All Golpo Are Fake And Dream Of Writer, Do Not Try It In Your Life

“Who wants to go?

A caller requested a thin blond girl. Ray cupped his hand over the receiver.
“Who wants to go?” he asked. “Short Chinese guy, comes in two seconds. Last girl had an easy time.”
“I’ll do it,” said Bella. She was a ballroom dancer with a narrow face, sky-colored eyes and bony shoulders. She’d arrived a few minutes after the delivery service guy left, taking the place of Emilia, a thick-boned Monica Lewinsky type who’d gone home early to write a biology lab report. This was Bella’s first night on the job. She fidgeted in her chair, smoking cigarettes and twisting her dry, bleached hair around her fingers

“Who wants to go?
“Who wants to go?
.Ray spoke into the phone. “Okay, we’re sending over a beautiful girl. Hottest girl we’ve got.” He paused and gestured to Bella. “He wants to know what kind of shoes you’re wearing.”
Bella looked at her scuffed tan high-heeled sandals. “Nine West,” she whispered.
“Manolo Blahnik,” Ray told the receiver. Bella’s eyes went wide. “Okay, we’ll send her over. She’ll be there in thirty minutes.” Ray hung up. “Are ya ready? We’ll send you over in a car.”
“He’s gonna see my shoes!” shrieked Bella.
“He’s not gonna be looking at your shoes,” Ray sighed. “Now listen, we said seven hundred. But see if you can get a thousand. Do it right off the bat, as soon as you walk in the door. And do it with your clothes off. You’re much more powerful with your clothes off.”
Bella nodded. She didn’t look eager to negotiate. “What if he doesn’t want to pay a thousand?”
“Well, that’s up to you,” Ray shrugged.
“You’re worth a thousand,” Leah interjected firmly. “If he says no, leave.”
Bella glanced at Catherine, Marisa and I. “All right guys, wish me luck. No less than a thousand.”
Ray’s excitement approached that of a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. “Remember, clothes off first thing!”
As Bella left, a sleek young Asian woman — shiny, black shoulder-length hair, pointy-toed boots, high cheekbones, impeccable skin — stumbled downstairs with a stocky, dark young guy. They were bleary-eyed and startled to see us. The guy nodded, head down, and left. The woman sat down, smoothed her hair, crossed her legs, and introduced herself as Sandra.
“How’d it go?” asked Leah. “That was her first time,” she explained.
“Fine. It was good,” said Sandra. “What I expected.” She didn’t elaborate, and no one asked her to. Sandra lit a cigarette, picked up an issue of Maxim and casually flipped through it. You never would’ve guessed she had just been naked, ass in the air, with some guy pumping at her. Had she just made a thousand bucks?
I looked over at Catherine. Tall and catwalk skinny, she had been working in a strip club in Queens but wanted to make more money. She had long, straight brown hair, and wore a lot of blue eye shadow and tight black pants. Her trashy club-girl look didn’t quite match her contained demeanor. At first I thought she was older than me, but she turned out to be only nineteen.

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