We’re standing outside the bar, my best friend Trish and I, having a smoke, more to pass the time between drinks than out of any real nicotine craving, when a vintage black Beamer pulls up to the curb. It’s been raining, although it’s not raining now, and the neon from the bar stains the pavement, which has a gritty sort of beauty to it, like abstract art or transvestites in a diner drinking coffee at four in the morning. A guy gets out of the Beamer, a hot guy with tight pants and a leather jacket, and apparently a somewhat rich guy, too, because I’m guessing that car is worth more than I made in the last decade. Trish crosses her arms and says, “Flip you for him,” which we both know is a joke because even though she’s next door to being a lesbian, she’s not nearly butch enough to pick up a guy at this joint.

Another guy gets out of the passenger seat—well, stumbles, really, because this is clearly not the first bar they’ve been to tonight. He’s young and Asian and has facial piercings, and he’s pouting, which makes sense because Mr. Tight Pants looks a little pissed off, which quickly becomes a lot pissed off as Asian guy gets his balance and slams the passenger door a bit too hard. Mr. Tighty Pants starts yelling then, and the two proceed to have a nasty breakup right in front of the bouncer, a large person of indeterminate sex who doesn’t bat an eye, nor do any of the people smoking on the sidewalk, because this is, after all, a gay bar.

The result is that Asian guy takes off down the street and Mr. Richy Rich Tighty Pants enters the bar single, which makes me glad I’m wearing my skinny jeans tonight with the tightest black t-shirt I own. I’m also glad its cold enough to make my nipples stand out beneath my shirt, because my rent’s past due and my lease is about up and I can think of no more enjoyable solution to my problems than helping that rich, tight ass out of those expensive tight pants.

Trish follows my train of thought and stubs out her cigarette, her eyes on the door behind which Mr. Tighty Pants has vanished. “Really, Jason?” she asks, rolling her eyes, and because I know exactly what she’s thinking, I answer, “Really.”

My female friends object when I call myself a whore, even though I try to explain to them the word doesn’t carry the same baggage for a man as it does for a woman. You’re not a whore, they insist, expelling the word from their mouths like they’re afraid it might taint them if they leave it in there too long, a throwback, I guess, to the days when a woman’s security, comfort and sometimes even her life depended on her reputation. It’s programmed into them, this fear of the word whore, just like it’s programmed into them to hate the word cunt, because for some reason women have long genetic memories, so they cling to things when they should let go, and they pass them down from generation to generation.

As for my male friends, well, I don’t have any. I guess that’s the price you pay for being a whore.

Trish gets me better than most people, which probably isn’t saying much, but she’s been around for things I’d rather most people not see, like when some guy got a little too insistent with me in the bathroom of a bar once, or when I went on a bad acid trip and shoved her into a lamppost. Despite all that, whenever we see each other she still hugs me like she means it, but even she looks a little dubious right now as we carry our vodka sodas to the table nearest the dance floor.

“For all you know, he’s probably a douchebag,” she says, perching on a stool. “Wait, scratch that. He’s rich, so that means he’s practically guaranteed to be a douchebag.”

“So?” I ask. My drink is extra stiff, and I down half of it in one gulp, while Trish takes a long draw on her straw and shivers.

“So you would really jump in the sack with someone you don’t even like just because he has money?”

Mr. Tighty Pants has made it onto the dance floor, where he’s gyrating solo beneath the disco ball, just begging to be picked up, and I’m eyeballing at least half a dozen other guys out there who’re all eyeballing him, which means I’m going to have to be at the top of my game tonight if I’m going to cut through the competition.

“No,” I say, following Tighty with my head, and before you say what you’re thinking, let me reply: both. “But his money makes it a hell of a lot more likely that I’m going to like him, at least for a while.”

Unlike most whores, I don’t resent my johns. Being the hot little piece that I am, I have the luxury of choosing only the ones I like, and I usually like them quite a lot, right up until it’s time to move on. Most of them don’t even know they are johns, and before you judge me for that, not that I care if you do, let me add that they pay me extremely well to keep this fact from them. Oh, not with money, but with great sex and expensive hotel rooms and all the partying and drugs I can handle. They don’t want to know, believe me, and part of my job—the real skill of my job—is to give them the illusion they’re looking for.

I try to explain all this to Trish, but I think she’s had a bit too much to drink to process it.

“How do you know he’s looking for a whore?” she asks. “Maybe he wants to find someone who genuinely cares about him, and you’re keeping him from that.”

Trish compulsively swirls her straw in her glass, which is one of her nervous habits, so I can tell she’s starting to get agitated, but I’m on a roll and not ready to back down from this conversation.

“But that’s just it,” I say. “We’re all whores, if you think about it. Love, friendship, every human interaction, it all boils down to the same thing. Transaction.”

“But I don’t get payment for being your friend. When I bought us those Muse tickets last year I certainly didn’t get laid for it.”

“Yeah but you got good company, good laughs, good times. Fair exchange, right? You didn’t seem to feel ripped off at the time.”

Trish takes a moment to process this while I watch Tighty begin grinding with some skanky guy in leather, and I start to get a little fidgety because I know I’ll have to act fast or lose my chance.

“So I guess that makes me just another one of your johns, then,” she says. “Or would I be a jane?” She tries to make a joke out of it, as if the whole idea is just too preposterous to consider, but I can see the wince in her eyes. I don’t answer, and a moment later she excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

When she comes out, I think her nose might be a little red, but it’s hard to tell under the black lights, and either way I’m not going to feel bad about it because when it comes right down to it, we’re both just out for a good time, and as long as we’re both having a good time I don’t see anything to get all worked up about. I gulp down the rest of my drink and then ask her to watch my jacket while I dance, which she agrees to without really looking at me, so I put on my best blinding smile and strut out to work the dance floor. I know in the morning Trish will be pissed at me for ditching her, but I’m prepared to pay the price, probably in the form of making her waffles and maybe even driving her out to the coast for a day, and then the balance sheet will be even and everything will be fine.