Solicitation.

“Hey, prawn.”

That used to be an insult or a warning—when I heard that I would tense, look around and brace myself for danger, altercation. Now it isn’t; it’s a call, a request that’s closer to a demand but still tentative, still polite in the uncertainty of the outcome of this situation.

I could do two things in response to this; acquiesce and submit, or deny and flee. What I have to offer is too valuable, too sought after and rare in its deplorable quality, to risk being damaged…they wouldn’t shoot at me. There’s always the chance, though. They might, if they think that they’re getting blown off or stiffed. Destroy the thing that refuses to obey…that’s the reasoning behind D10 it seems. Grunts appear to think like that when they bring the cattle prods to touch our plating, when they stomp down with heavy boots and squash our flesh into the dust…

Out of fear alone—or is it more? Is this just the life drive, pressuring me to remain alive and aware, or am I seeking death, and becoming unaware? Does it even matter at this point?—I halt, turn around and plaster a masklike grin onto my face. This is my protection…I have no weapons or strength, but only deceit to defend myself with. You know nothing of what I’m thinking, human. You have no idea what I could be planning. I know what you want, but do you know what I want? No. You don’t, and you never will. I’ll sooner die then let you penetrate my brain along with the rest of me. “Yes?”

And then we’re grinding away at it, flesh roughly scraping against flesh for no reason other then the rand note. The rand note…it’s nothing but a slip of paper. Its worth is assumed…you can’t eat money, or drink it when you’re thirsty or use it as a coat when it gets cold. It’s a promise, a chance at getting the things you need; a chance, nothing more.

Is this why the other person enjoys it? Do they think that they’ve won something—they’re getting instant gratification while I must wait to receive mine? I have nothing to show for this, while they’ll walk away flushed, a smirk on their face, delighted and tingling. I have a scrap of printed paper for my troubles.

What the john thinks is immaterial. We’re both filling out our end of the deal, and we could care less what the other thinks. For something supposedly so intimate, sex is cold and detached. I’ll be gone soon enough—he won’t have to look at me again or worry about feeding, clothing, caring about me. If he wants, I’m just a walk down the street, a phone call away. Available, but not always there. All play, no work.

Maybe that’s what they want: detachment. They want it, but without the intimacy, or the work of caring about the thing you’re screwing. I’m not a living, thinking, feeling being to this man—the only part he’s interested in is the bit there between my legs. The rest of me could be rotting, ravaged, wet with decay and he wouldn’t care. He’d still keep grinding away, sending wave after wave of pain spasming up my spine, lengthening the splits in my plating with unconscious rocking motions. I could die and he wouldn’t care.

They want to get something for nothing. That will never happen, though—there’s no such thing as a free lunch, or free love. You have to work, or give something up, if you expect to receive something else in return. It’s a fallacy to even trust that you’ll get anything at all; things don’t turn out the way you want them to.

When the john is gone, I find a pen and scrawl his name on the rand note. He’d like to pay me off and let the world forget what’s happened here. I won’t…I will remember this. For as long as I have this blood money in my possession, I will look at it and remember where it came from and how it came to be mine. The rest of the world may forget—he may forget—but I will not. I cannot.