In the last Harlotry, our resident sex worker explained how she was tricked into a terrifying situation with a friend in Florida. Check out Part 1 here.
After a few hours of sleep, Severine and I were ready for whatever horrors awaited us at the office. We got ready to leave, and then had to wake Eric up.
For maximum creepiness, Eric lived in the model home with the rest of the girls. I went across the hall and hammered on the door.
“Come in,” came a muffled shout from inside the room.
I was going to do no such thing. Instead of coming in, I cracked the door and yelled “time to go!” before slamming it again. I hoped that would do the trick because I sure as hell wasn’t going to darken the door of the filthy room myself.
Fortunately, my attempts were successful. Eric soon staggered out of his room in the same filthy jersey he had worn the day before. We piled into the filthy minivan and Eric drove us to the office.
Neither of us was sure what to expect, but we certainly didn’t think the office would be what it was: a small storefront in a rundown strip mall with printer paper pasted over the windows and door. The marquee above the door simply read 211 6th Street Private Office, as if posting the address would deflect attention from the shadiness of the building.
We rang the bell and were buzzed into a dingy little windowless room. Half walls partitioned off a little office area where an angry-looking woman in a cheap, matted lace-front wig sat in front of four telephones. A dark hallway lined with doors led to the back, and the whole place smelled faintly of clothes left too long in the washing machine. There was a big sign on one wall claiming that the office was a drug free workplace, and a sad, pathetic, two foot Christmas tree in one corner. There was a terrible aura of desperation around the whole place.