Women of the Night

It's hard to make a living, and Remington has all but given up on trying. She sells her body for money, and there's no way to stop.

Oklahoma City is number thirty-eight on the American crime index. This means that, out of the fifty states, the crime rate of the state is higher than the American average. Most of this is thefts, followed by burglaries, but it's easy to get away with crime when no one gives a s**t about you. In the sex industry, rape is rampant, but most of these go unreported. After all, no one would bat an eye at the news of a hooker being mistreated.

 

The average temperature of Oklahoma is 60 degrees, which is higher than the national average of 54. It doesn't snow a lot, but it rains, and it's a b***h in the wintertime. When the weather gets dreary, it's harder to keep up with work, but you need to make money to survive. The more time passes, the harder this feels. 

Twenty-six years ago, a woman named Savannah Blake gave birth in Indiana State Prison. It seems like long ago now. It's necessary to block out the sort of trauma that goes along with having a mass murderer for a mother. It does things to a person, spending a lifetime in foster care, being moved around between states, too much work for anyone to dedicate time to. After a while, it doesn't seem to matter at all.

 

"How much for ten minutes?" asks the young man, gawking out his car window on the side of the street. He's probably society's definition of attractive. If Remington weren't a lesbian, she'd probably find him attractive too.

"Depends what you want." He's smoking a cigarette, which isn't a turnoff. Remington smokes cigarettes all the time, and she could quit anytime she wanted.

 

Two years ago, Remington was married. She ruined this single-handedly, as she did most things, and she's been alone ever since. Having a companion isn't everything. But it's a hell of a lot better than dealing with life on your own.

 

On average, she takes five clients a day. When she's strapped for money, she'll stay out longer, but this is tiring and makes her feel dirty. Everything about this is dirty. The man puts out his cigarette, reeking of smoke. "Oral." Unsurprising. Half of the men seeking prostitutes just want their dicks sucked. Half the time she does it, she wants to throw up. Women seek out hookers too sometimes, but it's much less common. It seems lonely women have different ways of making ends meet. 

"Fifty dollars," says Remi, and climbs into the back of the man's car.

 

Twenty-six years ago, after her birth in an all-women prison, Remington was taken to foster care. She's heard stories of her mother, the infamous Bloomington theater shooter, but doesn't care to know much more. With a biological mother like hers, it's really no surprise Remington's turned out the way she has. You can only blame so much on family, though. If it weren't for her upbringing by random, apathetic strangers, she may have turned out okay.

 

Living where she does is a pain, honestly. It's a waste of time, driving from street to street, or parking somewhere and wandering off. It's too far to walk, anywhere really. This can be scary at night, being a woman alone in a big city. This makes it easy for men to prey on her. But Remington knows how to take care of herself, despite being skinny and not looking muscular. A woman has to know how to defend herself.

 

Ten years ago, Remington was adopted by the foster family she'd been staying with: an affluent couple, with try-hard kids. It was strange, being thrust into a random family's home in the middle of her most formative years. It was strange being included in all of their family outings, despite being a complete stranger. They never treated her like a stranger. To outsiders, it probably seems as though they've been her family all her life.

 

"I can't do it anymore, Remington. You're too volatile. I'm going crazy."

She was married to a woman named Julia, from the time she was eighteen years old. It's a lot more fun to do something when everyone tells you not to. Marriage is like that. This was before she became a w***e, when she was still a woman with morals. Life treated her badly, and employers don't want employees with minds of their own. Julia was shorter than her, and stood on her toes to look Remi in the face when she was angry. The day she filed for divorce was the last day Remi ever saw her. There have been regrets, sure, everyone has these. It's much easier to fill the loneliness with money and meaningless sex than it ever was to commit.

 

Remington's foster sister, Mavis, is twenty-three years old. Being the youngest meant she got away with everything, and she was spoiled and pampered. Mavis got a car for her seventeenth birthday, after passing her driving test. Mavis was accepted into the best university in the state, the very same one both of her parents teach at. Mavis lives at home, studying to be a librarian, and paying her parents rent. They don't need the money.  Mavis is disorganized and scatterbrained.

When one street gets empty, Remi moves on to another. They're always busiest on Fridays, and she always earns the most. There's a difference between escorts and prostitutes, but both are treated the same by men. An escort is paid for her time and company, accompanying clients, sometimes not engaging in anything sexual at all. Remington is paid for sex, and nothing else. Most of the women she knows are controlled by pimps, but Remington escaped this, and works alone. It hasn't always been this way. It was risky trying to escape.

 

"Hey!"

 

As she wanders, a car follows slowly. It's driven by a man old enough to be her father, wearing a wedding ring, flashing his lights at her. "You! The one that looks like a ghost!"

 

There's only one difference between Remington and a ghost. A ghost comes back to visit loved ones. 

She stops, her feet sore from her shoes. Most nights, she opts for black heels, and fishnets. For some reason, every man loves a woman in fishnets. "Yes? What can I do for you?"

 

The man has darker skin, and a hairy face. It helps to wear red lipstick. She's met lots of people who enjoy the faint pink mark of her mouth around their c**k. "You're a hooker, right? I see you out here all the time." Nobody knows her name. She'd like to keep it this way.

 

Remington shrugs. "I prefer the term sex worker."

 

When it gets dark, the streetlights come on. Having just finished with her fourth client of the day, it's nearly time for Remington to head home. The man grins. "How much to have sex with you inside my car?"

 

She'd prefer, honestly, a car to a house. It's faster, and much less formal. "A hundred dollars." Like anybody who works with people, she has regulars. Some of them check in on her, or pay her a little extra if they know she needs the money. It isn't easy to survive like this. It isn't easy to drag herself outside to be degraded and abused. When the man opens the passenger door, she scoots inside.

 

The scariest thing about being on the streets alone is the reactions of men she rejects. She's used to being beaten or threatened for saying no, but that's the thing about consent. It can be given or taken away.

 

At home, Remington's cat waits for her. It's a Persian cat, adopted from the shelter the year Remington moved out on her own. This was seven years ago, now. "Hey, Sphinx." The cat rubs up on her, missing her when she isn't home. Most days, it takes at least thirty minutes to drive home after making money, and this is on a good day. Living so far out of the way is a pain, but she can't afford anywhere else. "Are you hungry? I'm sorry I was gone so long." These days, Remington's cat is the only thing that doesn't enrage her. Sphinx eats loudly, licking her lips after every bite. 

When you're little, your parents always ask what you want to be when you grow up. Remington's siblings were always so sure of this, and they made her feel so inferior, without saying anything at all. Mavis wanted to be a librarian since she was a little girl, according to her mother. Matthew, a certified genius, invented his first product at fourteen, and now he makes robots and lives in their mother's basement. Colton, who was in law school when Remi came along, became one of the most successful lawyers in the state, and he isn't shy about reminding people of this. But Remington, she was never sure. It was always so forceful, the demand to make something of herself, and to make her parents proud. It shouldn't just be about that. There should be more important things in life than trying to appease the people who gave you life.

 

If you'd asked Remington ten years ago, she'd have doubted she'd be alive at twenty six, let alone making a living for herself. It's not the best way to make a living, but something is better than nothing.

 

At eleven years old, Remington was arrested for larceny after stealing three hundred dollars from her foster mother's purse. She'd had to do community service after this, and she was removed from her foster home and shipped out of state, like a piece of cargo. At fourteen, it was stealing her foster brother's car and joyriding. At fifteen, it was assault. It's a wonder she's even made it this far in life, and that things didn't turn out worse for her. When you grow up being made to feel ignored, you'd do anything for that bit of attention.

Natalie and Sawyer Driscoll are two of the most distinguished university professors in the city. They also happen to be Remington's adopted parents. It was bizarre, really, why they kept her in their home after all the trouble she caused. After a lifetime of being shipped back and forth like an animal, she'd grown used to angering people, sometimes purposely. Natalie and Sawyer dealt with her in ways she wasn't used to: kindly and with care. They'd describe her as a hurt and damaged teenager, and maybe this was true. She would shout and steal from them, and they would speak to her calmly, and this was confusing. Even after she was arrested for underaged drinking and given a fine, they adopted her. It's been ten years since then, and Remi still can't think of a reason for anyone to do this.

 

When she's alone, Remington masturbates. This shouldn't be necessary, after a full day of fooling around with strangers, but she can't get this type of feeling from anything else. The first time she became interested in sex, she was twelve and listening to strangers outside the foster home. There are lots of ways an addiction can develop, and none of these are conscious choices. It's control, an aspect of your life you can predict. It's an escape from pain or trauma, something that brings you out of the present moment. It's a problem with impulse control, developed in early childhood. Addiction is a lot of things, but it isn't a choice.

 

Sometimes, Remington's parents come over to visit her. They don't speak much about her personal life, but everyone knows what she gets up to in her free time. Last time they visited, they showed her a robot Matthew had made, which was small and blue. Remi doesn't see her brother much, despite him living at home. When he leaves his room, it's only for brief moments at a time. When Matthew has an episode, it always starts the same way. He withdraws, and becomes crankier than normal. If he's working, he loses interest, shutting himself inside his room and not speaking to anyone. He does this a lot, even when he isn't having an episode. Remington has grown used to seeing him only once every couple of days, always looking tired, always quiet as a ghost.  

 

She was nineteen when she last saw an acute episode. "They're telling me to stay in my room," he'd say, when she spoke to him through the door. "I can feel spiders crawling on my hands." According to Matthew, he was twenty-one when he first had a serious episode, and he ended up in the hospital, claiming there were people all around him. He takes medications that make him gain weight. Mavis says he even leaves the house regularly these days. Still, relapses can happen. Remington would prefer not to be around for that.

 

In her free time, Remi writes poetry. In middle school, she participated in a spoken word competition, which is when, she supposes, it really became an interest to her. She wouldn't say she's adept or anything. It helps to write things down sometimes, even if no one ever reads it. After getting home tonight, she runs a bubble bath, and lies a notebook down over her bath tray. It's a notebook from her ex-wife, and it's nearly full now. Once, Mavis suggested she try and publish her poetry, but this is the last thing Remi wants to do with her life. This is private, and it's personal. Without Sphinx, and her notebooks, she'd have nobody to talk to.