Congratulations Farthing Whore!

It's not easy out there.  But you know what is easy?  Having sex for money!

By easy, we mean dangerous, emotionally taxing, harrowing, and, realistically, actually only "easy" to start doing if you're a physically attractive woman.  The first trick is finding a pimp.

There are a lot of sleezeballs out there, which is why you decided, right off the bat, "No male pimps."  That cut down around 90% of the potential pimp market, globally, and left you with three options in your area.

The first option, Transsexual Trina, specialized in freaky shit - shitting in people's mouths, sounding, making people wear diapers filled with your shit.  Creative, perhaps, but not your cup o' tea.

The second option, Filbrina, is a mouth breathing webdemon who you're almost positive steals your hoodies whenever you stop by her place, so she can smell you on them later.  Filbrina might as well be a guy.

Your third and, realistically, only option, is Mad Hetti, an elderly woman who acts like a British slattern from the 18th century and, realistically, might well have been one.  Mad Hetti, for all her grammatically problems, racism and seizures, will run you with respect, and she'll pay in ancient British coins, Farthings, which were, at the time of their mint, essentially a quarter pound.

"A Farthing a John," Hettie will tell you as she unfurls a coin into your outstreched hand before handing you a towel for your jizz stained face.  "And none's to be teary o'er it."

You didn't respond, but you kept coming back because in this economy, you'd be crazier than Hettie not to.  And the coins kept flowing but, when you tried to spend them at stores, you couldn't actually get any money for them.  You know they're legal tender, and that they're quite valuable, but you'll have no idea how to fence them to make them into acceptable legal tender in America.  Your savings will be drying up, and you'll worry that, soon enough, you'll have to sell some of your soiled old underwear to Filbrina.

But today that'll change.  A particularly sad sort of Milquetoast of a John, a quiet fellow who lives alone and collect coins, will enlist your services.  When the two of you finish you'll still be wrapped around him, nestling into his neck with an intimacy you're pretty sure violates the terms of your professional conduct, talking to him about your Farthing problem.  The moment he hears the word, he'll start a little in bed.

"Farthings?  From when?!"

You'll pull one out of your bag and hold it up to the light of his Ikea unbleached paper lamp.

"1863."

He'll laugh.

"That coin alone is worth ten thousand dollars."

"How?" you'll say, reflexively grabbing his junk to make him answer.

He'll lay it out for you while you give him a handjob.  He'll describe a network of sad mostly-men who sit and browse eBay looking for coins and the like, men who then take those coins and sell them to one another for ever increasing sums of money.  As one of those men, this man could potentially get you into that network, resolve all of the issues you have with your creditors and, potentially, insure that you can retire comfortably inside the year.

There's only one catch.

"I can help you out with it for free, but you have to put ass play on the menu," he'll tell you.

You'll shrug.

"Sounds fair."

Congratulations Farthing Whore!