"Nutmeg", a low-class hooker from the Lower East Side.

Your foot taps to the sound of her open-mouthed chewing of her bubblegum. You're on the elevator next to a woman who can't even be 5'3", but wearing absurd heels and padded clothes to fill out an otherwise near-skeletal frame. She's got the faded remnants of a black eye poorly hidden with make-up, the latter of which is caked on to almost circus performance-levels, and her blonde dye job was already showing black at the roots. She wasn't smoking right now, but you could smell cigarette smoke on her or on her tiny purple-sequin purse. You aren't sure what she's on, but you know she's hardly sober beyond knowing her prices and not letting you cop a feel without paying. Though she has to be younger than you, possibly by a worrying amount, it's clear that she's the veteran here, so much so that you feel self-conscious in her presence.

The hour that preceded this awkward elevator ride involved you nearly be arrested for solicitation, put you too close to two bum fights, and ended with "Nutmeg" introducing herself even as a heavy-set whore on the same walk called her "Lana" before declaring that she was a greedy cunt. By 11:49PM on a Saturday, you were just happy to clamor into the Uber with Lana, who quickly cussed you out when you tried to call her by her real name. She pointed out, while the Uber driver headed to your apartment building, that you would need to pay for the hotel as well as her rates, an expense you really didn't think about ahead of time.

Which brings us back to now, on the elevator ride up to your apartment. You're pretty sure it's a terrible idea, as New York is practically the home of ever horror story surrounding prostitutes and criminal side-jobs pulled on Johns. Sweet Christ, you were a John now. Your panic washes over you and through you slowly, all the way up to when you let her into your bachelor apartment and lock the door behind you.

"Heee-eeey, look at you with the apartment all to yeself!" she declares loudly, looking all around. Despite her statement, she's still got her hand in her purse, which worries you. "We're not expecting company, right sweetie?" She makes a sharp click or pop with the gum between her teeth.

You shake your head, eyeing her purse without hesitation or subtlety. She follows your gaze and pulls out a pack of condoms. "Don't worry, daddy, we're here for fun and transactions, and you want fun, right?" You nod dumbly, trying to regain your composure in your own domain. She grins too wide to be natural, showing off all her good teeth. "Yeah... Alright, so y'know the prices," she quickly declares, sweeping her gaze back around your living room, "a'hundred to get blown, two to get fucked, and four to... miss, if ya know what I mean." She giggles at her own joke, and you try to share the laugh, making it more awkward. You were twenty-seven years old, but suddenly you felt like you were back to tenth grade, desperately trying to rid yourself of your virginity. You had $500 cash in your wallet, and another $1,500 in your kitchen, though she didn't need to know that right now. The whole pretense of "science" doesn't even reach your thoughts right now.

"Peck?" Hearing your last name alarms you, and you see she's bent over seductively, her face hovering over a pile of your mail. She gives you a bit of side-eye and, with another grin, another popping noise from her chewing gum. "Such a big, strong name, for a big strong man."