Sex Worker #3




He likes stainless steel

things clean and untarnished.

His kitchen gleams with stainless fixtures:

fridge, toaster, stove, me.


I am paid to cook naked.

I leave no prints.

I chop flat leaf parsley on the stainless table:

silver chef knife, mise en place, shiny bowls.


I have little cups:

Herbs, onions, eggs, cheese.

No non-stick to mar the illusion of silver

making omelettes difficult.


He needs perfect omelettes:

tri-folded, cheese perfectly melted.

I insert a small silver thermometer.

He stops eating when the temperature dips under 120.


I clean the pans without scrubbing.

Abrasive materials swirl the stainless finish.

He threw away three pans on our first date.

I was punished on cold prep table.


He covered my face with a stainless bowl,

placed the ruined pans on my chest,

jacked off in the corner of the kitchen.

I have learned his quirks.


He’s never going to fuck me.

I’m not clean enough.

Fingers don’t leave prints in flesh.

He is scared of the mess.


This week he gave me a present:

hospital booties, plastic gloves.

“You have to put these on.

I can’t have prints today.”


“I want you to sit here.”

He pointed to a sheet of stainless,

“The edges are sharp.

Watch the blood.”


“I’m not up for this, today.”

I started for the door.

“When can you come back?”

He followed down the stairs.


He opened the door.

“You have my booties.

I need those for the next girl.”

His voice was colder than steel.


He threw me a hundred

and shut the silver door.