Free Working Sex by Annie Oakley

room, Formica countertop and lack of privacy. I am
at home here. Peacefully the linoleum peels up around the seams, fades entirely near the toilet. I pack up my makeup, waxy-smelling lipsticks. The fluorescent light hums and it is a cellular occurrence. It sings: $523, $523, $523. The club is factually filthy, but the filth is also a benevolent prop, which has been arranged by mothering hands for the purpose of me arriving there and finding: $523.

sugar & me
    Mirha-Soleil Ross
    G irls don’t turn me on! And I am especially not attracted to the femme types who want to swish-swish around my dick. No thank you! I don’t want a pair of soft lips smearing cherry red lipstick all over my balls and I’m sorry but four high heels kicking in every direction when you’re both cumming at the same time, that’s irresponsible. Look at my friend Kathleen in Montreal with her last so-called “Revolutionary Femme on Femme Frenzy.” They were ten rubbing titties and trying to 69 each other all at once on her parquet kitchen floor. . . . All she can remember is a five-inch metal-spike heel coming straight
at her left eye. And that was the end of her revolution! No, no, no . . . girls don’t turn me on and I am especially not attracted to femmes.
    At least, that’s what I kept repeating to myself as I sat on the throne that night desperately trying to shit a log or two in preparation for my four-hour shift. I’d been working as a model for over two months at Cybersluts, a sleazy Internet porn site owned and operated by fags that provides encounters of the first, second, and third kinds to thousands of horny men every day.
    My job at Cybersluts was quite mundane: Stroke my little baby dill with one hand while providing a few— kitchic, kitchic, kitchic —ecstatic keyboard interjections with the other, and every ten minutes or so shove something up my butt—a finger, a bingo marker, just about anything to spice up my worldwide affairs.
    And that explains my valiant efforts on the toilet. Guys didn’t like to spend $1.99 a minute to watch fingers covered in shit coming out of my ass so Be Prepared was my work motto. But on that night, I just couldn’t concentrate on the deed. My hands were shaking, my feet tapping, my lips twitching, and even more revealing, my nostril wings were moving to the beat of Whitney Houston’s “Heartbreak Hotel.”
    I tried to calm down, tried to reassure myself that this was just a momentary feeling, that it would go away as soon
as I returned to the chat room, as soon as I’d take just one little moment to fully inspect that suspicious woman who had just struck me so intensely. I’ll check her nails, I told myself. I was too disoriented to notice earlier but for sure she’s got some of those long acrylic ones with French manicure that all the girls around the joint are getting and that, without a doubt, would make me lose my crush in a flash. I was agonizing on the toilet, still unable to shit anything more than a Glosette raisin so I figured I should just try again later and “Allez-Hop!” back to the chat room.
    Sugar was her name. She’d just finished her shift and was slowly packing up. Still naked except for some red-hot lacy panties, she was taking forever to put her clothes back on. I was too rushed to let my hormones fully get in the way but I nonetheless couldn’t resist taking a second look at her: Petite, femme, and delicate, she was a stunning piece of wonder woman with no less than eight hard inches of thick silver heel.
    You can imagine I was pretty scattered trying to attach my garter, my transparent bra, struggling to get into my fishnet stockings and frilly baby doll all at once. “You’ve been working here for two months. I’m surprised we haven’t crossed each other,” she said while finally putting on her jeans but with this sexy black tank top featuring a red chili pepper with the inviting line Eat Me!

    The conversation from there went on and rapidly evolved from the