Whores! Whores!

It’s worth watching “The Witches of Eastwick” just for that scene alone.  That woman is a real treasure.

But the whore I’m talking about today is me. 

I go to my favorite stand at the market and act as a ringer.  I take a bite of one of the samples sitting on the piles of stone fruit, make a face just short of  “I just had an orgasm,” and then say something like “I need to make a pie” or “These taste like the plums on Grandma’s tree.”

Half a dozen people walking by stop,  grab a bag and buy some fruit; I walk away with a nice discount. 

This is never acknowledged—I don’t look to see that anyone working there is watching me wax poetic and they never say a word about my having done so, but they always round the price way down, and sometimes toss a couple extra peaches in my already full bag.

I wouldn’t do it if the fruit wasn’t excellent to begin with; I’m a whore with standards. 

It pleases me.  The discount is nice, but more than that is knowing when those people get home and take a bite, they are going to make that face for real.