Reflections

Cynthia carefully reflected on the enormous wall of costumes. She was holding the costume she had picked for the party at the law firm: the nun's costume, perfect for her straight-arrow reputation as the firm's youngest tax partner. It was an appropriate choice: funny, dignified, but not in the least bit controversial or risqué.

Her costume was chosen, but it was the other costumes that caught her eye: the sexy chain gang prisoner, the naughty schoolgirl, the truck stop hooker.

Cynthia felt her eyes drawn to the hooker costume. A few days ago she had been driving back with some female colleagues from a Woman's Networking Conference where Cynthia had spoken on the role of women in the legal profession. Driving along the interstate her group had stopped at a truck stop diner to use the facilities and breakup the trip with a cup of coffee.

Cynthia had never eaten at a truck stop before but the large, brightly lit diner conformed to every stereotype she had of such places: plastic tables, a long counter with stools, even a black and white checkered tile floor. As a law partner it was the sort of place that Cynthia ordinarily wouldn't be caught dead in but filled with adrenaline after her triumphal speaking engagement at the conference and happy to be with her laughing female colleagues Cynthia didn't mind slumming.

The waitress wore a blue uniform with a white apron and literally snapped her gum as they placed their orders. However it was the cliché that Cynthia hadn't been expecting that fascinated her the most.

"Speaking of professional women, is it okay to use the restrooms here?" Michelle asked.

"Yeah, sure," the waitress said. "We don't let the lot lizards use the toilets," the waitress said. "They piss outside."

The casualness of the statement caught Cynthia by surprise and as the other women in her group laughed nervously at the waitress's vulgarity Cynthia peered out into the parking lot. In the dark she spotted several scantily dressed women walking among the trucks.

Cynthia was shocked. "Are those... PROSTITUTES?" she said. "For real?"

"They're not doing truck repairs," the waitress snickered. Cynthia swallowed as in the distance she watched a blonde with curly hair and a pink halter top climb into the cab of a large orange moving truck.

"Disgusting!" Michelle huffed. "Now I don't even want to touch anything."

"Don't worry, honey," the waitress said. "They don't come in here. I run them off if they get too close."

"Yes, but the men use them, then THEY come in here," Michelle said, "It's gross! Lot lizards are FILTHY."

"Yeah, they get pretty gamey," the waitress agreed. "I can't understand how the guys use 'em, knowing how many peckers they suck every night. They stink to high heaven, too. It's like doing it with a pig."

"Someone should call the exterminator. They need to be sprayed," Danielle said, her voice oozing contempt.

"They belong in JAIL. The police should run them out of here," Samantha said.

"Sheriff gets a percentage," the waitress chuckled. "If the girls try to run off the Sheriff brings 'em back. Between the pimps and the law and the bastard who owns the diner, there's not much left for the girls. That's why they're so skanky."

Cynthia looked out the window, straining to see the girls in the darkness. A plump hooker in a black bikini climbed into a truck. Cynthia felt a wave of revulsion as the lights from a passing truck revealed the hooker's ass in the air and the face of a bearded trucker whose eyes were closed in ecstasy.

Michelle, Danielle, and Samantha made faces to show their disgust. There was no further talk of the prostitutes that night, but Cynthia noticed that her fellow lawyers skipped the coffee and pointedly ordered bottled water instead.

Cynthia had two cups of coffee. It was hot and strong and the cup looked old but sparkling clean. Indeed, the tiled diner was almost antiseptic and reminded Cynthia of a hospital cafeteria. Still as Cynthia stared at the cup she wondered how many of the men who had used it before her had used it after being with a prostitute.

As always, Cynthia's ambitious friends gossiped about networking and work and rich guys and money. Cynthia's mind drifted as she stared out the window at the lot lizards, scurrying between the trucks like cockroaches in a dimly lit kitchen.

Every now and then some fat old trucker would vanish into the lot and return 10 or 15 minutes later with a smile on his face. Sometimes nothing was said, but other times their friends congratulated them on their conquest when they returned.

From her comfortable seat in the diner Cynthia leaned back and sipped her coffee as she watched the blonde with the frizzy permanent crawl out of the cab of a truck and jump down. The blonde was wearing a pink tube top and short denim skirt, and as she jumped down her breasts jiggled like Jello and her skirt flew up to reveal that she was wearing no panties and was shaved below. A moment later, the trucker came down after her, laughing as he squeezed her butt and breasts.

A few of the truckers around them honked their horns and called out several inaudible but clearly lewd remarks at the prostitute and her latest customer. The crude trucker continued to squeeze the prostitute's butt and hold up her skirt for everyone to see her pussy like she was the catch of the day. Even from a distance Cynthia could see the girl was embarrassed, and was squirming to get out of his grip as one of the other truckers flipped on his headlights to illuminate her charms.

Cynthia found herself surprised by the girl's embarrassment: she had supposed that it was impossible to humiliate a truck stop hooker. Was the girl new? Was tonight her first night? Cynthia shuddered at the thought of what that must feel like.

Cynthia had long harbored a prostitution fantasy. Oddly enough she never dreamed of being a high-class call girl servicing wealthy clients; that was too close to her day job as a corporate tax attorney. In her fantasy Cynthia was a degraded street corner hooker, ready to take on all comers. Like her coworkers Cynthia was repulsed by what she saw in the lot, but she was also strangely excited.

There was something about the blonde that mesmerized her as Cynthia imagined herself in the girl's shoes. When she adopted her perspective suddenly the little tart's shame made sense. The girl had spread her legs for money. Everyone knew it and now they were laughing at her and catcalling her like she was some sort of fuck trophy. It was the most humiliating thing -- and oddly enough, the most exciting thing -- that Cynthia could imagine.

Cynthia took another sip of her delicious, hot coffee as she watched the spectacle unfold. Grasping her by the scruff of the neck the trucker continued to show his prize to the row of parked vehicles. The hooker lowered her face, but the trucker, pulling on one of her cheap plastic pink hoop earrings, jerked her head back and her chin up so everyone could see her face.

There were several honks and more crude hoots from the other truckers. Finally one of the truckers flashed his headlights, and with a hard slap on her ass the hooker was propelled off to her next humiliating fuck.

In the booth Danielle was bragging about her billable hours and her share of the partner's profits as Cynthia watched the fat old trucker who had just had sex with the blonde amble his way back to the diner and enter with a broad smile.

"How's the poontang tonight, Jake?"

"Any fresh pussy out there or is it the same-old, same-old?"

"Some of those girls have been fucked so much they should pay you."

"Fresh meat tonight, boys," Jake replied in a thick Southern accent. "And she gave it up all pink and sweet and pretty while I rode her like a rented mule."

"More like a rented beaver," one of the men replied, laughing.

Cynthia listened with a mix of shock, fascination, and horror. It was the degradation of the blonde lot lizard that fascinated her, the idea that she had to spread her legs for this fat old redneck and endure his bragging about fucking her. Cynthia had always been the good girl, the "A" student, the best-prepared lawyer in court. What would it be like if she had a different job, and had to wrap her legs around countless macho truckers and let them use her like a whore?

With an appraising eye Cynthia looked down the row of potential customers sitting on their stools: old, fat, bald, stupid looking, hairy. Not a single man in the place appealed to her; each repulsed her in a different way. But somehow that only made it more exciting. It was so different from her life doing corporate tax... or was it?

"If someone has to go to jail make sure it's your client," Samantha joked.

"I don't think women who work as hard as we are should pay any taxes at all," Cassandra said.

"You mean rich people shouldn't pay taxes. What about the girls out there? They work hard, too."

"They are DISGUSTING!" Michelle said. "Sitting here is like watching maggots swarm horse poop. Let's get out of here."

The waitress had been friendly and the evening had definitely been an education. Cynthia discretely slipped three extra twenties into the small tab, eliciting an enormous smile from the waitress as she told her to "keep the change."

As she exited Cynthia was staring into the lot so intently that she almost walked right into the fat old trucker who had just had sex with the blonde. Cynthia got a good look at him: about 300 pounds, bald, a scraggly peppered beard, and covered in tattoos. He was missing several teeth and didn't smell very good, and Cynthia wondered if she was smelling his BO or the odor of the tube topped hooker he had just banged in his truck.

"Excuse me, Ma'am," the trucker said with his thick Southern accent, opening the door to let her pass. Remembering how he had manhandled the prostitute Cynthia nodded without smiling.

His friends at the counter were even less polite. "Walking into people, Jake?" one of the men said loudly.

"He must be dizzy from that paid pussy pie he just had."

"Yeah, it's supposed to be the whore who can't walk afterwards, Jake."

Jake turned back to his laughing friends. "Hey, guys, watch your language. There's a LADY present," he said, indicating Cynthia.

The men fell silent as Jake opened the door a bit wider and tipped his bald dome toward Cynthia in an odd sort of salute. "I apologize, Ma'am," he said sincerely. "No offense meant. Have a wonderful evening."

Cynthia, remembering how Jake had paraded the humiliated hooker through the lot, barely smiled as she walked through the door.

Standing outside of the diner door Cynthia peered into the mysterious darkness. She spotted the blonde, frizzy haired hooker in the pink tube top shaking her boobs as she strutted past the parked trucks trolling for customers.

When the heavily made up blonde hooker saw Cynthia watching her she stopped, turned and stared back at her. Cynthia was overcome with a strange feeling of déjà vu as she strained to see the woman staring at her through the darkness. The moment was electric...

Cynthia's view was blocked as a police car cruised slowly through the lot and stopped in front of her. The deputy inside tipped his cowboy hat to Cynthia as he leaned out of the open window.

"Good Evening Ma'am," the Deputy said. "Is that lot lizard bothering you?"

His tone was polite and solicitous, but it took Cynthia several seconds to register what he was asking. It was a fair question: why was Cynthia standing in the darkness watching a lot lizard ply her trade?

Cynthia shook her head. "No. I was just... watching."

Cynthia immediately regretted her choice of words. Why didn't she say she was getting some air, or admiring the stars, or enjoying the evening, or ANYTHING other than "watching"? The Deputy didn't miss a beat.

Tipping his cowboy hat the Deputy smiled. "Yes, it's a busy night," he said vaguely. "You let me know if there is anything I can do to help you, or if any of the girls bother you, Ma'am. I'll take care of them. My name is Duffy. Deputy Duffy."

"Thank you, Deputy."

His tone was cordial bordering on unctuous. Why on earth would she need his help, and for what? Was he being sarcastic? Cynthia felt her skin crawl as the leering Deputy looked her up-and-down before releasing the brake and slowly drifting away.

Cynthia caught up with her friends back at the limo the firm had rented for the conference. The pimply-faced limo driver had not been invited inside to join them and Cynthia noticed that when she got in that his hair was disheveled and he had a strange smile on his face.

Cynthia noticed the greasy wet stain on the rear seat of the car right before Michelle sat in it. The large wet stain covered most of the black leather where Michelle was sitting, and the big black grease spot was splattered with splashes of creamy white jizz. Cynthia fought the urge to laugh as she realized what Michelle had done but her friend was so absorbed describing the way she had stashed money overseas that she didn't even realize she was sitting in the disgusting puddle left by the limo driver and one of the working girls.

Cynthia had barely noticed the limo driver on the first part of the trip, but she found herself staring at the gawky, unattractive 20-something all the way home. He seemed servile enough, and had held the door open for each of them, and had adverted his eyes in a properly differential way. He pretended not to listen to their conversation, although a few times she caught him giving her friends angry glares as they bragged about their money.

As the long drive continued Cynthia imagined the sleazebag driver roughly banging some poor girl in the back of the limo her firm's hard earned money had paid for. There was definitely something about him, something cruel and unsavory, and Cynthia decided that of the countless creepy men she had observed that night he was definitely the creepiest, which was no small boast. Cynthia wondered what it would be like if the tables were turned and she had to please him, not as a man, but as a customer.

By the time they got back to the city Cynthia decided that she did not like the limo driver at all. She paid him, but gave him no tip, and fought the urge to laugh when she spotted the enormous stain and dried spunk on the back of the fastidious Michelle's expensive wool skirt.

Now Cynthia stood in the costume store, holding the nun's costume but staring at a hooker costume that looked like a duplicate of the one the blonde at the truck stop had been wearing. Like the blonde hooker the girl on the front of the package was wearing a midriff baring pink tube top, boots, and a short, denim skirt. Her face was heavily made up, and she posed like she was looking for business.

"Did you find everything you're looking for?" a female voice behind her said.

Cynthia turned to discover a sweet little old woman with a sly smile standing behind her, looking at the costume in Cynthia's hands.

"Oh, the nun. That is a good one. But are you sure that is the right outfit for you, dear?"

"Uh, yes, I'm sure. I was just... looking," Cynthia said, embarrassed to be caught looking at the hooker costume. Cynthia was a terror in tax court but there was something about the old woman that threw Cynthia off. She was small, hunched over, and had a wart on the end of her nose, but she was equal parts maternal and unnerving. It was an odd sensation and Cynthia felt simultaneously safe and uneasy in her care.

"The nuns costume is quite popular," the old woman said. "It's the Madonna / Prostitute complex. Fortunately, we offer both," the old woman said, smiling even as Cynthia felt like she was looking into her soul.

"Maybe you want to try it out?" the old woman asked, putting her hand on Cynthia's shoulder and gently guiding her toward the changing room. "It will only take a second, and I want to make sure we have the perfect costume for you."

"I'm sure it's fine," Cynthia said, objecting but not resisting as the old woman guided her into the changing room. The nun's costume was one size fits all, and would require only minor adjustments, but there was something about the old woman's manner that brooked no denial.

Cynthia looked at herself in the changing room mirror. Having come from court she looked quite smart in her tailored Armani suit, and as always her hair and makeup were perfect.

Cynthia picked up her costume and started to open the bag, but froze when she realized to her surprise that something was wrong. She was not holding the nun's costume, but rather the pink tube top from the truck stop hooker costume.

Had the costume bags got switched? How? She had never let go of the nun's costume.

Cynthia looked up as she caught her own confused expression in the mirror—

Cynthia couldn't believe what she saw in the reflection of the glass. She was dressed in the truck stop hooker costume: pink tube top with her pokies bursting through, a short denim skirt, and badly worn hooker boots. Her diamond earrings were gone, replaced by two enormous cheap pink plastic hoops that she wouldn't have worn when she was twelve.

Cynthia's carefully coiffed dark hair was now platinum blonde, and was frizzed out into an enormous and apparently indestructible blond permanent. Her makeup was thick and she was wearing way, way too much of it: long black eyelashes, thick black eyeliner, heavily rouged cheeks, pink eye-shadow all around her eyes, capped off with fire-engine red lipstick that emphasized her pouty lips.

Cynthia was no longer in the dressing room of the costume store but instead was staring at her clownish hooker face in the window of the truck stop diner, watching as the truckers ate their dinners and drank their coffee. The food hadn't looked that appetizing during her first visit but now as she looked at it her stomach growled. She had never felt so hungry in her life.

What was happening? Cynthia stared at her hard nipples poking through her tube top. Why was she dressed like cheap trash, staring in shock and horror at her own reflection? More importantly, why did she feel a delicious tingling sensation in her hot, wet pussy?

Confused at what was happening, Cynthia felt relieved to see the familiar face of the waitress she had tipped so generously on her first visit heading across the diner towards the front door, coffee pot in hand.

The door flung open as the waitress headed straight towards her.

Cynthia, smiling pleasantly at the scowling waitress, spoke first. "Hi. Do you remember me? I ate here a few days ago and..."

"I've told you bitches a thousand times!" the waitress shouted. "No whores near the diner. How are people supposed to fuckin' eat looking at your skanky ass?"

The waitress punctuated her insult by throwing the contents of the coffee pot right at Cynthia. The pot was mostly empty and the coffee was cold and stale, the refuse from earlier in the night. Why waste good coffee on a lot lizard? Cynthia missed most of the splash, but got a little stale coffee in her mouth and on her permanently frozen blonde hair.

"Lousy fucking whores!" the waitress sneered. Cynthia stared at her, mouth agape, too stunned to move.

"Are you deaf, bitch? Billy Ray, haul your trash out of here," the waitress shouted.

In the reflection of the window Cynthia saw a toothless hillbilly in a purple studded cowboy hat grab her by the back of her neck. Squeezing hard the pimp spun Cynthia around.

Cynthia winced as her pimp pushed her away from the window and shoved her back into the mysterious darkness of the lot, slipping the cheap plastic purse off her shoulder as she stumbled backward. Opening it he surveyed the contents unhappily.

"Where's my fucking money, CINDY? You owe Billy Ray MONEY", he shouted, turning the purse upside-down and shaking out the contents: a huge assortment of colorful condoms, some rouge, and a tube of red lipstick.