Whores

When I raise my rates he folds his fifty dollar co-pay and slides it up my desk like an enlisted man on leave easing a big bill in a stripper's G-string. He tells me I'm like his war-time whore who loved him on payday and left when his money ran dry. Each week I lead him in our dance, excite him with my offer to listen to his dreams. And I tell myself I do it to ease his suffering, because I get paid, because I took an oath. But every month, when we devour another round of sessions, I fill out forms for insurance pimps who won't pay unless I reveal the private parts.