The Corner of H & L (1)

I have no idea what brought me down there, to the corner of H and L. I’d never cruised for a hooker before – it’s just a little too illegal for my taste – but that day… I guess I just had an itch.

(You know the corner I’m talking about, right? Yeah, I know – H and L run parallel through the Warehouse district, but L angles off to follow the tracks and cuts across H right before it turns into MacPherson. Yeah, that’s right – the red light district. Where else do you pick up hookers?)

I certainly didn’t mean to pick her up. The other girls were giving her plenty of space, probably because she was a whole fuckload of carnality poured into a frightening, six-and-a-half-foot-tall statue of dark olive skin and black leather. Hell, seven feet in those heels. She was the reason tall women shouldn’t wear heels. It’s too damn intimidating.

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