THE EMILY POST OF
THE WHOREHOUSE
I knew her; good manners, nice breeding, always
said and did the right thing, properly. I guess that's
why I liked her so much and kept going back for
more. I called her 'Gusher Gail.' She never minded.
She kept a nice room on the third floor south - some
curtains, a large bed, a small sitting room too, with
a couch from the distance of France - so she said.
We'd sit and we'd talk, just trying to make sense
of why I kept coming back, trying to understand this
attraction. Then I'd say 'let it go', and we'd begin.
It was never the same, always different, but always
alike - thirty-five minutes, two hours, who ever knew?
Afterwards, half-light again, we'd again just talk - to
go on about a million ways of doing, a hundred thousand
ways of dealing with this life. We two, cats in a cradle,
dogs in a house, rich people in the parlor of a pauper.
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