The Harlot

It was a frigid morning. Gravel crunched beneath my boots, each step fracturing the earth’s crust. As a boy, I imagined my first time would be indoors, shaped by the countless movies where the stars did it in some basement of a nondescript building. But there I stood, a gangly teen buzzing with energy, alone in the desert as Mother Nature shook off her slumber. My eyes had opened hours before daylight, the anticipation of the morning’s events proving stronger than the steaming cup of coffee on the bench beside me.

I watched the sun gently kiss the desert’s surface, bringing the vibrant greens of cacti and palos verdes to life. The violet sky faded to copper as my eyes tracked it from west to east. Autumn slapped my skin, using the wind as a whip while I waited for night’s defeat. The sun, my savior, began its offensive against the autumn moon’s frigid clutches. I longed for the warm embrace of summer’s UV rays. My skin had already shed its armor, leaving behind pigmented dots on my dermis.

The early morning was devoid of urban sounds. An occasional “pop” rattled the air, but silence otherwise ruled the desert. The rustle of a jackrabbit scampering into bushes or a horned lizard emerging to bask in the early glow heightened my anticipation. I watched another man, sitting at a table, holding her in his arms. He caressed her, then slowly walked away. The familiar taste of smoke wafted through my nostrils, settling on my tongue. It lacked the savory character of burning mesquite I had grown up inhaling at campfires and barbecues. This bite was tinged with a foreign flavor, slightly metallic, like blood, awakening animal instincts I hadn’t known I possessed.

I turned my head to look at her, the object of my lustful desires, resting on an old wooden table so frail it seemed it would splinter under the slightest shift of weight. She sat alone, gleaming in the virgin sun, beckoning me closer as smoke spilled from her mouth—a signal that she had concluded her time with the client before me. Her bare skin was smooth as obsidian, save for the divots and scars emblematic of her long career in the business of sin.

Beretta, as she was known by the stamp on her posterior, faced away from me, staring down a cleared strip of desert. Here, on this barren land, so many boys had become men. There were no velvety linens or supple leather couches—just dirt, gravel, and the old wooden table. These accommodations would have to do. This business couldn’t be conducted in the densely packed corridors of the city without drawing unwanted attention.

She wouldn’t look at me, but I couldn’t peel my eyes from her flesh. I promised myself I wouldn’t take it personally. In truth, I thought it best never to see her face. I had heard stories of her ability to devour one’s soul with a single glance. She was dangerous, powerful, sleeker than I had imagined, and undeniably attractive. She was easy to fall in love with. I divorced her beauty from the nefarious service she provided society, admiring the former and condoning the latter.

Childhood warnings about strangers had long been forgotten. These rules crumbled the moment her intoxicating perfume first filled my lungs. My hands trembled as I walked toward her. I didn’t care that others had lined up behind me, waiting eagerly for their turn. I knew they would watch, feeding a voyeuristic desire buried in their dull lives back home. When emotions take hold of a man, the bonds of privacy in civil society break and fall to the floor.

The fire in my core grew wilder as I stepped nearer. Flames seared my throat. My heart beat like a war drum, thumping rhythmically as I marched toward her. When I reached the old wooden table, I stopped and took a deep breath, letting oxygen smother my nerves.

I reached out and picked her up. She continued to stare away from me, unblinking, emotionless. She was a professional. To her, this was just a transaction. To me, it was a celebration of my transition out of boyhood. My right hand slid along her body. She was cold, as if arctic water flowed within her, but I knew that at my command, she could turn the temperature skyward, shooting fireballs from her mouth that would burn anything that touched her. A lone finger rested on the trigger, and with a sadistic grin, I yanked her backward. She screamed loudly, dancing in my hands as I squeezed her again and again. After several bouts, we both came to rest. She was spent, and so was I, exhilarated by the ride we’d just taken. She rested against the old wooden table, sending a drag of silky gray smoke into the atmosphere. I backed away, a slight smile creeping across my face. My life had shifted, subtly but profoundly. I was humbled by the power I had witnessed.

She’s still there, in that strip of desert. She’s in your city, too, working the corners in the depths of the night. She patrols those alleyways you’re told not to traverse. Some men, unashamed, hug her in public, holding her against their hip, taunting those who stare in disbelief. You might keep her in your home. The truth is, Beretta is a harlot, a nine-millimeter goddess, both a destroyer and a maker of men. It’s impossible to forget the moment one first learns of her power, the first time one pulls the trigger and watches a hole appear in the center of a target downrange.

Some use her for sport, some for entertainment. Some for protection, and some for profession. Some fall to their knees and worship her as a savior, while others make it their mission to eradicate her presence from the earth. Many shrines praising her have been erected in the houses of ordinary men, and far more gravestones and obelisks pepper the land—a bleak reminder of her potential. She has bitten men and women of all ages. But despite one’s beliefs about her utility in our world, we all know who she is, what she represents, and the power she commands. We all pray never to look her in the eye, though too many fail to shield themselves from her stare.