Francie Smith

I was in Reno, Nevada. I don't gamble at all. I conceived of wandering around and watching the other people. This was in the main floor of some big casino. After a while I noticed a gal hanging around the place. She noticed my noticing her, and so we struck up a conversation. We went into the restaurant there and ate. Her name was "Francie Smith".

She said "Do you want a date?" Well, here I was forty years old in a gambling casino in Reno Nevada and she's talking about high school football games. That's what I thought. It turned out that I was a bit ignorant. She was a prostitute, and "date" is the buzzword for going somewhere for sex. Like in Thailand when a dancer in a gogo bar says to you "I go with you", you never ask "go where?".

Anyway, she finally had to explain things to me. I had plenty of money, and I was certainly willing to learn new aspects of the world, so I said "Yes". So she took me to her apartment. She took off all of her clothes and lay down in her bed. I took one look at her genitals and decided that no way was I going to put anything of mine into that hole. Her pussy had been shaved and it looked like it had been visited by lots of microorganisms. I used to joke that the National Disease Control Center had an entire wing named after her, devoted just to bugs they collected from her twat.

So we didn't share sex that night. We got dressed and went back to the casino and she played the slot machines for a while and then we split up.

I was back in my apartment in California when I got a phone call from her a few weeks later. She was feeling very depressed. I told her to get on a bus and come to me. So she did.

She needed someone to care, so I did. I don't like condoms, I don't believe in condoms, but it was important that I make love to her and no way was I going to put my unprotected dick into that medical mystery. So we made love using a condom.

The next day she was seriously depressed and I took her to the county hospital to get some psychological attention. My car wasn't working so we had to take the bus. We were there around sunset. They decided to pack her away into a county mental facility. They explained to me where they were taking her. It was a long way across town; hard to reach by bus. I didn't get there until 9:30 that evening. Although it was way past visiting hours, they let her come out and talk to me.

She told me later that, when she got into that mental hospital, everyone told her that she would never see me again. So it meant a lot to her that I showed up. The next day I repaired my car and went to see her again. I went there every evening.

A week later she got out of the mental hospital. The way she talked, they gave up on her and she gave up on them. She said that she had to accept the fact that she was a prostitute and that she was never going to be anything else. She had been a hooker for something like twenty years. She was never going to settle down and be a normal woman. So I guess they did her a lot of good at that hospital. She no longer wanted to kill herself. That evening we rented a television and watched TV together. The next morning she caught the bus back to Reno.

For a couple of months I got an occasional letter from her. She was living with some guy. I never got clear whether she was still working as a hooker or not. It sounds more normal than it was. Anyway, she seemed to have come through the experience well. I wrote her a few letters, using the return address on the letters she sent me, but she never got my letters. My guess is that the man she was living with intercepted them and tore them up. But he couldn't intercept my phone calls, so I talked with her a few times.

She was my first encounter with a woman who admitted to being a prostitute, no bones about it. I did my best for her, not so much with my dick as with my heart. Only once did we make love, and that was not because I was horney but because she was depressed. If she wanted to she might have stayed with me for a long time. But she had her own culture, her own social set, her psychological home so to speak, in Reno and she went back there.

She said that she had only one child, a son who was now seventeen years old. The child had been raised by her parents in Idaho; she hardly ever saw him. She was half Mexican and half Japanese. Just one of God's little children.