“I am not a prostitute!” shouts Maria. “I’m only here for another week to make some money to support my kids. Then I’m outta here!”
“Yeah!” says Victoria. “What are you calling ‘whore’ anyway? Do we have the same gene as streetwalkers and gay hustlers and geishas? Do wives have the ‘whore gene’ because they get money from one man instead of hundreds? Are you looking for a ‘wife gene’ too?”
The other girls laugh and nod.
Dr Baine pauses. She wasn’t expecting these questions from girls who worked in a brothel. She didn’t think we’d been following the controversy, but we’d all been watching the TV interviews and her appearance on Oprah.
Finally she continues: “I’m surprised and delighted that some of you are familiar with the issues surrounding my study. I hope that this study will benefit you and prostitutes all over the world. People may show more tolerance when they discover that prostitution is not necessarily something we can change about ourselves. It is a genetic predisposition, occurring naturally throughout the animal kingdom. Even female penguins trade sex in exchange for stones to build their nests.”
“So if you think those penguins are prostitutes, why don’t women who marry for money and security count as prostitutes?” asks Victoria.
“I chose to be a sex worker!” yells Clara. “And I can change my mind if I want. I wasn’t forced into it by anyone or anything!”
Lauren raises her hand and asks, “What if they start testing everyone for the ‘whore gene’ and aborting foetuses that have it? The ‘whore gene’ could be used as evidence to convict people of solicitation and lock them in prison or in psychiatric wards and deny them insurance coverage, or give them pharmaceutical drugs.”
“Yeah,” shouts a chorus of whores.
“I understand your concerns,” Dr Baine says confidently. “And I’m going to patent the results, so I’ll have some control over how they’re used.”
Does she think we’re stupid?
For the next few days, Dr Baine hangs around the parlour of the Coochie Ranch, wearing business suits and jotting things down in her notebook. She interviews the girls who want to talk to her first. I notice her looking at me. I think it’s my imagination, but after a few more days I see she’s staring at me every time I come into the parlour. I wish I could just stay out of that room. I avoid her gaze. She tries to stop me in the hall, but I pretend I don’t hear. Why is she singling me out?
The next day I’m sitting in the parlour waiting for customers to ring the bell. Clara stomps out of her interview and flops down next to me on the couch, pouting.
“So, what did that crazy bitch want from you?” I ask her.
“She wanted to meet my family!” says Clara. “She wants to test them for the whore gene too! She said she’d pay me $1,000 for each parent or sibling and two-fifty apiece for cousins. I told her no way! None of those people know I work in a brothel!”
Later on I’m walking down the hall, and I see Dr Baine coming the other way. I quickly duck into my room. She knocks on my door.
“Who is it?” I ask, gritting my teeth.
“It’s Dr Baine. Please open the door.”
I swing the door open. She jumps back, startled by the look on my face.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I’d like to interview you, Wanda.”
“No chance. I want my privacy.” I slam the door.
A few minutes later, there’s another knock.
“Wanda. It’s Suzanne.”
“Hi, Suzanne. Come on in.”
She sits down on my bed.
“Dr Baine said you won’t let her interview you.”
“Why should I?”
Suzanne sighs and shakes her head.
“Bill wants that woman here, and he owns the ranch. You’re one of our best girls, but if you don’t talk to her, you might lose your job.”
Grudgingly, I knock on Dr Baine’s door.
“Come in.”
She’s sitting stiffly behind her desk with her pince-nez and her hair up in a bun. I feel like I’ve been sent to the school principal’s office for misbehaviour.
“Have a seat,” she says, eyeing me up and down.
Silently I sit down in front of her desk.
“Wanda,” she says. “I realize you’ve been avoiding me, so let me get right to the point: you’re exactly the kind of person I need in my study.”
“What do you mean?”
She looks me directly in the eye. “Excuse me for being blunt, but one of the other girls told me your mother was also a prostitute.”
So that was it. I figured as much.
“So,” she says, still staring at me. “Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Well, is your mother still alive?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to introduce me to her.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” I have a gut feeling that if I tell this woman my mother is a fugitive, she might try to track her down.
“Before you give me a definite no, I think you should hear the whole offer.” Dr Baine stands up and sets a black briefcase on her desk. She turns the key in the lock and lifts the top. My jaw drops. Stacks of money – freshly minted $100 bills. This briefcase contains tens of thousands of dollars – more money than I’ve ever seen. I can’t take my eyes off it. I’m going to come just from looking at it. My pants are getting wet.
Dr Baine walks slowly around her desk, sits down beside me, and puts her hand on my thigh.
“Wanda,” she says, “all this is yours on two conditions – if you introduce me to your mother, and if you have sex with me.”
I swallow hard. She leans forward, trying to look me in the eye, but I can’t. I’m losing it.
“Wanda,” she continues, stroking my thigh, “I want you and your mother to be on Oprah with me, and I’m going to pay you $30,000 under the table.”
That’s it. My cunt contracts, and I come hard and long. As little as I trust this woman, it’s all I can do not to fall into her arms.
After I come, all I want is to get out of there. I steady myself on my feet.
“You’ve got a deal,” I say, shutting the door behind me.
I stumble down the hall to my room and lie down in my bed. I can hardly believe what just happened and all I have to do.
First I have to find someone to play the part of my mother. This isn’t so hard. I take the next morning off and visit Madame LeAnn at the brothel down the road. I’ve known her for ten years, and she’s glad to help. I tell her everything and promise that she’ll get some money out of it too.
“I know someone who can make me a fake ID in 48 hours,” she says.
“That should work, unless Dr Baine checks with the police and finds out my real mom’s a fugitive.”
“I doubt she’ll do that,” says LeAnn.
“But when she checks the DNA samples, she’ll be able to tell you’re not my mom.”
“My advice to you,” says LeAnn, “is to get the money up front, fuck this woman, and run.”
When I get back to the Coochie Ranch, Dr Baine’s standing in the parlour with her notebook and her gray business suit, eyeing me up and down. I stop and glance at her awkwardly.
“My mother can see you in two days,” I say.
She smiles approvingly. “Thank you, Wanda.”
Two days later, LeAnn and I knock on Dr Baine’s door. I’m carrying my toy bag – full of stuff I can use on Dr Baine when we have sex. LeAnn has a fake driver’s licence. Dr Baine sets the briefcase on the top of her desk and opens it. We don’t have time to count all the bills, but she invites us to leaf through them and check the watermarks. I take out my counterfeit bill detector and check some random greenbacks. My pants are moist, my cunt lips trembling. It feels so incestuous, since I’m supposedly here with my mom.