by Danyl A. Doyle
The wealthy folks of Delta put their noses in the air and snubbed us poor people, especially me, when they discovered I was making a living on my back. I was as disgusted at myself as they were, but I had no choice since my Honda Civic’s motor had exploded and I couldn’t get to work. I couldn’t get a new job because I had no phone or internet to fill out the online applications. Although I have a degree in accounting and I’m computer proficient, I could barely afford to rent a shabby trailer house in an embarrassing trailer park. People blame us as if we were druggies and alcoholics. I don’t know anyone in the small trailer park who uses drugs; instead they sip on a gallon jug of cheap wine. They didn’t party all night, instead they got up and worked long hours at a low-paying job.
Wished I could.
These days, I couldn’t walk downtown without hearing catcalls and jeers from teens as they drove past, mooning me, flipping me off, and yelling, “There’s that trailer park Mexican whore!”
That pissed me off! I wasn’t a Mexican. I was a Texan. I was born in America like my parents and grandparents, but I sure was a god-damned whore.
Saturday night, I walked down the lonely, empty main street of Delta, my black and very tight miniskirt with sequins flashing, my shapely muscular legs beckoning with a black blouse open to reveal my breasts. I was a thirty-year-old, allegedly pretty sex worker, carrying a shopping bag. I wore a black coat that I slipped off when I saw a truck coming because cars were often driven by females.
This wasn’t me.
The black Ford stopped.
I floated above my muscular body, alone and afraid because I needed money to feed my child. We bargained, then I stepped sensually into the truck, my black dress hitching up with a hint of my perfume, Tabu, trailing. He paid so I sucked the guy, and survived one more horribly painful weekend. My child, Paloma, tears in her empty stomach, yearned to attend elementary school in the sunshine-filled morning for a nourishing breakfast and knowledge.
One Saturday night I was dropped off by some man at my ugly white trailer. A monogrammed and expensive dark red envelope sat in the crack of my door. The silver initials were CA, no return address. The handwriting was careful and precise, suggesting an education and discipline. It spoke of watching me on Sundays at the Catholic Church as I sat in the back pew, my head down in shame. It said, “I pray that someday you will look into my eyes to let me see the color of yours. I’m sure you have a beautiful, pure, and innocent spirit, and I’d love to get to know you. If you are as strong and courageous as I think you are, I could love you. Is it possible you could also love me?”
A part of me leaped with hope, another part thought, What man would want to marry me?
He included a USB with a song by Bread, “I’d like to make it with you.”
Shit! I couldn’t stop my tears from wrecking my whore makeup. Running into the dank restroom, I bawled.
Paloma woke up to my dismay. “Mommy, what happened?” She hugged me hard. “Did you get hit again?”
“No sweetie-pie, I’m just emotional.”
“Why Mommy?”
“I don’t know. I just am.”
She led me to our ratty couch and held me close. I thought, God, what would I do without this precious child?
I wondered who had written this lovely missive, a note of desire and yearning. He must be a Catholic. I mentally scanned the men who attended mass regularly. There was only one man within my age bracket, but his family was quite wealthy. He owned a large ranch north of Cedaredge. His mother was a large woman who utterly despised me. Last Sunday as we were walking out from mass, she said, “Coco Mendoza, get out of this sacred space. You’re a whore!” She shoved me.
My skinny ass hit the hard stone floor of the vestibule. I sat in shock, my buttocks hurting, and my ashamed, frightened eyes on the floor. They all knew what I was. Swallowing pain, I suppressed tears of guilt and shame. No way would I let this rich bitch know how much she’d hurt me, but I couldn’t stand with people swirling to each side, afraid of Lysander Austin.
No one said a thing.
Carefully avoiding anyone’s eyes, a nice older man helped me up and got me turned toward the door.
In defiance, I attended mass every chance, sitting in the back, my eyes on the floor. This note must be from one of the widowers. Maybe the man who had helped me up? I wasn’t interested because I wanted a large Catholic family – he was in his eighties like many other men who attended mass.
I forgot about the monogrammed letter.
I was in City Market paying with food stamps when I looked up at the person behind me. To my shock, Lysandra Austin spit a goober in my face. Thick yellow fluid dripped from my nose onto my white blouse bought from Goodwill an hour back.
The checker backed up and stared, her mouth open. The grocery store quietened.
I gasped for air as I dropped my eyes to the shiny concrete floor. My right hand wiped the yellow gob off my face passively as I floated out of my body, my eyes staring furiously at her diamond-choked neck. The cops would arrest me, not her, saying I must have provoked the nasty thing who sat on the Town Council and donated thousands to local charities. My face blistering hot, I walked out, clutching a small bag of food, my stomach roiling like a maddened sea. I was a tramp, not a lady.
Like her.
However, I was respectful and polite. I’d never spit in someone’s face. Such shame the world would never know.
I was born poor.
My mother was deceased and my alcoholic father incompetent in his grief, yet I was a highly trained accountant having received a full ride scholarship to Texas Tech. Thinking it should be legal to give a girl a chance to get on her feet, the hell if I wanted to do sex work. I felt oily and dirty afterwards – quickly douching, then showering as I shuddered. I had no choice: otherwise my child and I would be swallowed by the fog of starvation, drowning mercilessly, no one noticing me or my beautiful child who loved science.
No help from the churches. They were busy collecting money for the glory of God, the Almighty.
Where was He?
Saturday evening, someone driving a new silver Ford truck with red stripes and red dual wheels stopped. A younger man pushed the passenger door open. “Care for a lift? It’s cold out.”
Cautiously, I crawled in since some men like to hurt women. I checked the cab for handcuffs, ropes, and whips before I let the door swing shut. His aftershave was soft and light – an expensive brand. He was handsome with blonde hair and blue eyes. I recognized him from Sunday mass. He was always there with his parents – his mother had shoved me to the church floor and spit on me at the market. My heart rate jumped. Did she send her son to run me out of town?
“Its safe, and I’m honorable.” Blue eyes warm, he said, “My name is Charley Austin.” A warm smile. “Coco, I’d like to get to know you. Can we drive out into the country and talk? I won’t ask you to do anything but talk, and I’ll pay for your time.” He turned on his phone Bluetooth. “I’d like to make it with you,” by Bread sang its soft love into the warm cab.
I grabbed the door handle. It was locked or I would have bailed out. I knew he had a big ranch north of Cedaredge at the foot of Grand Mesa. Why would he be interested in me? Revenge against his horrid mother who ordered everyone around? A desire to fuck the girl that Mommy despised, to spite her? A set-up and he’d beat me to a pulp under Mommy’s orders? My guts spun into a tight knot.
The big fellow slowly pulled from the curb outside the US Bank unlike most men who burned rubber, afraid to be seen with me. “I’ve watched you in church. You always sit in back, keeping your eyes down. You are beautiful and pure and I break my neck trying to get a look at your eyes.” He took a long, deep breath. “Now I have – they are dark brown and deep. They’re lovely and they snap, showing the fire of your spirit.” His soft smile lit the night.
“I’m anything but pure.”
“Your heart is. I know a lot about you. All the men around town want you.”
“They want my body, not my love.” I had lost count of how many men wanted me. A child wept for her mother, trapped in a damp cave, slowly dying alone, dehydrated, and terrified. The Devil reached for her hand… He was a handsome man like this one with blond hair and warm blue eyes.
The fellow handed me a dark red envelope with his monogrammed initials, CA.
I dropped it on the floorboards, fearing it held a drug that would knock me out.
He drove smoothly from town.
“What is your name again?” When nervous, I spoke formally. I wondered what he wanted with a poor whore? Likely it was bondage and humiliation. My right palm sweated as it held onto the door handle; I was ready to jump if he struck me like a fellow did last week. Still had a bruised cheek my makeup could not hide.
“Austin, Charley Aaron – the Third, after my grandfather. He was a cattle rancher from Texas, moved up here for the water. I have a small place north of Cedaredge.” He extended his hand.
Cautiously, I took it.
His grip was warm, loving, and tender.
He casually let my hand drop as if I were his friend, but he wanted something. Did he want to interview a streetwalker for an article he was writing? I’d tell him nothing. The teenager inside me threw her fists and stomped, saying, “I have no choice. I’m not a whore!”
We drove along graveled roads, slowly sharing – him friendly and making light jokes; me, reluctantly answering his questions until midnight, my usual quitting time. He liked that I was from Lubbock, Texas, saying that’s where his grandfather had left with only a dollar in his pocket.
I looked up at him. “My family in Texas is poor, my family here is poor, and I’m desperately poor.”
“Coco, I’m quite well off but I’m very lonely. My family is poor in spirit, and I need a friend.” Tentatively, he touched the back of my hand. “Would you be my friend?”
“You want a street walker to be your friend?” I huffed. “I doubt it.”
“I want you, Coco, to be my friend.” His blue eyes were sincere.
I didn’t believe him.
This was confusing. The only thing I had to offer was my body and he could have it for as long as he wanted. He probably knew my prices because the men told their buddies, bragging about getting my tight wet one.
“I mean it, Coco; I want a good Catholic girl who is as brave as Joan of Arc.” His right index finger lightly touched the back of my hand again. “You’ve shown courage by continuing to come to Mass despite my mother.”
I saw moisture in his soft warm eyes. I was as confused as a golden aspen leaf floating in circles above a roaring campfire.
This was impossible!
“I’m not a good Catholic girl anymore.” My head dropped in shame. I worked the streets on Saturdays since I was occupied during the week walking around town asking for work. I mopped, swept, and washed windows for a little cash, wondering why I could not get a job as a certified public account.
He didn’t try anything so I slid next to him, pretending he was my boyfriend. He gave me a soft smile. My heart melted and I slipped my left hand onto his leg.
He took it with his right hand and drove on. A couple of miles went by, then Charley leaned to sniff my hair. He softly kissed the top of my head, melting my emotions a touch. “I’m sure I could love you, Coco. Think you could love me?”
I looked up with moisture in my eyes, so friggin’ close to crying that my chin trembled. “If you are as honest and honorable as you claim, yes, I could love you, and I would be courageous and loyal.” I thought of how I was staying alive. I hated this work. “I’d do any and everything to make you proud of me.”
“I am an honest and honorable man. I’ll prove it to you, Coco. And,” he looked at me over his shoulder and took my eyes into his, “You won’t believe me, but I am proud of you. It takes courage to do what you’re doing. I need a very strong woman because my mother drives away every female I’ve tried to date.” His chin quivered. “I’m 38 and still unmarried because of my controlling mother. She owns me – she owns my heart, my body, and my soul. She will never let me go.” He gritted his teeth. “I can’t wait to see her arrogant face frowning from a coffin.” His tone softened, “We won’t kiss until you love me, but I’ll pay for your time.”
We were at my embarrassing white and slanting trailer. He opened a thick billfold for me to see inside. “How much do you charge an hour?”
“20 for oral, 50 for the rest, one hundred for a girlfriend experience. Its 500 for the night but you must leave before my daughter wakes up, and you must wear a condom and lube me.”
He handed me ten one hundreds. “This is for spending time with me.”
I pushed it back. “No, please, that’s far too much. We didn’t do anything other than talk. I charge ten an hour for that.”
“You should triple your rates. Thank you sincerely for these precious hours of getting to know you. I know you’re scared, but I’ll earn your trust with every word and every act, or Jesus will take my life. I solemnly vowed to give you all that you need the Sunday my horrible mother shoved you down to the floor after Mass.” He mumbled, “I know what it feels like.”
A moment passed. He tipped my chin up as if to kiss me and looked into my shocked eyes. “I hope you decide you can love me because I know,” he drew the word out, “I can love you.” His pupils were dilated. “Coco, you are the woman I’ve been looking for. I’m lonely and I’ve been seeking you in my dreams and prayers before the altar candles. Finally, I’ve met you, and at last, I know the color of your eyes.” His blue eyes were warm and kind, holding back moisture.
I couldn’t stop the twin tears raced down my cheeks to drip into my black, open blouse and bare breasts. Fuck! I was a whore and I looked like one, yet this gorgeous wealthy man was saying he could love me!
Hope took me into her arms.
My neck burned with terrified desire. I could definitely love this kind and honorable man.
The back of his fingers gently wiped my hot tears away. Again, a near kiss. He smiled. “When you know you can love me, we’ll kiss, but we won’t have sex. I promised my mother I’d be a virgin on my wedding day and cannot, dare not, break it.”
My mouth fell open. “How in the world would she know?”
A slight exhalation. “She spies on me.” He pointed out my window. “There’s a woman in that black car over there.”
“Oh my goodness.” I was suddenly afraid and he sensed it; he warmed me with his big, strong, and protective arms. My heart and my body longed, no, it yearned for this kind man. Yes, yes, I could love you, Charley, but I dared not say it, not yet, not until I knew if he… if he was playing games.
He walked me to the door and bowed as he kissed the back of my hand. We looked into one another’s eyes.
It was wonderful until I remembered the spy in the black car. I looked directly at the lady. Charley pulled my chin back to him. “Ignore her. Otherwise, I’ll have no freedom. My mother will read me the riot act after Mass tomorrow. I’ll listen and nod like I’m agreeing with her that I shouldn’t be seen you.”
He had rescued the letter from the pickup’s floorboards and pushed the dark red monogrammed envelope into my hands. A friendly wave goodbye, “See you at Sunday Mass.” He hesitated. “May I sit beside you?”
It came out too loud, too forcefully, “Yes, please!” I wouldn’t feel so isolated. The good Catholics avoided being anywhere near me because of his dreadful mother.
Inside my embarrassing camper trailer, I pressed his monogrammed envelope to my chest and then smelled it. It held notes of green leaves, apples, and water lotus, creating a crisp, fresh scent. It was an expensive aftershave called Nautica Voyage, speaking of a honeymoon cruise. I fought against the tears of hope that rose from deep inside my empty chest. Could I again love?
It struck me that Charlie cared enough about me to risk his domineering mother’s wrath. For a moment I was proud of him, but would he be able to stay strong. He’d said she ran off every woman he had ever dated. My womanhood quickly went dry.
As I lay on my tossed-out, found by a mailbox, lumpy mattress, I felt tonight was a dream. I reached for the scented envelope, his man scent, and pressed it to my nose once more. No, this paper was real. Was he? Charley seemed sincere, but had he told me the truth? I wept with tears of surprised joy. Jesus had answered my desperate prayers!
But I was in danger. There might be in an unforeseen accident if his mother had her way. Was he worth it? I had a child to worry about. I carefully opened the dark red envelop, fearful of damaging the note inside.
It said, “Please Coco, trust me.”
The poem was from Ovid:
Exert those rosy fingers, rein in awhile.
Seamen out in deep water, eyes fixed on the constellations,
Steer closer before your rising, don’t yaw off course.
Even the weariest traveler’s out to greet you
To offer you love as I do too.
It meant too much. Trust is the basis of a good relationship, without it, love and sex mean nothing. Yet, I had sworn to never trust a man.
I cried and cried.
I could not sleep and in the morning, I was very tired, but extremely excited and confused. I dressed my lovely innocent daughter, then fed her cold, cheap cereal without milk and helped her climb the stairs into the big yellow Delta County school bus.
I was invisible as was my bright child who made straight A’s. She had been twice promoted and at eight, was in the 5th grade. Maybe she’d get a scholarship. She wanted to be an electrical engineer. She had rewired and repaired an old vacuum cleaner with my patient help.
I was craving and desperate, my needs exceeding all expectations. Broke and not desiring, I fucked my customers senseless and sensually – screaming and pounding men’s backs.
They loved me for it.
Tips for the dramatic play.
I was defiled, sour milk running from me, soiling my sheets and men’s truck seats, loathsome. As polluted as my body, I washed my dirty bedding in bleached hot water. Nothing felt clean.
His gift meant I could pretend to be respectable for a week and pay some of the back bills for propane, electricity, and rent. He had saved me a hundred shamed heartaches. Yes, Charley, once I trust you, I will love you with all of my heart, body, and soul
Forever….