Angel doesn’t know how to feel about Stan.

If she has learnt anything from those middle-class white men that sometimes come to her, is to never, ever trust them, much less grow attached to them. But he didn’t ask for anything— they shared one kiss that one night as Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush roared through his radio. They just talked the whole night. Most middle-class white men who look for her services end up two ways; with her bent over, closing her eyes tight as they mutter insults, or her grabbing at their hips as she sinks in.

She’s still listening to that song in her head, replaying it over and over. And I'd get Him to swap our places… she imagines, for a brief moment, Stan as the survival hooker, living day to day with the bare minimum, going to the balls, sleeping on Blanca’s couch. She imagines, for a brief moment, herself as the successful middle class person— working under Donald Trump, everyone taking her seriously, having a dutiful husband and a kid. 

But he’s — he’s obsessed with her. 

The stints with middle-class white men don’t tend to last too long. They’re not good at committing themselves to one sex worker, no, they’re always getting a taste from different trans women doing their best to please them, taking the scraps under the table like she is. 

When he offers to get her a place, she thinks it all might be a trap. Which it might as well be. She’s never been one for settling down, for being a kept woman, much less for a man who doesn’t do anything but play pretend, as he so put it. But having a place to live, a comfortable place to live, sounds like Heaven on Earth. So she takes the chance. smiles at him, caresses his cheek ever so kindly. He looks positively starstruck, eyes wide.

He’s almost… cute.

“No white boys,” Blanca tells her once she gets back to her apartment. 

“He offered me a one year lease, Blanca,” Angel replies, almost pouting, feeling like a petulant child.

She tilts her head. “I said no white boys, Angel,” she says. “But as long as he doesn’t—” her face twists— “hurt you… you should take him up on that offer. Is he really rich enough to pay for all that?” She takes a drag from her cigarette.

Angel hums. “I… don’t know. He did mention buying clothes he can’t afford, so perhaps he’s going into deeper debt because of me.” She chuckles. “Isn’t that incredible? I’ve had very few go crazy for me like that.”

Blanca rolls her eyes and leans in to hug her. “You deserve those white boys to shower you with presents, child. You’re finally getting your money.” She pauses for a second. “That peep show place is great though, isn’t it?”

She clicks her tongue. “They’re always calling me a he. But I take what I can get. Especially because, well, Stan doesn’t.” She leans on her hand, smiling. “He called me a real woman.”

“Oh, he gives you basic respect and you fall to his feet like a wounded deer.”

Angel looks at her for a few seconds in silence before they both break off into laughter.

“Well, Mother, I’m sorry to tell you that I have fallen to his feet like a wounded deer. Even if just because he’s gonna give me an apartment of my damn own!” She can’t hide the excitement in her voice, as much as she tries to, waving her hands excitedly.

“I know, and I can excuse that,” Blanca says, “but if he does one thing wrong you gotta run for the hills.”

She grins from ear to ear at her. “I’ll be running up that hill, Mother.”

Blanca doesn’t quite understand why she’s smiling, but that doesn’t matter. It’ll be her little secret.