It was the second jail cell that it happened. We were all in for a 24-hour jail term. We were being rotated and processed through three different cells. We had one more to go. The streaky blonde woman slept on the concrete floor in the first cell. She was hyper in the second. I hadn’t slept for more than 24 hours. There were nine of us. A few women, serving longer sentences, had been pulled out of the first cell for transport. It was now nine. Nine doing time.
The first cell we talked about our crimes, the jail process, our kids, our favorite candle scent from Bath & Body Works. The second cell, so close to release, we talked about men. One woman, an English teacher, talked about finding love. A divorced woman gave her recommendations on where to socialize to find men and what love meant.
The streaky blonde woman (last name Johnson) said she preferred “big dicks”. She had dark, dark roots and acne on her cheeks. Some of her nails were long and fake and some were short and worn.
“That’s not love,” said the woman with the bipolar daughter who ran away. “Small dicks are fine if the man is nice.”
“I got love,” said Johnson. “I got a black man who loves me. I prefer black men.”
All eight women went around sharing their preference.
The black woman with eight children and nine grandchildren asked Johnson what she did for work.
“I hustle,” said Johnson.
“What does that mean?” asked the woman with the bipolar daughter.
“I prostitute. It pays good money,” she said. No one said anything.
“Is it dangerous?” I asked. Innocently.
“It’s the most dangerous job in the world. But you gotta do what you gotta do.”
“Why did you start?” I asked. It was a stupid question.
“Pretty Woman,” she said. “That’s my favorite movie. I learned a lot from that movie. Never kiss a man in the mouth and never accept less than a hundred dollars.”
“That movie seemed unreal,” I said.
Johnson shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t give a shit. That woman was pretty. Pretty, pretty. Shit. That’s all that matters. Learning how to survive, how to a be businesswoman from a pretty woman. Shit. That’s it. Are you going to learn how to live from some ugly, dead man who probably fucked up all the women in his life? Men are pigs. I learn from pretty women. Pretty, pretty women.”
Everyone shut up because we heard the keys of the guard jangling. It was time to move cell number three.