My Neighbors the Streetwalkers

Call me sheltered but I've never encountered them up close before.  Now they are my neighbors. Picture this: a benchfull of chador-covered women out the window, decorated leggy whores on the corner. This is what we've come to. Yesterday I passed a nearby bar and noticed they're advertizing hotel rooms €10 for 2 hours.  Also there is a SALE sign in the window.  I find that hilarious, though I'm not sure exactly what kind of beverage is discounted!  10 in the morning and they are already posted like sentries on each corner, often in pairs, uniformed, each hoisting their regulation cigarette and walking the troll, eyeing traffic.  I am finally able to recognize them (how can a working girl stand out these days?) from the quality of their scrutiny; even pick out their pathetic old pimps hanging watchfully some distance away. They apparently recognize their prey, too, as their slippery gaze turns quickly from alluring to resisting.  It is like walking behind the Los Vegas fascade and seeing the gilded plywood and styrofoam palace from the back.

Last night I counted 10 on my 2-block walk from the train station, one of them certainly not yet 18.  Must be a bad night on the meat market.  For the most part they ignore me after the first sparkly glance.  One actually came out and threw open her arms and legs, totally blocking me.  I grabbed her waist to prevent the crash.  She laughed– must have been joking with her friends– but I was so flustered I didn't say anything or even look back.  I'll never to do that again.  They really need to be living people in my space, with real human value.  If they engage me I'll engage them, even if it's with “leide, nicht”– just enough to let them know that they are actually persons, not rejected meat.