Alphabet of Hookers - 'K' is for Kendra

I don't even know her, not really. I certainly don't know her name, so I've christened her Kendra, just because it seems to suit her.

I've been watching her for almost three years now, in one form or another. She's usually out there by 10:00 or so, working it old school style, in her platform boots and vinyl mini. She's stunning - long black hair, perfect figure, legs that go on forever. She works the high track, which is what we call the blocks where the pricey hookers stroll. It's a squared off radius running north on Church from Dundas to Carlton, and then south from Carlton on Jarvis back to Dundas. The area fluctuates, but if you want to work it, you'd better be beautiful, or you'll get run off of the street.

High track girls work on a menu, sort of like they do in Vegas. Everything has a price, from oral to breast fondling to full service. If you go for the works, you'll end up paying at least $300 or so, which is at the high end of the rate scale in Toronto for sexworkers. It's a strictly regimented world, street work in Toronto. Beautiful girls work high track, average girls middle, and the crack heads work their own strolls, in various parts of town. High track is the creme de la creme, and I've heard that the girls who work it park their BMWs and Mercedes over in the burger joint parking lot when they arrive nightly for work.

I've always wondered why she's out there, why she works the stroll. It's not lack of looks, that's for sure. She could easily be a top independent, or a high rate girl at any one of the Toronto agencies. It can't be easy working out there on the street, in all kinds of weather. Can you imagine how cold it must be, being out there in minus 20 weather while wearing a mini skirt? Neither can I.

I've seen her bent over the window of numerous cars, negotiating and chatting, her cleavage flashing white in the on coming head lights. Tossing her hair while she takes a drag off of her smoke, she looks film noir, classic and beautiful. I've seen her speaking to a stopped police cruiser, laughing and smiling, flirting while she talks to the officers inside. I don't know what she was saying, but I know she was still out there, an hour later, when I walked past on my way back from the store.

I've passed her often enough now that we give each other the occasional nod, an acknowledgement that says "Hey, how's it going?" and "Nice to see you again" without words. I don't try to talk to her, it's not my place. She once asked me for a cigarette, though, on a cold night at around 11 pm. I offered her one, apologizing for it being menthol, and she laughed and said she'd take what she could get. I wanted to stay and talk to her, but I knew she was working, and I didn't want to interfere.

I've never seen her with a pimp, or any man other than the one who's car she was getting into or out of. I don't know if she has one, although I've heard that you can't work that corner unless you do. Maybe that's just gossip, though. What do I know about her world? I'm sheltered from it, sitting inside at my desk, writing email, posting my schedules. I think of her as my sister, though, as part of the world I exist in. That's not a popular opinion these days, not in sexworker circles. We're supposed to think of ourselves as seperate, different from the girls on the street. Not a neighbourhood nuisance, not a blight on the urban landscape. But I always did enjoy bucking a trend, and I will continue to smile at her when I walk by, and to wish I could talk to her, and find out why she's there. I want to hear her story. I imagine it's an interesting one.

Morgan