This was rural prostitution. We didn’t dress like the street workers in the movies. No spandex miniskirts or fishnet stockings. We weren’t Julia Roberts meeting Richard Gere. Our hair was greasy, we smelled of sweat, and there was little to do with our faces other than frown. We bit our nails until they bled and stared down the street while we wore thin coats and dirty sneakers in the winter. In the summer, it was old jeans and torn tanks, like what Daffy and me wore that first time.
