This trite little tale I wrote for one of my classes when we were supposed to be doing interview essays. I wrote this instead and told the teacher that an attempt to keep the interviewee anonymous, I wrote the essay in first person perspective. In actuality, I wrote the essay somewhat based on my semi-girlfriend at the time, which as I'm sure you'll figure out. Much of this is fictional, but some of it is true. By the way, if you look on my philosophy page for my biased discussion on women you will also notice that she is one of the many influences upon that discussion. In any case, on with the show.

I had a friend named Heather. She was a divinely sculpted entity of eighteen years. She had blonde hair, eyes of green that put emeralds to shame, and a figure that nearly any woman would kill for. With no Brigasmen or Golden Girdle, she weilded the voluptuousness befitting a goddess. I had the good fortune to know Heather for over a year. Heather was a prostitute.

I met Heather at Cavalry Cemetary. I was visiting the graves of my father and grandparents a couple of days before Saint Valentine's Day. Heather was also visiting someone, her cousin, who lay three plots north of Dad's resting place. Under normal circumstances I would visit the graveyard alone, and speak to no one.

I do not lie in saying that I noticed Heather. She was not dressed particularly fancy, nor in any way that would cause her to stand out in a crowd. However, her natural beauty grabbed my attention almost immediately. I do admit that I paused when I saw her, but I continued on my task and knelt by my father's headstone irresolute in my purpose for being there.

Despite the unclouded afternoon sun, the air was a frigid forty degrees against my flesh. I left a card by my father's grave first, and then proceeded to lay one down at each of my grandparents' headstones weighted down by the slots provided for flowers. I said a silent prayer and stood up, head bowed down towards the graves.

Either by happenstance or desire to see the girl again, I cast my slightly glazed eyes towards the beautiful girl so near the bones of my elders. I don't know why I had not noticed it earlier, but this stunning woman had no jacket to protect her from the elements. In a gallant, Christian maneuver I removed my jacket, trod along beside her and offered her my coat. She took out a tissue, dried her eyes, and accepted my gift.

I placed my jacket over her shoulders and she began to speak. We must have talked for about an hour and a half standing there next to her cousin's burial marker. I hadn't even noticed the time until the light in the west shifted to a pale orange, and the sky above me was a carnation. I walked her back to my car and she returned my jacket. We exchanged phone numbers and parted company. Probably from my ignorance and impercipacity, I had, as yet, no inkling of this girl's occupation.

We would call each other nearly every night and into all hours of the night for a couple of weeks, but when that started getting too expensive we started writing letters back and forth. We would visit each other every couple of weeks. Our corrospndence carried on and on. We told each other about everything. Baing one used to accepting shocking news, the details of her after school profession did not startle me greatly. Yet somehow it did engender a new compassion for her, a feeling unlike that I have ever felt before. I can only assume itis akin to the watchful gaze of a parent over a child as many of my waking moments were spent fearing for her as I knew the kind of life she led.

The days that we spent together were some of the happiest days of my life as yet. A trip to the California State Fair, miniature golfing, and restaurants. We went out together not as a business relationship nor even as dates, but as friends. I even gave unto her that fruit of which a person may only give one other person in their entire lifespan. I can honestly say that it is the most bizarre friendship that I have ever had.

The stories of her profession that she chose to tell me were numerous. These endeavors into which she would go excited me greatly as I was still but a teenage lad, barely a legal adult, and nothing more. She would placate me by saying that she made all of her clients use condoms. That knowledge comforted me some, but I was still uneasy as to what she chose to do with her life.

Heather reassured me many times that she was always safe from disease and from people wo might try to hurt her. Heather's business was much safer than most people would typically ever expect. She was not a cheap hooker with a pimp and a bawdy apartment or motel room. In fact she seemed to be quite a respectable girl. She lived with her parents, she owned a cat, she went to high school. Her clients were usually fellow students who were willing to cough up money for sex, but a few times there were some other gentlemen in their mid-twenties and thirties who would also purchase her services.

She started her trade more as a joke than a need for money or for drugs. She had simply always been a nymphomaniac. On one occasion she requested money and the boy actually paid her! With work like that, who needed the hassle of a boss? She quit her job at the pet store in the mall and went into business for herself. Some people she would fuck for free merely because she liked them. I was lucky enough to be in that small category of lovers as opposed to patrons.

Despite what one might think, sex was a very small part of our relationship. We had so much more to do than talk about sex. We would talk about books and movies and plays. We would discuss philosophy and make conjectures as to the nature of the universe. Occasionally we were paramours, but most of the time we were just good friends. Friends with benefits.

Finally, one time, Heather was raped. It was one of the most painful moments of my life that I can recollect since I had realized and accepted that my father was dead about a decade prior. I was powerless to do anything for her. Heather was dead almost as soon as she came into my life.

I had a friend named Heather.

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