One Saturday night Sara went to the mall with her friend Rachel, a programmer who wore her hair in a long black braid down her back. She bought a large lemonade at the hot dog on a stick stand and on the drive home they took turns sipping. They spoke of the actor who got caught with the whore.

I just can't drum up a strong feeling about prostitution, Sara admitted.

They discussed the problems of violence, disease. If it could be kept sanitary, they agreed. Rachel suggested a business in which the men would have a personal prostitute, like a personal trainer. They would set up an account and there would be a mandatory physical check-up before the first visit.

We might even have a doctor on the premises, she said.

Would we be the prostitutes?

We'd be the pimps, Rachel told her. Men would make appointments, just like at the doctor. We could send out appointment cards: It's time for your fuck! Maybe we could even start a chain of them, something with a really good name, like Blockbuster.

Ballbuster? Sara suggested.

The women laughed. Sara took a long suck from the lemonade straw.