The first time, you didn’t know what to wear, and were broke anyway. What you had was a
short, satiny dress, fishnet stockings stolen from CVS on 10th. Shoes didn’t matter, obviously.
The other girls had on corsets and bustiers, thongs, naked legs and feet. The venue was a
dungeon by day; the Doms had taken home their paddles and bullwhips, left the tables bare.
The men arrived, dads and grandpas in tracksuits or business casual, smelling of aftershave and
dollar bills. The deal was, you had to mingle a few minutes, off the clock, let them feel
like they were choosing you, then take them to the tables. The price: $20 for 10 minutes, paid
up front. Anything above the ankle was extra. Your first had stubble on his chin,
it scratched the pads of your feet. They’d sit on the cushion below you, rub your heels, lick at
the sweat between your toes. Some asked to be kicked in the face. Tell me I’m worthless.
You’re fucking worthless. Sucking harder, frantic, pulling on your toes like a pacifier. Please, say
I’m stupid. Another heel to the forehead. You stupid piece of shit. Time’s up. Next one.
Outside, you’re just another research assistant, but in here, you sit up straight, dangle your
legs, get paid. That first night, one of them paid $40 for the fishnet stockings, said he liked
how they smelled. Afterward, you walked taller to the subway, barelegged in the night air.
Tucked into your bra, enough cash to cover the cell phone bill.
Alys Willman is a poet and singer/songwriter in Athens, Georgia. Poetry and music do not pay the bills, so she is also an international development economist. And just in case money becomes irrelevant one day, she and her partner and two sons manage an urban homestead where they keep bees, raise chickens and grow vegetables.