Sometimes I felt so greedy to talk to him, to tell him things about myself, but maybe that was because who else could I tell? My work is usually being present while someone else talks, and the response is better if I don't add anything of my own - which wouldn't be particularly intimate even if I did. Men think they want to hear it, but they don't, because it is Their Time. Those hours are supposed to be about my interest in them. Sometimes when I offer up a thought or anecdote, it's as if I farted. They pause, then change the subject entirely. Was what I called love really just misdirected relief at finding someone who would indulge my self-disclosures?

— Prostitute Laundry by Charlotte Shane (Page 155)