Eighteen.

“Tell them you’re 18 or 19,” he told me in what can be considered a briefing

“Why?” I asked him, “18 or 20, what’s the difference?”

I actually came to like the man; there was no beating around the bush with him, no unnecessary communication whatsoever.

“It’s our rule,” he said getting up, and taking a sip of the tea a young boy had just brought him.

I *got* the rule (what with it being a *college girls* service and all); I can see why men would like to be told the *girl* they are violating was until recently on the favorable side of the indicators of innocence. I just wasn’t sure *that* many men really cared or were fool enough to believe in these cheap tricks.

“Maybe I should tell them I am 16,” I said laughing as I got up to leave even though I completely intended to do that at some point and needed to have mentioned it in some capacity.

“You’re a crazy girl,” he said chuckling, “Eighteen.”

For a while I actually did tell them I was 18 in case it ever came up (which it usually did); I do have a proclivity to obedience at the heart of it.
It was kind of weird though because I’d always want to estimate how old the man before me was and they always wanted a straight answer. My way was more fun, I think.

Still eventually I know I wanted to see what happened when I lied to *that* extent. It’s just interesting; being that solicitation of prostitution is illegal and these men were breaking the law with no apparent care, I wanted to see if they would be just as comfortable breaking a *norm*.
Back then the age of consent was still 16 and (legally) me saying *yes* as a 16-year old was a green-light; yet we have this notion that one *doesn’t* fuck underage women or..prostitutes (maybe).

It is just *so* wrong.
I figured that if anyone refused to do it I would pay *my guy* from my own money and put on a nice little show begging *my client* not to tell I confessed lest it ruin my life (or get me killed).

That was the plan anyway.

Turns out my planning was premature and useless; other than the two men who were *slightly* reluctant, there was little or no protesting and sometimes (big surprise) there was enthusiasm. It’s a possibility that they didn’t believe me; I could dress 16 but I couldn’t turn the biological clock back to sixteen. Regardless, having been explicitly told that the woman before them was really just a *girl*, it was intriguing to me that so many of them welcomed the information. On legal violation deserves one social violation, I suppose. After exploring pig-tails, pleated skirts and while socks, I eventually tired of my game and moved on to a new one.

A few months later I was at *my guy’s* “place” because he wanted to talk about “something.” I could hear him talking to his helper inside the little room on the left; he was a loud man. There was another girl in the living room with me; that was extremely unusual.

She was young.

*Young.*

She was wearing a plain salwar-kameez in an extremely unflattering colour, something of a mixture of green and mustard. She had on no make-up and her hair were tied in a neat plait. She was lithe and obviously nervous. She barely looked up from her hands at all.

I’m a communicator, especially when I’m circumstantially trapped with a stranger or just around one. Basically, I will *always* initiate conversations with people because I’ve done it enough to know that often it’s worth it.
I like to know. I like to listen to stories. I like to be surprised. That’s enough justification, I think. I went and sat next to her and introduced myself. She looked at me but didn’t say anything.

“Do you work for..*him*?” I asked her.

“No,” she said still looking down at her hands.

“Do you want to?” I asked probing deeper.

“I don’t want to talk,” she said.
Fair enough. I backed off.

But, of course, I’ve often said that too before I’ve realized I really do want to talk. She did too.

“Do you work for him?” she asked.
I nodded.

“Did you speak with him already?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Is it really difficult and scary?” she asked.

“Not if you want to do,” I said, “Do you want to do it?”

She retreated back to silence. I thought back to the first time I had come in to meet *him*; I had been nervous too, but she was..morose.

“Listen, if you don’t mind can I asked you something…”I said and she nodded, “How old are you?”

“I’m..18,” she said.

I know that lie, I’ve told that lie so many times that no one is putting it past me. I just never realized what it would be to tell it from the other side.
I was so *sure*. That girl was underage.

When I finally went in to speak to him about his *something* I was acting out of my inability to watch that girl break a *norm*, turned out I was much more conservative than I knew.
I didn’t even wait for him to start talking.

“Tell me something..” I said sitting down, “Is that girl outside underage?”

“Did you talk to her?” he said eying me with disdain.

“Yeah,” I told him.

“What did she tell you?” he asked.

“That she’s eighteen,” I said, “But I know..”

“She’s eighteen,” he cut me off, “That’s our rule.”

I stormed out of his “office” in anger and went outside to her.

“Do you want to have coffee?” I asked her.

“Ye..ah,” she said nervously, she later told me she only agreed because I scared her.

*Well, good.*

We talked a lot over coffee. More than we should have. She didn’t tell me in so many words how old she was but she did tell me that she was highly reluctant to do what she was doing. I didn’t really offer any advice, she mostly just needed someone to listen and it was the best I could do because eventually she would do what she *had* to.

She did.

She went back.

So did I.

*Both eighteen again.*