Madame Lavander

Madame Lavander

Call me, Madame or Madame Lavander. My real name? I almost forgot but I was once called Petronilla when I was but an innocent gal loved and sometimes hated by my family, friends, foes and acquaintances. When was it that I last heard that name? I refused to count the years.

One thing I had learned, was to never look back to memories of the once had been, especially if that had been, will never be relived again. For what was lost was already lost and to hope for the past will be a one way ticket to death with no refund. But sometimes, one could not help but do.

It’s eleven o’clock in the evening and the street where I worked for most of my career – after all whoring is defined as the oldest profession there is – is buzzing with life. Red and yellow lights attracting yuppies for a sinful dip after office hours and in each corner, groups of ladies in their Cindy Lauper garb hover and poised – to be noticed and be chosen by those who craved carnal gratification the easiest way possible – a drive-thru-fast-sex.. OPEN 24 HOURS.

I felt left out somehow. For at least a decade I hold this spot, like an unwritten claim to a land, this corner – the best there is in this long narrow skirt – belongs to me. Sometimes I heard buzzes from the girls on who would inherit when I retired. Them who hopes nothing better but to lay claim on the best corner of the street, are both laughable and pitiful at the same time. I tend to be the latter with an occasional smirk, but then I remembered, how it was and how it is.

Just earlier, I looked at myself in the mirror inside my bathroom after shower and my heart was filled with unsolicited sadness. The hopeful shine in my blue violet eyes was gone and what’s left there staring back at me was a tired defeated look. My lips that was once plump and naturally rosy was darker and a bit of cracked and dried courtesy of the decade-long-love-affair with Phillip Morris. The lines on my forehead is slowly gaining dominance and soon, I could no longer claim to be just twenty-five. Thank God for concealers and lipstick, however cheap they are.

I peeked thru my wardrobe earlier and a heavy sigh escaped out of my lungs. My glory days was all but a shadow and all I could show for it was heeps of clothes out of date and shoes that had seen better days. I couldn’t even afford to have decent meals after the rent was paid for my shabby shack masquarading as an apartment on the third floor of an old dilapilated building two corner street away from where I make my living.

A buck there, a buck here, at some nights , more than yesterdays’. I feel lucky just to have a black smelly rod chocking me down my throat, for it would mean an earning. One, two, three or more men and women alike in a night was all that I ever need just to get-by and break even. Lucky if I found just one who would pay a nice sum – Just like Sam.

Yeah, I remember!

He was once, a regular cummer, when I was just a young and inexperienced hooker. I remembered him, because he offered to make me his beloved wife, despite of me. That sweet man, I don’t deserved. I’m a whore but I’m not an opportunistic bitch who would lie, even to myself.

I am a whore but soon no more. Maybe in two years or less, no one would pay me for a fuck, not even for a dime.

Damn piggy bank!

I just hope, it saves enough. But for now, I would reminisce, memories of Sam and that last day we were together and I broke his heart…

It was a cold November night, Sam fetched me at my usual spot. I almost accepted someone else but It was him I wished would come. Why wouldn’t I? He pays me a handsome lot, a lot that after him I wouldn’t have to fuck some random stranger again for a night or two; and I rate ten folds more than my co-whores in that sinful street.

He drove his car to a nearby hotel, got a nice room and escorted me like I’m his girlfriend. And yeah, he did asked me to be his’ – his someone special, his lover, his love.

I declined his offer because back then, I thought it’s all nonsense, a preposterous idea.

Love, what’s that?

After that old fuck I happened to had the misfortune to call Dad when he adopted me raped and abused me, and the few boyfriends who promised me forever but turned out to be just free-loading bastards just wanting free fuck but just left me for a “better” slut? Love became just a word with no meaning for me.

“Youre so beautiful, Lav. I missed you so much!” he said then kissed me.

It’s been two weeks…