Diary of a One-Legged Prostitute

a one-legged prostitute: it defin

erfume and desperation. I lean against the doorway of my favorite coffee shop, "The Daily Grind," now more ironic than inviti

accident when I was 18. Ironic, really, considering I now make my l

, Mr. Henderson is a nervous accountant looking for an "experience." I pull out my phone, check the tim

s with his tie and glances around nervously. Time to put on the charm. I push mysel

on? Welcome t

t a moment too long on my prosthetic leg before

the warmth of his clammy palm against m

e-I can't help but think about how absurd this all is. Here I am, leading a man into a r

ask how I do this-how I can

b. You put on a mask, play a role

k involves a lot less clothin

ht recognize him. Poor guy probably thinks this is some sort of secret society for

loor in silence; it's awkward enough

rings you he

to pay for sex with someone who has an actual disability. "

e ordering pineapple on p

nt, his tension eases. Good; humor is

ch Room 312, I can hear muffled sounds from other rooms-laughter mixed wit

is small but cozy enough; dim lighting casts soft shadows on the walls adorned with questionable a

I say as I toss my bag onto

shoved deep into his pockets as if trying to

beacon in this sea of uncertainty. "Well, Mr. Henderson," I say playfu

rying to process what th

ever you want tonight-no

e he's beginning to understand that this isn't just

ds and takes another step into the r

enture together-a dance between vulnerability an