Spreading the Disease

She likes to walk up and down Karen Avenue during the midday hours. offering herself while wearing the most seductive attire her status in life can afford. Part militant, part predator, and all expliotation, the prostitution routine has the allure of a tragdic comedy, a multiple car crash of clown filled automobiles, when stared upon inducing a sense of grotesque fascination remininsant of an autospy or horror film mutilation initating feelings of nausea as well as curious desire to investigate this traveling sex machine a bit further. There is no sense of shyness with this street side performance carried out along the sidewalk corners and strip mall alcoves where she can hide from detection. The local authorities do not seem to care, relagating her existence to nothing more than that stray dog you might spot walking down the rural shanty dirt road, covered with mange, delusional, barking at imaginative object invisible to the human eye, no real harm or possibility of rabid acitivity, just an organism slow deteriating, heading to the compost heap of life, a small space in a lonely desert alleyway filled with rusted broken window automobiles on wooden blocks, phone books, and cement bricks, just another victim of consumer culture.

Still, there does not appear to be any shortage of willing participants who cruise these streets searching for her brand of sexual satisfaction. Are they offering valet service tonight, as a stream of vehicles form a single file line inticing regional ladies of the night with promises of fast cash, free drugs, and the romantic illusion of breaking free from the chains of servitude over into the realm of socially accepted middle class suburban subdivisions where they could tend to their physical and emotional wounds with the promise of rehabilitation which never quite develops or takes, transformation from the hustle to a somewhat percieved humane facade ends up being nothing more than entertainment for upper class movie goers. These veterans of body givers wear their past like a surgical scar from a botch operation, a low grade reattchment of the limb carried out in some fourth world country. But for today, this woman will show a smile behind a pair of dark shades, waving customers over like those halfway house convicts washing cars for Jesus in order to maintain an early release, the disease will spread as long as need remains our primary objective, each john taking another cut of already withering soul, dissolving into sand blown away by the wind of the night.