I had heard that some women could make a comfortable, safe living off so-called romance.
I didn’t have that kind of leverage, so I completely cut off those unrealistic thoughts.
I settled down for good and entered the business of survival.
My landlord at the time was obsessed with saving face and refused to let me stay any longer.
I couldn’t be bothered to argue with him or even give him a second glance; I just packed my things and moved.
I moved back into those two familiar tiny rooms—the very place where my mother and stepfather used to live.
The people here didn’t care about propriety or pretenses, but they lived honestly, without all that fake politeness.
After moving back, making a living actually got a whole lot easier.
Even those high-and-mighty men who cared so much about respectability started showing up at my door.
They understood the terms clearly: I was doing business to survive, and they were paying for a service.
It was a straightforward, honest transaction where nobody felt cheated or humiliated.
When I first started out in this trade, my heart was filled with intense fear.
I was still so young, not even twenty years old yet.
“Just push through,” I told myself every day.
After braving it for a few days, the fear slowly gave way to numbness.
Once these men indulged themselves, they collapsed like piles of wet mud, completely drained.
Feeling satisfied that they had gotten their money’s worth, they would even go out of their way to refer new clients to me.
After doing this for a few months, I saw through all kinds of people, and my mind grew sharper than ever.
With just a single glance, I could read a man’s character and intentions.
Some wealthy clients would brag about their money the moment they walked in, asking for my rate just to show off that they could easily afford it.
They were possessive to a fault, wanting to keep me entirely to themselves.
Even when buying pleasure, their wealth made them refuse to share a single thing.
I never bothered to flatter these arrogant, selfish men.
Even when they threw tantrums or made things difficult, I didn’t flinch.
“Try to mess with me,” I would tell them calmly, “and I’ll walk straight to your front door and explain everything to your wife.”
The years I spent reading books and getting an education hadn’t gone to waste after all.
They couldn’t intimidate me, nor could they push me around.
For the first time, I truly believed that education was useful.
Then there was another type of client—men who showed up with only a single dollar clutched in their hands.
They acted timid and terrified, scared to death of getting ripped off.
When dealing with these stingy types, I would patiently break down all the rules and prices for them.
“This is the rate,” I would say flatly. “Take it or leave it.”
Realizing they couldn’t hustle me, they had no choice but to go back home and fetch the rest of the money.
Watching them fidget with embarrassment was almost hilarious.
The most despicable ones were the petty street hustlers.
They hated spending money, yet they loved sneaking away with whatever small items they could lay their hands on—half a pack of cigarettes, a small jar of face cream, anything in sight.
I didn’t dare cross these men at first.
They had deep connections and knew everyone in the neighborhood.
If I crossed them, they would team up with the local police to harass me endlessly.
I had to swallow my pride, going along with them and putting up with their antics.
It wasn’t until I gradually built my own connections with officers at the police station that I began settling those scores one by one.
This world was fundamentally a brutal place where the strong devoured the weak.
The meaner your heart and the harsher your methods, the more you got ahead.
The ones who broke my heart the most were the young men who still looked like students.
They would walk in with just one dollar and a pocketful of clinking copper coins.
Every time they came through the door, they were dripping with sweat, completely flustered and awkward.
I felt a deep sympathy for their youthful distress.
Yet I still conducted business with them as usual, refusing to soften up or lower my price.
“I can barely save myself,” I reminded myself bitterly. “What right do I have to pity anyone else?”
Lastly, there were older men who appeared completely decent and law-abiding on the surface.
Most of them had big families with children and grandchildren, living quiet, stable lives.
They had money to spare and simply wanted to buy one last taste of pleasure before growing too old.
I couldn’t quite name what I felt toward them; I just catered to their wishes and gave them what they paid for.
Going through all these different encounters made me see straight through human nature and the true essence of money.
Money was far more ruthless and powerful than the human heart.
People were born with animal instincts, and money was simply the fuel that gave those instincts free rein.