So I was a call girl.  Paid by the hour, sometimes more.  Attire was part of the job--the shoes, the make-up, the whole ensemble.  But more, it was the chase.  I was expected to lure them with light, floating giggles and promises of more.  Long days, Late nights, drunken encounters with inebriated men (and sometimes women), special requests. Sometimes even chocolates on a pillow, flowers on wood.    

It was my first all-nighter.  Normally, I worked days, which brought in all types--sweat-shining men showing nicotine-stained teeth verses the high-necked preachers who traveled that far to finally let loose in my beds.  Money is money--it made no difference from who or how it came. 

But the female customers--they were the worst.  They always wanted to complain about the heat or the wetness, question the cleanliness and so forth.  God forbid the man and the woman want to get it together--either she glares at me as I work her husband or he huffs impatiently while I assure the pleasure of his wife. 

So my first all-nighter.  Less clients but more intense.  My body was used to the daylight shifts that spoiled me with more energy, upbeat clients ready to get to the room, and even some who wanted me to escort them to the pool.  But here on night shift, I got the scoundrels: the Lonelies just needing attention, the truckers ready to get laid no matter the place, or the travelers who hit it from city to city.  An air of humid secrecy stuffed the lobby, a thick discomfort that only revealed itself at night.  

I had only escorted two customers by 3:00 in the morning.  Granted, I charged more to the clients at that time and I got paid more per hour.  Still, I was used to working up a sweat, and the night shift just wanted me to take it without a sound.  My make-up was no longer shrouding my signs of age that I tried to hide, and my hair was disheveled by one who liked to pull.  

As I leaned against the counter with my hip cocked, my eyelids weighted and the never-ending yawns began.  Never had I considered just sleeping on the bare floor out in the open, but I knew I could not stand the fatigue any longer.  Time, among other things on my person, was stretched out too far.  So there I was, at my lowest point, curled into a fetal position with no afghan, no gossamer gown.  Just the victim of an occupational side effect.

I woke to the Man standing over me with a puzzled expression rather than the fury I expected.    

Oh, sorry to confuse--I was not a hooker!  Rather, I was the desk clerk--sometimes called the Lounge Lizard--of an interstate hotel.  Yes, I had hourly pay, dehumanized in a generic navy collared shirt that itched the back of my neck, my appearance generically neatened by the tight hair bun and overdone cosmetics used to make me professional. 

The Man--my manager--pressured to charge no less than $79.99 per night and promise a hot breakfast the next morning (which was never that hot or fresh).  I charged women and men for services of course--we wouldn't want to discriminate, now would we?  

And yes, I was a call girl--they called the front desk at all times of night for bottled water, scheduling wake-up calls, and even to file complaints of poor housekeeping or loud neighbors.  As a call girl, I really did work up a sweat--our elevator did not work so I had to go up and down those stairs to deliver clean diapers.

I convinced myself during that one all-nighter that if I "rested my eyes" in the back office for just a few minutes, I would feel energized.  And yes, I was stupid enough to fall asleep right there on the hotel floor until my manager came to relieve me.

And yes, it was my one and only time of being a midnight call girl.