A Street Walker Named Desire by MG Stout
Once upon a time this woman didn't need to sell herself. I spied her sitting on the stoop of the National Museum of Women in the Arts building - the irony of scene was palpable. MAN ALIVE! Her hair was strikingly white. It was an arresting fried bleach blond. I looked her in the face and saw nothing. Her facial features retreated into the dark shade of her hooded jacket. It seemed to me that she no longer perceived her body as a temple, but rather a commodity. Her face however was another story. It was not for sale and remained under the cloak of anonymity.