Ladies of negotiable affection have a code of honor, just like any other large but vulnerable group. They have a sis code, a secret guild and even a special warbling cry with which they can alert each other of danger and with slight alternations in tone and pitch, demand for assistance.
When the danger is a large male pulling his lip and adamantly refusing to pay for their enthusiastically provided services, they don’t even warble for help. They squeal, ‘Hoz before broz’ in distressed tones and every flesh peddler within a five mile radius is suddenly upon the guy, almost as if they’ve all been hiding behind a tree in anticipation of trouble.
Before he can wise up enough to break through their ranks with his animal strength and bolt, they crowd and infect him with fear- because any circling done menacingly in six inch heels and two inches of dress is really a most terrifying thing. When this happens, the bro who has by now started to chuckle foolishly and fumble with his wallet is officially in trouble.
These women are like an elite Russian spy team, complete with aerobic creeping/ducking maneuvers and an intricate facial code which involves quick spasms, the sort that gives them ‘that look’. Note: If ever told by friends that you look like a whore, it’s probably because you’ve involuntarily picked this code up, which is a bit of an achievement when considered at a certain angle.
The discovery of all of this was facilitated by the iffy behavior of a man of uniform, who tried to make away with the earnings of two women. He has a broken finger, embarrassing scratch marks and a mangled ego to show for it.
This man of uniform, humiliated and bloody, mistook the need for his mother that he was feeling and went straight to the police to see if they could repair his ego, which was little more than a pulpy mess at the time and to see if they could also maybe hold him to their bosoms. He bawled, ‘Those chicks assaulted me!’ and seeing his uniform, the chaps at the station got straight to work, conveniently forgetting to wonder why in the world a group of working girls would leave their paying customers to scratch a man for free.
The two women, despite the spirited screeching and shoving of their peers, were fished from the middle of the protective human barrier that had been formed around them and thrown in a dank cell to think about how bad they’d been. The man was left to go find a bosom to sob into as the police have a reputation to maintain which makes soothing grown men out of the question.
The LNAG (Ladies of Negotiable Affection Guild) has probably met to discuss this most recent infringement on their rights and the possible punishments that they can inflict upon that customer who thinks that because his uniform is green, it can do all the tricks that a five thousand shilling note can. Here are suggestions:
They can boycott him. They deal in matters of the flesh and this man has shown himself to be greedy (he solicited two the last time. They can show him touch, or non-touch in this case turning up their noses, jeering and rolling their eyes when they so much as smell him.
They can ‘Angela’ him. When he shows up badly disguised in a Groucho mustache, looking to get a bit of action, they can sing and dance that song at him, but not with amusement shining from their eyes like the rest of us do, but with a thick roiling venom that will bemuse, frighten and put him in mind of that blue juju lightening in kinigerias.
Here we be’s.