Three minutes used to be the standard length of a pop song, but I’d never heard one that seemed this long.

Another team was next. Three young gay men of Asian ancestry, a Vietnamese, a Chinese, and a Malaysian who was also Muslim. They had it tough. They declaimed, shrieked, squawked, and ululated.

The MC announced the next poet as Phryne Impiety. Her hair was darker and shinier than Cadillac’s raven black. It was thick and straight. Her lips were also black, but less so. Her makeup was intense. Her midriff was bare. A glittery dangle hung down from her navel. I braced myself for another three minutes of stress and tried to remember breathing exercises.

There were microphones on stage. They were working. This girl, Phryne, seemed to be the first to realize that electronics amplified even a whisper. She didn’t have to yell. She began her recitation at a normal, even playful, conversational level. What a relief it was.

A floozy, a doxie, a harlot, a tart.

Such exciting words, they’ll do for a start.

Only her voice made me recognize Allison.

A bawd, a hussy, streetwalker, a jade

when men with money want to get laid.

A fresh sugar baby, a kept woman, a mistress.

Whatever you want, a website will list us.

What had she done, I wondered, swallowed a thesaurus? Then it was as if she’d answered my thought.

I’ve swallowed the thesaurus a lot more than semen.

It’s synonyms and antonyms that set me to dreaming.

I’m an actor, a therapist, wearing masks, playing roles,

not just along for the ride and collecting the tolls.

I’m the girlfriend experience, I’m a sweet jezebel

there’s five stars on Yelp for the coochie I sell.

I was fascinated by her. Probably more than I should have been. She was young, wickedly smart, sharp and funny, impulsive, dangerous, willing to sell herself. I was old, dragged down with ennui, and, I recently discovered, still impulsive and willing to sell myself. Where does that go?

We do Greek and Roman, Swedish and Brit,

Latex and anal, and would you like to be hit.

I’ll wear the catsuit, I’ll break out the lash,

you want what you want, and I want the cash.

Your fille de joie, votre belle chatelaine,

We’ll be priest and penitent, or Tarzan and Jane.

Prostitute is a verb. It’s not just a noun.

Which of you stays pure, with money around?

The audience was confused. Sex workers had huge cred as an oppressed class. But her verses were not about misery, abuse, and terrible suffering. She didn’t yell, rant, or harangue.

There’s more prostituting than there are prostitutes,

watched over by lawyers all dressed up in suits.

Ladies of low virtue, creatures of pleasure

to relish, to savor, to enjoy at your leisure.

In the life, on the street, girl in the game,