Kim cursed as she turned into the motel parking lot.
The front axle on her reddish 2016 Dodge Journey was making clunking noises again, like it had been doing almost every day for the past month. The mechanic had said it would cost around $750, but she wouldn’t have enough left over after she paid this week’s rent to the motel manager. She shrugged; it was just another problem that she would have to deal with later.
When she pulled up to the door of her room, she noticed a strange woman standing in front of the neighboring door with a cigarette in her hand. Like Kim, she was also bleached blonde, but with a faded pink t-shirt and a white micro-bikini bottom that would be strange anywhere else except this shithole. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, although it was hard to be sure with smokers who looked like they did drugs.
The woman glanced briefly in Kim’s direction but paid no attention to her. That was fine with Kim. She parked her worn-out car, grabbed the vodka bottle hidden under the seat, and walked into her room. She didn’t even look at the other woman as she passed; all she could think about was a hot shower… and the bottom of that vodka bottle.
Instead of taking a shower, though, she ended up flopping down on the cheap sofa that the motel had provided. It smelled like cigarettes and mold, but was actually quite comfortable. After a few minutes of staring at the ceiling, she sighed loudly.
Although her job at the Hotdog House had sucked, it had at least covered the motel room and the vodka. Now that she was fired, Kim wasn’t sure what to do. It had been her seventh job in the past two years, so there were probably very few businesses left in the area that were still willing to employ her. For that matter, there were few businesses left in the area to begin with - period. The area’s economy had only continued to get even worse after the pulp and paper mill had shut down. These days, there was a lot of competition for even the minimum-wage jobs.
She finally took a swig from the bottle. Then another. The initial burst of warmth in her stomach was soon followed by a slight surge of happy emotions. Smiling, she took another big gulp of the vodka.
After a half hour, she was about as drunk as her high alcohol tolerance would allow. The vodka was almost done. Before she could finish it off, though, she heard what sounded like a loud grunt from the neighboring room. She stopped and listened, wondering if she was about to hear another incidence of the domestic violence that was so common in this place.
Kim couldn’t hear anything, so she raised her bottle up to drain the last mouthful - when suddenly the wall made a loud thump. A second later, there was another thump, then another. Although you could usually hear everything through the thin walls, the loud thumping - it was obviously sex - drowned out any grunts or other noises.
She stood up and drained the bottle as the thumping continued. The faded picture of the city skyline on the wall bounced slightly with every thump, to the point where Kim wondered if it would actually fall off. She thought about pounding on the door with the bottle, but that might invite some angry man to come out and hammer on her door.
Shrugging, she stripped her clothes off and took her shower. The sound of the water hid the thumping noises and, by the time she was out, the thumping had stopped. Kim dried off, pulled a t-shirt on, and started rummaging around the trash can for any bottles that might still have a swig or two left in them.
She had just confirmed that there was no vodka left in the room when the thumping started again. She looked at the wall in amazement; some guy was so horny that he was back to banging his girl less than a half hour after he had drained his balls the first time. Poor woman.
Whatever. It was time to get more vodka; she could afford at least two or three more bottles before cutting into the rent money. She pulled on some shorts and sandals and headed out the door.
As she walked across the parking lot towards the ABC store, she heard the neighbor’s door open. Turning briefly, she saw a skinny white guy in a wife beater shirt and ballcap come out, with a lit cigarette already hanging off his lower lip. He looked like he hadn’t taken a bath or washed his clothes in weeks. Poor woman.
It didn’t take long to get to the ABC store, which was a good thing because it was almost time for it to close for the day. She picked one bottle of the shelf, paused for a moment, and grabbed two more. As she carried her heavy, clinking bag back to the motel, she resisted the urge to open a bottle right there on the sidewalk.
When she crossed into the parking lot, she was shocked to see a man heading into her neighbor’s room. He was black, wearing a track suit that looked a bit tight around his gut and too long on his legs.
How strange… For a second, she stood and watched, before deciding that it was a friend of the other guy.
Pulling out one of the vodka bottles, she went into her own room and shut the door in anticipation of trying to feel drunk again. After years of drinking, it was a surprisingly difficult feat to achieve.
Before she could get her second gulp in, though, the wall started pounding again. She giggled slightly and kept drinking. It was clear that her new neighbor was a hooker, which brought back memories of her own time as an escort. Although it was almost twenty years before, Kim could still remember getting “slips” from her boss. The slips were just simple notes that always included a man’s name, the name of one of the local restaurants, and the appointment time. The boss, an old hag named Jill, kept her pretty busy with two or three slips a day (except Mondays). The routine always included a meal paid for by the customer, followed by a visit to a nearby hotel which was also paid for by the customer. Once a week, she would get her cut from the appointment fees that Jill had collected throughout the week. In those days, Kim has never been short on money, especially given that almost all of her meals were paid for.
Alas, she couldn’t return to those days, because she was too old at the age of 43 (no escort service would ever hire anyone over the age of 30). Then an idea suddenly hit her.
Maybe she was too old for the brothel, but what about freelance? She stripped out of her shirt and shorts and looked at herself in the mirror. Kim’s body was a bit “fluffy” these days, but she wasn’t truly fat. If anything, she had gained just enough weight to have some nicer curves and larger breasts than when she was younger.
Her skin was mostly ok, but she would have to shave her legs better. In fact, she remembered that she would have to shave her pubic hair, too, assuming men still liked a clean camel toe. The only problem was her face… After all the years of drinking, it had become a bit splotchy and her jowls had started hanging down.
Still, the more she looked at herself, the more she thought she might have a solution to her problem. Men would still want to fuck her - hell, men want to fuck any woman they see. After all, the neighbor appeared to have racked up at least two paying customers just in the past hour, despite looking like bottomed-out trailer trash. The only question was how much Kim could charge.
In the 1990s, she had made $100 per customer from her cut, which was probably worth at least $150 in today’s money. If she could get just $50 per guy, she would only need to drain fifteen dicks to replace her car axle. A week’s rent would cost ten dicks. A bottle of vodka would cost only a quarter of a dick. After some thought, she calculated that she could cover an average week of bills by servicing only around a dozen dicks a week - which translated into only two penises a day. Without the need to do small talk over meals, she was probably talking about only a couple hours of work a day!!
Kim felt renewed as she settled into bed to sleep. The intermittent thumping throughout the night didn’t bother one bit as she dreamed of dollar signs and vodka bottles.
The next day, she woke up and started thinking about how to get clients with no escort service running the logistics. A pimp was out of the question, as they took most of the money. Anyway, those dirtbags generally only existed to manage addicts who were too drugged up to defend themselves and collect payment. She decided to start marketing herself on various online forums, dating apps, and classifieds.
Over the next week, she discovered that it was much harder than she thought. In America, escort websites were a great way to get arrested and most apps had become quick to ban anyone suspected of being a sex worker. Days passed with not a single customer, while she texted guys who only seemed to only want to send her dick pics.
Meanwhile, Kim’s neighbor seemed to have an endless supply of penises. Every evening, the thumping started around 5-6 and continued on and off throughout the night. Usually, around a half dozen guys pounded the neighbor per day, but a few times Kim counted over ten. Kim tried to imagine working ten hairy cocks in one day and got tired just thinking about it.
Anyway, it was so frustrating. Kim was tempted to introduce herself, but avoided it out of pride. After she paid almost all of her remaining cash on another week’s rent, though, an idea appeared in her head. She decided to wait outside her room and ask the johns how they had found her neighbor. The next time the wall started pounding, she dressed in a long t-shirt with no bottoms, stepped outside, and waited.