I'm in a story telling mood today. So, everyone, gather 'round the ol' campfire, put down the wieners and the s'mores, and let me tell you about the time that shy, oh-so-sheltered me chatted with a prostitute.

This flash-back is making me nauseous. Jeez, I hate it when everything goes wavy.

It was a June night in 1993. Clear, warm and smelling of, well, I don't quite remember, but it was in Fresno, so it was probably some kind of agricultural smell. My entire family had traveled by car up to Fresno from the L.A. area for my sister Lisa's baby shower.

When we had first gotten into town, we had a terrible time finding four motel rooms in the same place, but, naturally, we didn't want to be split up. Finally, a Motel 6 on the far side of town offered the number of rooms we needed. We all unloaded our stuff (Teresa and I sharing a room), and proceeded to the home of the person throwing the shower for Lisa. After telling her and Jeff (her hubby) the location of our motel, they promptly informed us that we were on the "bad side of town". Hey, what did we know? Apparently the lack of available rooms was due to a regional softball tournament in town that weekend.

Well, the guys went off and did guy stuff while the gals (including a growing number of Lisa's friends) had fun with cake, mucho presents and various shower games designed to humiliate all participants as much as possible. A nice mixture of ages were present, from six months old (my niece Jessie) to grandmothers (Mom and Lisa's mother-in-law, among others) and a grand time was had by all.

The exact sequence of events after this is a bit hazy. I think the wimmenfolk in the family met the guys back at the motel. I do remember that it was after dark by this point and every corner in front of the Motel 6 had at least three prostitutes. That's right, three to four prostitutes per corner. That's more than I've ever seen in one place, even in Hollywood. Oh, bless the tournament, it was generating income for those girls.

Girls is putting it nicely. Most of the, ahem, ladies had obviously been around a long time. My sisters and I joked, a bit cruelly, I admit, that these hookers were probably ones who couldn't make a living as a hooker anywhere else in the state, so they went to Fresno to try their luck.

The whole family went to Round Table Pizza, which was a complete disaster (incredibly bad pizza, no sodas, a salad bar stocked with lettuce from Korean War surplus). My brother Bob screamed loud enough and got our money back, and we traveled back to the motel.

My sisters and I were driving together in Teresa's car, a chance for the Cyr girls to shoot the breeze. (OK, so Lisa was now, technically, a Taylor, but she's a Cyr by birth, by gum!) I needed coffee, so we parked at a 7-11. Sisters stayed in the car while I went inside. While I was adding the little International Coffee creamer packets to my coffee (Irish Cream, yum!), I heard a voice beside me, extolling the greatness of the creamer packets. (I was off in my own little world, something that frequently happens when my hands are engaged in something tedious.) I looked up and beheld a real live hooker, in all her glory.

She wasn't a call girl or lady of the evening or any other kind of euphemism. With her micro-mini, gold lam� low-cut top, big blonde hair frayed by too much bleach and heavy make-up, she was, undoubtedly, a hooker. I didn't think she was all that old, unlike the others we'd seen that night, or unattractive, despite the make-up. She actually seemed pretty nice and upbeat, and a bit eager to talk to someone who wasn't competition or a trick.

We chatted for a minute (if that) about what a great idea the creamer packets were, how smart 7-11 was to start carrying them and saying what flavors we liked. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing deep (what kind of deep discussions can you have with someone you've just met, though I'm sure our shared taste in coffee creamer may have counted for something). I finished adding and stirring, bade her a good-night, and went on my merry way (after paying, of course).

When I got into the car, my sisters instantly fired questions at me: What was she like? What did she say? Why did she talk to me? Why did I answer her?

This last one threw me a bit. Why did I answer her? Well, why wouldn't I? It never occurred to me not to answer her. Did they expect me to ignore her, act as if she wasn't there, just because she works at a profession that I wouldn't choose for myself? I don't know what happened in her life to reduce her to taking money for sex. I may have been a bit uncomfortable, but I wasn't about to look down on her. Besides, I'd had no contact with the seamier side of life (unless I counted the times I'd fired 9mm guns and rifles with a boyfriend, despite my dislike of guns, because that's what he wanted to do on a date. I was very young). I found it more interesting than anything. And a chance to see prostitutes as more than film stereotypes.

Or maybe I just answered as a reflex. I was asked a question. I was uncomfortable, but I wasn't creeped out. So I answered. That simple.

The rest of the weekend passed without incident, for the most part, just lots of family bonding, and then the bulk of the Cyr family went back to the City of Angels. I've led a pretty straight forward life, but I'll never forget the time I talked to a hooker.

If nothing else, I got a good story from it.

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