The Oldest Profession

In this poem which I’ve titled The Oldest Profession I recall an incident I never believed would ever happen but is one of those things which was so unbelievable you couldn’t make it up. As I walked from my work to the city centre I was approach by a working woman who asked if I had ever thought about joining her on her shift. Naturally I said that I hadn’t but wished her well for her work and hoped that she wouldn’t pay too high a price for her endeavours. I hope you enjoy what I think will be a thought provoking read.

The Oldest Profession

She sat on a bench ten minutes from my work
and five from the city centre
she knew I was transgender
and asked if I’d ever thought
of entering the oldest profession
I blushed and said I couldn’t see many takers
for a woman like me
you’d be surprised she said
lots of guys like a girl they’ve no chance of knocking up
your ass would be sore
as fuck for the first few shifts
but you’d get used to it
and your regulars ways
after the first few days
then you would graduate to night shifts
that’s where the real money is made
I’d take you to a place
just five minutes from my patch
and you wouldn’t snatch my customers
we’d be after different types
after listening to the job description
I politely declined to join the ranks of the self employed
in the oldest profession
and walking on I wished her luck for the coming shift
thanks she said and you know where I am
if you decide to change your mind
I never did I continued
on my way to wherever I was going
and have no way of knowing
how much she made that night
in tax free cash
and what price she had to pay to earn it
hopefully it wasn’t too high
there were no threats of violence
or visits to hospitals or encounters with panda cars or police cells
which are the occupational hazards
for girls who work the streets
in the oldest profession of all.

© Gayle Smith 2020