For Christmas I wanted a prostitute. “A good one, for an hour, no more,” I promised Dad.
On Christmas day I bounded toward the tree expecting a card with cash, and an encouraging note from Dad: “Money is power, son,” or something. Even an actual prostitute with bows covering her private areas. Instead, all I got was a piggy bank. “Save up and buy one for yourself,” Dad said, patting me on the shoulder.
As I dropped my only quarter into the pig’s backside, I heard the pig mock my lack of masculinity. I stole $50 from K. He sold drugs to the other kids at school, so I didn’t feel bad. I offered a girl in my Japanese class $50 to have sex with me. A poor, trashy sort, she could hardly refuse. “Money is power,” I exclaimed when I was through with her, tossing a dirty $50 bill on the bed.
Two weeks later I approached her again, having nicked another $50 from K. “It’s $100 now,” she replied.
When I was finished with her, I grumbled something about money being power, but now I was less sure. “See you next week,” she asked, an unfamiliar confidence in her voice.