump through time again. After four years of it, we still have no idea why, but if Tesla is behind it, Ma has vowed to cut his balls off should she ever get the chance. From what we can tell about history he lead a fairly long life. Can we change history and turn him into a gelding before his time is up? Hard to say, because none of us are sure we are changing history or merely fixing it. You'd be surprised how many late night gab sessions the girls and I have had over this topic, and while none of us are experts in quantum mechanics, we all have our theories.

And it gets weirder, because every time we jump to another time in history, none of the locals are shocked. It's as if our quaint little house of ill repute has always been there. Some times the brothel's history goes back only a few months, while other times, the building has been standing well over 100 years. In Chicago when we landed in the 1930's, it was first a hotel, then a restaurant, then a Chinese Laundromat, and then finally a whorehouse. Think that's strange? Then get a load of this, all of our clothes and most of our technology change as well.

One time I was about to go reverse cow girl on some schlep with a thick wallet and suddenly the jump begins and my high priced Victoria Secret lingerie turns into a frumpish nightgown that covered up my naughty bits 100%. Incidentally, I tried to shoo the poor bastard out the window before the jump but he was too drunk and well, let's just say I threw away the bedding.

Oh, one time I had my hair permed in a very 80's fried blond hairdo and when the jump came, all of my hair was gone and I had some weird tattoo on the back of my skull. True story.

But it's not just our clothes that change, sometimes we suddenly own a robot butler. Other times, Ma's precious light bulb system vanishes and we have candles again (although the contraption in the basement never changes.)

And did I mention every single dumb ass whore on the premises can speak whatever language the locals speak? I've easily spoken several dialects of Chinese, Russian, French, Hungarian Gypsy gutter-speak, even a bit of Olde English, which is barely English at all if you're from any time after the 1500's. Of course I remember hardly any of it when the next jump comes.

How are we able to easily speak all of these languages? How does the building, our hairdos, the very fabric of our brains get tweaked depending upon what period we've dropped into? Our only answer so far is the contraption. It's down there in the cellar glowing quietly all the time. I know it's always on because I can feel it humming gently from the other side of the house. It's controlling our lives every step of the way, and I hate that. When I get too much whiskey in me and my ass is sore from getting pummeled by too many well-hung black studs, I daydream about waltzing down there with a baseball bat and going to work on the thing. I think some days for many of us, the only thing that keeps us from destroying the device is that added benefit of supreme longevity. Whatever age your were when the demonic device was turned on, then so long as you keep jumping through time with the house, you never get old. You don't age a single day. I'm twenty-six (I think) have an ass that won't quit and the perkiest tits this side of the Mason-Dixon Line, so that's just fine with me.

And if we were ever uncertain that the longevity sticks with us even though we don't make the jump, those hopes were dashed when one poor girl never made it back to the front porch before the house split; we met her great great grandkids several jumps later. She's dead now. I'm not. I have to keep telling myself that's why I stick around.

But there are other reasons to remain immortal. Life is one big fuck fest! You could only dream of the hotties I've screwed. Diplomats, spies, movie stars, athletes, you name it. All have fallen prey to my feminine wiles.

Sometimes we materialize into a little slice of the universe where the technology isn't backwater, and the female race has equal footing. When that happens, and we have enough money hidden in our mattresses, we make a vow to do as little as possible. As in, don't save anyone from a burning building, don't uncover a villainous plot to overthrow the Ottoman Empire, don't feed stray animals, don't make a stand to protect anyone, don't do anything that can alter the world too much—and that includes falling in love or having someone fall in love with you. Getting your heart broken is just as world changing as successfully assassinating well-known diplomats.

One time we were thrust into Italy, and it was divine. For seven whole months, we wined and dined and partied like it was the end of the world. No matter how many clues the universe threw at us, we never lifted a finger to do more than eat, sleep, and fuck like ice weasels. Then Mussolini came to power and the party was over. That's how it is with our little time travel microcosm; if we don't walk the path that's been laid out to us, then eventually, everything goes tits up.

Chapter 1

So let's talk about the present and our current predicament....

When the dust settled, and several of us had stopped puking (time travel does that to even the seasoned veterans) we recently found ourselves in the Old West, in America. We'd just come off three months in New York City circa 1972. It had been a nonstop party and, Jesus, the stupid mistakes I made. That's what happens when you're high all the fucking time. Cocaine was getting tossed around by the handful like flour at a baker's convention. I even snuck in to Studio 54 and danced the night away with models and artists from all over. I think I got hammered with Edie Sedgwick as well although I don't usually name drop.

Just being a few blocks too far away from suck and fuck central was a big risk. What if the hum started and you were stuck in traffic? What if you were in a club listening to really loud music and you didn't sense the vibrations in the walls because they were being drowned out by the bass in the speakers? I liked 1972, especially in New York, but I didn't want to be stuck there and have to live my life out through the Reagan Era. Besides, a part of me always feared that if I missed the boat before it left the docks, I'd not only be stuck there, but that I'd grow old immediately, as in, for every year I cheated death living in a time-traveling whorehouse, I'd get all those years heaved onto my figure and suddenly I'd fall to the pavement and shrivel into an old woman in the middle of Times Square. It sounds ridiculous, but my life had grown far beyond unbelievable flights of fancy. Anything is possible.

At least I wasn't stupid enough to have unprotected sex. STD's followed us through time. I didn't want to wake up in a less developed era only to find out I had AIDS or herpes or something else ancient people would try to drive away with sandalwood incense.

Never being a big fan of condoms (who wants to smell like tire tread?) I had refrained from much full-on screwing in the Big Apple. That only made me hungry for wilder times and wilder men.

Staggering to a standing position after we landed, I peered out the first window and saw horses tied up to wooden poles, dust everywhere, the smell of dung on the streets; uptight wives in pink bonnets perusing store windows. This was going to be like shooting ducks in a barrel.

After every jump, Ma had mandated that we all squeeze into her office and assess where the hell we were. It was a smart idea to make sure we all had our bearings. I'd pull out my collection of encyclopedias to learn about potentially dangerous stuff, then we'd all decide whether or not it was a good idea to stick around, especially if our provisions were running low, or whether to do whatever had to be done and get the hell out of Dodge as soon as possible.

I had broken with tradition and was already wrangling my first customer up to my room. I could hear Ma yelling at everyone from just a few doors down. The sound of her screeching voice was not going to dissuade me from a decent orgasm. It had been too long.

The lucky bastard who got to peruse the goods first was a bit on the young side. Jesse or Jack or some such whatever. He had just got paid for shoeing a bunch of horses and the money was burning a hole in his pocket. He had this gritty, blithering idiot-like smirk to his face as he started to get undressed. I don't think he noticed the fact that I had no idea how to take my clothing off; there were ruffles and a corset that made it hard to breathe, not to mention several layers of under garments that might as well have been wool, they felt so rough. Ten minutes ago, back in the 70's, I was wearing a satin tank top and white jean short shorts. I even had the sexy roller skates and the tinted sunglasses! Now, I was wrapped up in so much garment I felt like I was mating with a serpentine chaise lounge as it tried to constrict me within it's upholstered stitches and green, crushed velvet.

My little buddy (this guy was no older than nineteen) had taken off his boots and pants and just stood there, with a toothpick in his mouth wondering what the hell I was doing.

"I think it's sexy if we do it with your clothes on," he whinnied.

"Fine by me," I said, lifting up my dress.

His face was salty and bristly and burned from the sun, his chest was lean lacking any fat whatsoever. He didn't weigh much, but the muscle he had was ribboned in tight casing. Not an ounce of fat on this guy, and barely any hair around his nipples. Just how old was he again? Didn't matter. I was going to systematically make all the girls jealous by having the first man, piss off Ma for breaking with protocol, and most important of all, get my rocks off before tea time.

He was kissing me so hard my lips were getting bent back over my teeth as if I were trying to bite myself. I decided to turn around and just grind on his cock a few times without taking my panties off, you know, like strippers do. I'm fairly certain this guy had never had a lap dance before because he immediately blew all over my ass.

After he caught his breath, he started apologizing profusely. I just smiled and pointed him toward the shower. He stood there gawking at it with his pants around his ankles. Hadn't he ever taken a shower before? Just how rural was this place? From down the hall, the sound of Ma's voice was starting to grate on my nerves.

"So it's official," I heard her bark. "We are stuck in the American wild west, probably mid to late 1800's. And it's all because one of you little cum dumpsters! Did someone save a drowning cat or stop a bullet meant for Harvey Milk? Because I was sipping champagne on a yacht with a Kennedy no less...a KENNEDY... and all of the sudden I can feel the vibration tipping our boat. It's a wonder I made it back here at all."

I suddenly realized that if the old troll really got on my nerves, I could probably lead a mutiny and leave her somewhere really gruesome, like pilgrim times or the age of the troglodyte. Were there prostitutes in cave man days?

"Imported caviar, a private masseuse...I had it all!" I could just see Ma's nib of a spit-stained cigar getting rolled back and forth between her lips while she cackled at the girls. "So here's what's going to happen, you fuck ups. We are going to canvas this one horse town and do every bit of goodwill we can muster to whomever will hold still. We're going to donate to the church, we're going to invent Habitat for Humanity and build houses for the town hobos. We're going to do it all! Whenever you see someone in need, you help out. If you see a half dead crow lying in the street with the vultures surrounding it, you nurse the little bastard back to life."

"Sorry, why are we doing this again?" I heard one of the newer girls say. I could just imagine the air getting sucked out of the room right before Ma exploded.

"Because the sooner we get done whatever needs gettin' done, we can exit this shit-kicking town as soon as possible, you stupid git. Jesus, why do I have to spell it out every time? It's bad enough I have to spend eternity way past my prime stuck with these sagging tits to pay the bills. Where is Larissa? She needs to take point and assess the town's situation."

"I saw her taking some hayseed upstairs right after all the commotion," someone said. I think it was Queenie. Stupid twat.

"Well at least she's got her head in the game," sighed Ma. That was shocking to hear. Ma wasn't in the habit of giving even the mildest of compliments. She must be tired. And seriously, her tits are fine.

"Okla-fucking-homa," I said, leaning against the door. "1894, which means it's not a state yet, just a territory. Which means this area has only been open to white settlers for a couple of years. Which means there are a lot of Choctaw Indians and God knows what they trade in."

"I prefer Native Americans, not Indians," squawked Queenie. She being half Muscogee herself, she was the self-appointed expert on all things tribal. I knew the word Indian was insulting to her and frankly, an entire race of people—but that wasn't going to stop me from getting under her skin. It was a hobby of mine. She's quite the fad in other time periods when she dresses up like a Native American squaw and says stupid shit like, "White devil come from far away and rape the land but our spirits remain strong." It's the Poca-hooker routine and it gets them every time.

We picked her up a few years back in a very dank, 1700's version of Pennsylvania. She was in the process of being hanged for stealing and Ma took pity on her. She's actually the reason why we were there because apparently thirty minutes later, the whorehouse jumped—which was just as well because I was sick of servicing townspeople with rat meat stuck between their teeth.

At first, Queenie was timid and thankful that we saved her, but as we jumped more and more times and she learned about the future of Native Americans, she systematically grew into a Grade A cunt. She became quite cunning hanging out with so many well-travelled whores, but that didn't make her smart, just callous and brittle. I like to remind her of that pretty much every chance I get. That might be the reason she hates me but I think it's something else. If there was any such thing as a lieutenant in this dive, it'd be me and she hates that. She thinks leading people means brutalizing them but that's not what it's about, at least not most of the time. You have to have finesse as well. When I fuck somebody, I look into their eyes. I give a tiny bit of myself away. Queenie can't do that. Empathy and compassion are alien to her and while she always hooks plenty of men on each adventure, they always walk away feeling like they've fucked a mannequin.

All icing, no cake.

I also like to remind her that it was my particle rifle that saved her sorry ass. I blasted the hangman's rope before it went taut and that was from two blocks away! You're probably wondering why I have such an advanced weapon if the technology changes in the brothel every time we jump. More on that later.

"Larissa, please tell these bumpkins about the time period while I take a shower," said Ma. "That's assuming we even had plumbing in this one horse town. And I do hope you got money up front for whatever shit kicker you banged. We really can't run on credit here unless they're a bigwig."

Before I could give some lame explanation about the money probably being in his pants pocket and that he was in the shower, some pudgy-faced local reeking of talcum and sour mash strolls right past me and plants himself in front of Ma. He had these tiny, circular rimmed glasses that hooked behind his ears and white tufts of unkempt hair skewed around his skull. His white collared shirt was stained brown in several places, as was his white apron. He even had a black vest on, like some old time western bartender.

"While you got all the girls here, maybe I should say a few words?" he offered, giving Ma a friendly wink. His voice was gravelly and sputtered, but he took time with every syllable. I figured it wasn't because he was a simple man, so much as one who might fall over from a heart attack from drinking too much. But something about his voice was soothing, like you could trust him because he talked slowly from living a hard life, and he wouldn't judge you from living yours. One look at this guy and hearing him speak really threw me for a loop. I felt like I could immediately trust him, as I would my own father (did I ever have one?).

Not the kind of gut feeling I usually get from a pimp. There's a kind of a universal aura to men who use women. I've met many of them in my travels, and no matter what era, what culture or timeframe, they all irk me the same way. They tend to find a woman's weak points quickly and then utilize their shortcomings at every turn. I've tried to teach the girls about how to handle these types, but I'm not sure if any of it sticks. Most women don't get into prostitution because of their strong willpower.

This big teddy bear standing in front of Ma (with a meat clever in his hand no less!) was actually calming to my nerves. Best to keep an eye on him. It could all be bullshit and that's just how he wraps his praying mantis claws around his victims; be as innocuous as possible, make your prey feel comfortable... and then strike!

Ma's eyes were open wide. It had been some time since we had to share the place with another owner. Certain timeframes would never have a woman owning the entire building; it just didn't jive with historical events. That meant Chuckles here was probably the owner of the saloon and probably had final say in all business matters.

"Well it's great to meet you all on the eve of our grand opening. There's still a lot to do on the place before we officially start getting customers—even though it looks like we've had a soft opening already." He looked in my direction and winked again. I could feel myself blushing.

"But no matter. That fella can go tell his buddies what a swell establishment this place is and hey, I reckon that's free advertising!" He laughed out loud and held his belly like fucking Santa Claus.

"My name is Norval Ingraham, but everybody just calls me Norvie or Whistle. You can probably guess that not having my two front teeth allows me to reach certain angelic heights of pitch when I want to. But I ain't one to brag. I can say that if I whistled as loud as I could, some of you might pass out!"

Another big belly laugh. Some of the girls giggled, and I don't think they were laughing at him, so much as with him. Most of these bitches are a callous gaggle of hardened veterans too, so yes, getting a whore to let her guard down is saying something, especially with this group.

"Now Martha and me here are gonna make sure you women folk get treated right. That means decent pay and decent conditions. If any of the men give you trouble, you come to me and we'll set'em straight. Just make sure that you're doing right by them first. If everyone sticks together, we can have a tight knit little team here. He clasped his fingers together and held them up for everyone to see, which was odd because he must have discreetly hooked his cleaver to the side of his belt without me noticing. Smooth motherfucker.

"It sounds like you've all worked with Martha before so you know what to expect from her and pretty soon, you'll know what tans my hide or gets a bee in my bonnet as well, but trust me, I'm a fairly patient man, and I don't assume anything about anyone until I really get to know them. But looking around, I can see you're a seasoned group of tough, but charming girls just trying to make it in the big world, so no judgment here. But just to warn you, this town is rough around the edges and barely built. We're one of the few watering holes, which is great for business, but the Indians are always angry, and we finally got enough populace for a church to be made. I'm a God-fearing man, myself. But I'm fairly certain the preacher and his wife are going to try and make things rough on us here, so please don't do anything to irk them. The preacher—Winston is his name—is slicker than greased weasel shit on a door knob, so don't trust him. I certainly don't. Ah see, you got me cursin' and it's not even noon yet. I'm just a little nervous being the only man in a room full of beautiful women, so I will bid you all adieu for now. I'll be downstairs out back working on the chickens. We'll have a big feast tonight and tomorrow night, we'll be open for business!" He then proceeded to nod to every woman in the room as he walked out.

As soon as his footsteps could be heard creaking down the steps to the saloon, Ma sat down and rubbed her temple.

"Slick tongued pervert thinks he can tell me what to do," she muttered.

"I don't know, he seems kind of honest," I said. "May not be so bad."

"Oh please, don't fall for the Papa Bear routine. He's no doubt a child molester or rapist. Probably has vagrants locked in his basement. Nobody's that nice in this era."

She talked like she was an expert on the Old West, but I knew she wasn't. We'd passed through this time period before on other sides of the planet, but not here. Ma's knowledge was limited to westerns or TV reruns. This was going to be fun watching her figure it all out while having to acquiesce to Norval on every decision. I don't think she'd had to share leadership with a man since that incident in ancient Mongolia. That was a hoot.

When I got back to my room, I had forgotten that I left a hayseed alone amongst my belongings. He was standing naked with a towel around his waist rubbing his wet head with a hand towel. Fucking animal.

"You got some crazy stuff in here!" he bellowed, looking around the room with that smiley squint of his. "And hot water. Man, that was divine."

"Glad you approve." I sat down on the bed and pulled a cigarette from a holder I kept on the nightstand.

"This here it a safe? Because it looks like a safe, but nothing like I've ever seen before." He scratched his head in curiosity like a chimp.

"Yes, it's a safe. Got everything important to me in there."

"Who built it?" he asked.

"No idea," I said truthfully.

"Did you have it made custom?"

"Nope, came that way."

He walked over to it and whistled, eyeing it up and down like it was some other sweet piece of ass. "What year did it come out?"

"Probably 2052 or thereabouts," I said, puffing on my cigarette.

He chuckled and ran his hand down the side of my own, very personal, very private safe. "Bet you got some important stuff in there," he pondered.

"Just personal stuff," I assured him. "A gun, some nice shoes, a dildo, you know... what every woman wants."

"You talk funny," he said. "But I like it."

"If you like how I talk, you're gonna love how I fuck." I lifted up my dress to show him I'd taken my panties off.

"Um, wow. That is just great," he said smiling. Then he frowned. "Do I have to pay extra 'cause I salted my horse earlier?"

"No baby," I cooed. "We'll make that one a freebie. Courtesy of the house. This is all about the soft opening."


About me

Living on the streets for years as both a heavy drug user and on-again off-again prostitute, Tessa learned to write through an outreach program provided by the state. She learned to write her thoughts down and in turn, exorcise many of the demons that had plagued her early years. After winning a weekly newspaper writing contest, she was inspired to keep going. This is her first novel.

Q. Why do you write?
When I write, I don't have to look in the mirror. I don't have to judge how my hair looks. I don't have to question whether I'm exercising enough. Those little girl emotions inside of me aren't trampled on by the world's expectations. I can just breathe...and write stories.
Q. What is the inspiration for the story?
I knew a prostitute like the main character once. She was wild and free and never took shit from anyone. The people around her respected her voice. When she spoke, people listened. She had the light of a thousand suns behind her eyes. I only hope I am doing her memory justice.
Q. What was the hardest part of writing this book?
The voices in my head kept saying my story concept was ridiculous. I constantly stopped and started writing. Not because of writer's block, but because of extreme self doubt. Blood sweat and tears of the ages went into the creation of this story.