The Eye Of The Prostitute And The Photographer

After shooting all night in Atlantic City I would go to the bar in one of the casinos. I would sit there and watch the prostitutes with their hawk eyes waiting for the recent winners to come get a drink to celebrate. Everyone is after something here. One night I sat behind a woman who at first gave me the up and down, sizing me up, but she knew I wasn't game. I didn't look like everyone else there, out to have a good time: I had dirt under my fingernails, my moustache was really grown out and I hadn't shaved in days, nor had I showered, I've decided that while making the night walk photographs it's better to be down than up. This woman probably figured I was there to rob the winners or I had just gambled away my paycheck and was having a cold one as I tried to figure out what I was going to tell the old lady. But I sat there drinking and watched her work. As each new man came up to the bar, her eyes would meet his, then slide down to his cock, on to his shoes, then back up to his eyes again. But this was for show, it was part of her game, she had already sized him up before he even got to the bar. She would glance over to me every once in a while, in a checking up on the competition way, aware of every detail. To me, this prostitute was the most beautiful woman in the bar. Her dark eye makeup, the bags under her eyes which must come from the stress and sleepless nights, her uniform of cheap tight clothing and her worn out body intrigued me. I was curious, I wanted to sit there, drink beer and trade stories with her for the rest of night. But instead I just sat there, admiring that eye of hers. She gave off the appearance that she was slightly tipsy and a flirt, but she was on point and just as sharp as I was. I learned a lot from watching her, watching the hustlers and prostitutes at work, watching their eyes, watching how they react, seeing what they see.