In the morning, the girls were giggling across the alley and before I was even awake I was standing on my knees and watching them apply their make-up. They were naked.

"Dude, John! You have to come check this out." I commanded. While John crawled onto the top bunk I ran to Buck's room and dragged him in too; three sets of eyes balanced atop the windowsill.

When the girls looked up to the window, we all ducked and they cried out, "Hola!" and continued painting themselves, naked as new notebook paper. Whenever they caught us peering in, they'd point and giggle and we'd duck, until we realized they didn't care if we watched them.

"I'm moving here," Buck announced, his wide eyes drying open at the window.

Finally John initiated contact, "Hola! Quiere tener desayuna con nuestros?"

They said "yes" they would like to have breakfast with us.

We proceeded to wait in the lobby for the girls for another half an hour. When they finally emerged they wore matching, electric-blue stretch pants and backless shirts. The night before, they had both been natural beauties, clean faces ready for bed. And while the black girl took a subtle approach to the cosmetic arts, the light skin girl wore enough base, lipstick and eye-liner to kill her beauty.

The girls walked far in front of us on the way to the diner. Buck suspected they didn't want to be seen with us out on the street, in case a true financial option opened up. But inside we all sat around the same round table; John to my left, the make-up girl to his left, the black girl directly across from me and Buck my right.

We asked them a lot about their work and they fielded all questions, though not many of the answers were surprising. They worked from 1 p.m. to 11 p.m. They'd been doing it since they were really young. Now they were about 23-years-old. They charged $100-an-hour, $300 a night.

As they laughingly admitted their ridiculous fees, a small boy came around with a box full of pens. He stopped at our table and asked if we would buy one. Our hooker lady friends bought us all a round of pens. Mine has Taz on it. The waitress brought the eggs.

As if they hadn't added it up before, suddenly the black girl yells out to me, "You're Miguel!"

"Yes." I answered, hoping to not get into a discussion about why I hadn't joined them last night. Uh…well…see…I already had an orgasm…er…I had already had a whore…

Instead, the black girl began to dig between her smooth beautiful cleavage. She pushed the bra aside and pointed to her skin there deep between her breasts. Buck looked down into the cleavage and winced as if in pain or disgust.

"What? What is it?" I said, leaning over the table. It was a blurry black tattoo against her dark brown skin. It said MIGUEL.

"Hey! It's my name!" I cried out, overly enthused.

"Oh." Buck said to me in English. "It looked like some gross scar or a vein at first."

The black hooker was still watching me. Smiling.

"From now on," I said in Spanish, "If anyone asks you who Miguel is, you tell em it's me."

And with that I felt the ball of her foot between my legs. She tapped it against my cock. Everyone else at the table was too busy swallowing eggs to notice. I was very hard.

She was still tapping her foot when John and Buck rose to go pay our bill. When they were away at the counter, the black girl motioned to the Latina, telling her to look under the table at my crotch, at the hard cock bouncing off the flat part of her high heels. When she saw it, they both exploded in laughter, and the blood abandoned my erection, and headed for my cheeks.

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