The Nature of Prostitutes

"Fifty cents? You’d be better off humping a lamppost!" That was, without a doubt, the most shocking sentence I had ever heard in my life. My buddies had been teasing a girl across the street, and she snapped back with that line. She was five years older than me. And in that moment, every ideal of beauty I’d ever known vanished. My heart felt like it was drifting out to sea, and my feet seemed to lose contact with the ground. She wore a tight black dress, low-cut, hugging every curve. Leaning against the wall, her right leg bent up, high heels resting on the concrete. A cigarette dangled loosely from her fingers. Whether she intended it or not, her posture showed off her hypnotic thighs and firm hips. Honestly? That was the kind of body that could make any man... stand at attention. I might’ve noticed her body first—but the moment I saw her eyes, I was completely hooked. They weren’t the doe-eyed, tearful kind you read about in romance novels. Hers were slightly slanted, outlined in thick liner and mascara, giving off an almost dangerous vibe. And yet... I fell hard for that fierce beauty. Everyone walking past turned to look at her—some more than once. In my head, a single question echoed: “Who is she?” “Oh my God… the Dalat hot girl,” someone whispered. We all stood frozen. From our angle, her body curved like the letter S. All I knew was: she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. In the chaos of the city street, that elegant figure, wreathed in cigarette smoke, had a way of making you feel drunk without taking a sip. I couldn’t stop thinking about her first words. "Fifty Cents? You’d be better off humping a lamppost!” Something about it made my chest ache. A woman that beautiful, speaking that crudely—it didn’t take a genius to guess her background. But still, I was stunned at how casually those words had rolled off her lips. She was clearly gorgeous—but her words were... raw. And I say "raw" without exaggeration. Because she was a p********e. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Partly because of that tight black dress that hugged her curves… Partly because I couldn’t stop imagining what kind of experiences—what kind of men—she must’ve gone through. The next day, curiosity got the better of me, and I tried striking up a conversation with Map, the big guy in our group. Map’s eyes lit up. “Tham from Dao Duy Tu Street! Heard tons of stories from the Dalat crowd, but this is the first time I’ve seen her in person. Real diamond in the rough. A quickie costs a million. Pro-level stuff. A newbie like you? Five minutes in and you’d already be coughing up cash.” He laughed like a p*****t, eyes gleaming. After buying him snacks and drinks and buttering him up like hell, I finally squeezed out more information: Tham was famous in the underground world. They called her “the p********e among prostitutes.” Originally from Saigon, she used to dance at the famous “Dem Mau Hong” nightclub. No one knew why she drifted up to Dalat. Normally, she only dealt with rich clients, but occasionally she'd take outsiders too. She was busy, hard to book. Even Map’s older friends knew her—but apparently, none had ever “made a deal.” “Probably too expensive,” I muttered. “Ask her yourself,” Map replied, unfazed. I wasn’t thrilled about him calling her “her” like she was an object—but I let it slide. Then Map burst out laughing. “Maybe if we pool our Tet money, we could afford one go! Ha ha ha!” I stood there, stunned and irritated. Yeah, I knew Map was a shameless bastard—but hearing him talk about her like that made me want to punch him. Maybe I was upset because… deep down, I couldn’t stand the thought of my goddess being bought by some filthy guy with a fat wallet. The following evening, I stood across the street, watching Tham step into a sleek, black car. Her high heels tapped the pavement with grace. The black dress matched the car perfectly—she looked like an actress walking out of a press event. For a second, I thought she looked back at me. Her eyes seemed to size me up, like I was just another fool. Then the car drove off, leaving only a half-smoked cigarette on the sidewalk. That’s the life of a p********e. To the world, she’s glamorous—elegant, even. But inside? Who knows what pain she hides? And me? If I wanted just one night with her… How much would I have to pay?