Through My Window by Jayne Rylon

Dusk
     
    Through my window, a sea of strangers swirl and retreat like waves in an ocean of humanity. I brush my hair, fix my makeup and flip on the glaring red light in my booth before turning to face them on the other side of the glass.
    They begin each evening like still waters. Ebbing and flowing past my window. Unaffected by buffeting winds or brewing desires. Eddying in swirls as they gather, peek around our infamous district with downcast eyes then scatter—awkward and unsure yet inquisitive.
    Curious couples setting out on tandem adventures, young men high on the moral freedom of Amsterdam and clusters of women indulging in a wild night with friends all dip their toes in the pool.
    Later, much later, they will roil and crash against the glass in a typhoon of wanton excess—of food, drink, drugs and sex—that never ceases to amaze me.
    Or to infect me with its primal power.
    Most women shoot me glances of pity if they look at me at all. I feel sorry for them, that they don’t understand. But some…some grin and nod.
    Appreciation.
    Respect.
    Envy.
    A select few go further, seeking my services so they can share in the rush for a brief time.
    Men are more likely to notice my sincere yearning to please right away. All manner of them from young to old, rich to poor, thin to fat and virile to impotent appraise me with hungry eyes.
    Cynics might say my killer curves, mile-high stilettos or long mane of platinum hair are responsible for their focused attention. I don’t buy that. I’m not the most attractive working girl on the block. But I’m one of the busiest.
    Customers can sense I’m different than most. They recognize I’m here not because I have to be but because I want to be. I absorb their stares before returning some of my own. The authority they grant me is intoxicating and addicting.
    I love enticing a kindred spirit to my lair for both our enjoyment and my profit.
    The hot, red lights of my booth, along the canal slicing through the heart of De Wallen, glint off my silver-sequined costume. What little of it there is anyway. The warm air in the space caresses my bared skin each time my neighbors let someone in or show them out.
    Satisfaction guaranteed.
    Theirs. And mine. Ours.
    Every thrilling encounter is unique. Each partner creates a new experience as their quirks mix with mine. I can’t wait to see what tonight will bring. To adore what you do and be able to make others happy in the process—while earning fists full of cash. What more could a woman ask of a career?
    The worldwide economy might be in the crapper, but my business is never slow. Hell, bad times make for peak seasons around here. And I’m glad to do my part.
    Take this man, for example. I’ve watched him meander through the hordes, coming closer and closer to my window on every pass. He almost manages to appear casual—comfortable in a den of hedonism—and worldly.
    Until I notice the way his hands are fisted in his pockets. And the outline of his monster erection, proclaiming his desire to join our forbidden display. I could hang a flag on that thing. He’s no veteran to my scene.
    As quick as that, I know he’ll be mine. For a little while.

Darkfall
     
    The potential customer scans the available women. Many would like to please him. There’s something undeniably attractive about guiding a novice on their first foray into sin. Most of the girls shimmy, primp or pose to capture his attention. But I simply prop one hand on the indentation of my trim waist then wait for him to make the smart selection.
    No one else will sate his craving for a novel jaunt into a taboo practice as I will.
    When our eyes meet, the blaze of magnetism is clear. His pupils dilate. The man glances both left and right, then left again, before sidling closer to my window. Hesitance in these situations always strikes me as adorable in its ridiculousness.
    The young man lifts one finger from his pocket to signal as he approaches.
    The edge of my mouth