Focusing only on the squeaks of the rusted bedsprings, she felt his sweaty stubble deep in her neck and she almost cried.
Ivan – at least that’s what he said his name was - reeked a pungent mix of English Leather, Wild Turkey, Vitalis -- oh yeah, and wicked b.o. As he pounded away, Ivan kept making her say his name over and over as she moaned.
When it was done, she hid under the sheets and watched him wobble down the flophouse stairs. Eventually, she found enough strength to make sure he was actually gone and tiptoed into the hallway.
That was her first and it was over.
A lifetime later, a bloodied older Ivan showed up in her ER and she quickly remembered her first night as the world’s most inexperienced hooker.
Using the expertise she learned at her very expensive med school, she decided that Ivan couldn’t be saved.
She left Ivan on the stretcher and ripped off her rubber gloves, throwing them into the trash. "Thanks for the textbooks, jerkoff..." she whispered to herself. "Too bad you won't find out what was in them."