Third You Die

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Listening to them bicker, interrupt, and compete among themselves for who had the most outrageous story, I couldn’t decide which of the sex workers annoyed me most: the busty dominatrix in her black leather halter, too-tight read-my-lips matching slacks, and spiked, knee-high boots; the spray-tanned gay porn actor wearing a muscle-clinging T-shirt and painted-on jeans; or the plushie in the purple dinosaur costume who got off dressing as one of America’s most beloved childhood icons.

“When men come before me,” the dominatrix said haughtily, her imperious tone implying that not only they but we didn’t deserve her time, “I give them something they can’t get anywhere else. The feeling they are totally taken care of, that they no longer have to be ‘in charge.’ I give them the release that can only be achieved with true obedience. I give them the freedom of abandoning control and letting someone else-”

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