I was in the parking lot of the Dollar General Store. I was parked in the drive lane, in these unofficial parking spots under some shade trees. She pulls up facing me in a silver Chrysler SUV with a vanity plate that read, "Hooker," and the license plate frame made it read "For my Hooker wife" with two little hearts framing it.

The lady that got out of it was not wearing typical black woman clothing but a white-style, flowing material kind of Indian, hippie pattern dress. She was wearing these sandals with a wedge heel. Let's just say she was five-six and about two-hundred pounds—at least. She was pretty conservative, more in white taste than black. The outfit was not blingy—and I tell you, she did not have a smile—serious, contained, as I suppose a hooker must be. The hair went down over her shoulders, again, in a white hairstyle, no extensions. She had some strong shoulders—the better to pop you with, my dear. She looked like she could hold her own. It is interesting that she was dressed to attract an older, moneyed white man.

I was in jaw-dropping disbelief, that anyone would publicize something like that, that there wife was a prostitute. I was trying not to stare too hard—it broke any mold I had about anything. Even if you had a hooker wife wouldn't you want to keep it private? Is that the way of marketing herself for business and the husband doesn't care because it brings in the money?

Only in Baltimore!

-Lisa Ann