The neon sign above the door buzzed like an angry hornet, flickering between a lurid pink and a deep, arterial red. It spelled out the name: The Velvet Siren. Below, in a smaller, more apologetic font, was the tagline that made my skin crawl every time I saw it:
What’s Keeping You Wait? Trust Us We Do Regular Checkups of Our Girls.
I wasn’t a customer. I was a driver. My name is Leo, and I ferried men to and from this place in my worn-out sedan, breathing in their cheap cologne and their cheaper excuses. I’d heard them all—the bachelors, the bored husbands, the lonely souls. They’d slide into my backseat, their nerves buzzing almost as loud as that sign. On the return trip, the air would be thick with a different scent: shame, regret, and sometimes, a hollow triumph.
But it was the tagline that stuck with me, a persistent thorn in my conscience. “Regular Checkups.” It made them sound like cars, like appliances to be serviced and certified. It promised a sterile, safe transaction. It was a lie, of course. A beautifully crafted, legally-vague lie.
One rainy Tuesday, a young woman got into my car. She wasn’t like the others who sometimes left through the front door. She slipped out the back, her movements quick and furtive. She was maybe nineteen, with eyes that looked decades older.
“Just drive,” she whispered, her voice raspy. “Anywhere.”
We drove in silence for ten blocks before she spoke again, her words directed at the rain-streaked window. “They use that line, you know. The ‘checkups.’ Men love it. Makes them feel clean.” She let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. “Dr. Evans comes on Thursdays. He has cold hands and doesn’t make eye contact. He’s not checking for our health. He’s checking the merchandise for defects. Making sure the product is still… marketable.”
Her name was Elara. She talked not because she wanted to, but because the dam had broken. She told me about the “checkups”—not for STIs or for their well-being, but for bruises that might scare clients, for signs of drug use that might make them unreliable, for pregnancy that would make them temporarily useless. It was a quality assurance inspection, nothing more. The promise of safety was the commodity, not the reality.
“The worst part,” she said, her voice dropping so low I almost couldn’t hear her over the wipers, “is that the men do trust it. They see that sign and they think it absolves them. They don’t have to wonder about the girl’ story, her tears, the fear she hides behind a smile. The ‘checkup’ is a wall they can hide behind. They trust the lie because it’s easier than confronting the truth.”
