Trixie the Ho: Part I

*A young black woman walks out of her bedroom through the hallway, into the living room, on her way to the kitchen to grab some slices of cake when she is startled by a man sitting on the couch, feet up, looking quite relaxed.

She grabs her robe tightens the belt and sighs. This is one of Trixie's "friends" clearly. She certainly doesn't know the man.*

"Oh hello. Sorry. You startled me. Trixie isn't here right now. I'm her roommate," she says, without offering the man her hand.

The man smiles, waves. Turns back to entertain himself watching the sixty inch screen.

Nervous and unsure, she babbles on. Why would Trixie invite strange men over to her house without telling me, she thinks. She's such a damn ho! she thinks, before mentally checking herself. Technically speaking the woman is not entirely sure that Trixie is a PAID ho. She might be, however. All the signs are there, at least. Well, possibly.

Strange men in and out all the time. No clear indication of any profession that provides Trixie's income.  And this is a city apartment, not easy to afford at all. In fact, the woman, who still hasn't properly introduced herself to the man in the living room, not that he seems to care, is staying with Trixie because she's just lost her job. Trixie doesn't have a job. Or, did she? It was impossible to tell.

Then there's the way she dresses, the woman winces at the thought. Trixie dresses expensively. Not like a street ho of course. But she favors corsets. And she spends a fortune on garters and silk stockings, the woman knows, because she does the laundry. Anything to help out a little bit since she can't pay her friend a dime at the moment.

She'd been drinking in a bar one evening, spending money she couldn't afford to spend because she'd just lost her job. Lay-offs. Trixie had walked in wearing Givenchy and Louboutin, looked her friend up and down and immediately took a seat to listen to her woes. It was a long story. "Girl, fuck that shit. Come stay with me! I have plenty of room," Trixie offered.

It sounded like a really good idea, especially after several Apple-tinis and a good cry. So she was here staying with Trixie now, in this beautiful city apartment, rent free. But now she knew that she hadn't known Trix as well as she thought. Trixie was her party girlfriend. But how the fuck this chick was living was a whole other world than her friend had realized.

Mentally she ran down the list of the other suspicious elements regarding Trixie's lifestyle, as she made her snack (two slices of cake, milk, a bowl of ice cream).  She drove an expensive car. Well she could be a drug dealer, of course. But no that didn't feel right exactly. She'd never seen Trixie use drugs. Of course, that didn't mean she couldn't SELL drugs. Lots of dealers didn't use. Don't get high on your own supply and all that. Passing through the living room she waved awkwardly at the strange man and hurried back into the bedroom, closing the door loudly and locking it behind her.

She munched her cake while thinking over the expensive designer clothes (Dolce and Gabbana, Chanel,  Prada) and all the other very expensive accoutrements to her friend's life. At the bottom line of course it didn't matter. If not for her friend, she'd be homeless. Nevertheless, all the signs added up to 1) a paid escort; 2) a drug dealer; or 3) perhaps, a mistress to some wealthy man. But which wealthy man? She seemed to know a lot of men, that was for sure.

She vowed to ask Trixie the very next time that she saw her. She was going to do it. Ask her friend what did she do for a living. Ask flat-out and see what she said.

Cake and ice cream devoured and feeling very fat and very unemployed she slipped under the covers to fall into a very depressed, no-money having, too-much cake eating, living in her ho-ish friend's fancy apartment sleep.

Shit, she thought, maybe I should ask Trixie to hook me up if she's a ho. It's about down to that, isn't it? I'm never going to find a job again and I'm going to have to sell my body to live. Not that her body was anywhere as in shape as Trixie's, who was rocking hard abs, slim arms all the way.

But on Maury there were men who said they loved big women. Not that she was all that kind of big. Maybe Trixie could hook her up with the specialty clients who liked plump women. Dammit, Trixie won't hire me either, she thought.  No one will ever hire me again, she was thinking right before drifting off. The bottom line was that she didn't have the heart to sell her body. The thought alone was scary. Trixie was that type of woman who ever seemed scared of anything at all. I'm scared of everything, she knew.

Then she fell asleep.