My family's dinner conversations often center on the aspirations of the Wiatrak children. My brother tells them he doesn't care as long as he makes a lot of money, my sister tells them she wants to be a dancing pony rider and then I tell them I want to be a journalist.
My dad jokes that my brother, or even my sister, will have to support me well into my mid-'80s.
I've always prided myself on my writing skills and independence. Even though deep down I knew neither would support me, there was no way I was living on that damned dancing pony money. Then one day I realized how I could maintain my strong woman status while still going after my dreams - I could get a night job as a street whore.
While I've always believed I was best suited for a career in journalism, prostitution is probably a close second. I've always enjoyed late night strolls, and as a prostitute would get to take them every night. The only reason I don't take them now is to not be abducted and forced into some creepy man's sexual fantasies. As a hooker that wouldn't be a problem - it's actually kind of the point.
I mean, how hard could it be? Dress like a slut, act like a slut, then hop into his car and cross your fingers he doesn't have a nanny cam - or a homicidally violent wife, for that matter.
Plus, if there is a problem, who better to confide in than other whores?
Why did he pick her and not me?"" I'd say leaning on the leathery, cigarette-stained shoulder of another frustrated whore when the skinny-calved hooker gets all the attention. ""I should have bought this top in blue instead,"" I whimper, motioning to my yellow sequined bikini top with feathers sticking out of the cleavage.
Of course, because I'd only use prostitution to financially supplement my true passion, I couldn't let my fellow writers know my true source of income. I'd have to wear a disguise - like clothes that actually cover my midriff. And glasses. Definitely glasses.
""I couldn't get the customers out of the restaurant until midnight last night, and then my boss made me close,"" a friend would complain while I'd just stare through my glasses at my $400 shoes, and explain my brother makes a lot of money.
Then there's always the danger that I could get the two worlds confused, like coming to the office in a mini skirt and corset, or using a tape recorder as a sexual aide.
But journalism and hustling have more in common than one may think - the success of both relies heavily on using the right words, even though the vocabulary varies greatly between the two professions.
For example, I couldn't run around the office calling my coworkers ""cuties"" and asking if they'd like a date. And I definitely couldn't write an article with a headline like ""That Ho Stole my G-String.""
Ironically enough, my double life could potentially be a career making move for my journalist self. I would be the first writer to report what goes on after the car doors close, without, of course, letting on that the whore and the reporter are actually the same person. Maybe I'd even win a couple awards for telling the dirty, whole story.
And upon accepting the inevitable journalistic award, I'd shake the presenters' hands and whisper in their ears, ""Thanks Baby, if you want more you know where to find it.""
If you'd like to remind Kiera this column is running on the holiest day of the Jewish year or wanna see some boobies, e-mail Kiera at Wiatrak@wisc.edu. Visa or Mastercard accepted._
