NOTE: I have previously written that when I write, I sometimes get stuck in a particular theme or mood. The other day, I wrote about stripping. The "jumping point" or "trigger" for me was the book I am currently reading about Diablo Cody's year as a stripper in Minnesota. The essays she wrote, brought up the memory of when I used to strip at 18. It's something many people know about me already, and I make no excuses or apologies for my past. I've done many things I wish I could take away. Haven't we all? I am getting ready to head to Arizona for a business trip/vacation. I lived in Arizona for two years, after college. It was a crazy two years for me. Crazy. Whenever I go back, memories start to flood my mind and occupy my thoughts. I guess I am kind of stuck on a theme right now. So, I forewarn you, what you are about to experience, while true and quite possibly shocking, may be something you may not want to read. This is probably only time I will put a disclaimer on my words, but I feel like it might be a good idea. If you don't want to know a raw truth about me, don't read this entry. If you want to feel your jaw drop, and think to yourself, "holy cow...really?!?" then keep reading. Enjoy...or not!
for David Batchelder - looking forward to seeing you and because I take requests
One thing we used to love to do after we went out drinking, was drive up and down Van Buren Street in downtown Phoenix to look and gawk at all of the hookers. It was a blast. We would see a group standing on the corner smiling at us, waving us over, asking us if we had any dope or asking us if we wanted to party. We would shout back at them, hey, you wanna fuck? Or we would yell hey, how much?
One night we decided it was time to see what getting a hooker was all about. What happened to us was like a scene in a movie. We made it to the end of Van Buren and Main Street, which was typically our turnaround spot. At that point, the suggestion was made and unanimously accepted by everyone in the car. We turned the car around and started our hunt.
Our drive back down Van Buren was much different. We were engaged in a selection process. One guy would point toward a group of hookers and someone in the car would find a flaw. Another guy would point to another group; again there would be an issue. As we got closer to the edge of where Van Buren that turned from “hooker heaven” to normality, we all got anxious. We had to make a decision, so we simply settled for the last group we saw.
There were three black women in the group we approached. Each had on way too much perfume, way too much make up, and they all spoke way too loud.
“You boys looking for a good time?” one of them asked.
“You ain’t the powlice is you?” another one asked. “You best not be the fucking powlice.”
We were two white guys and one black guy, and we were all visibly nervous. They immediately seemed to trust our admission that we were just regular guys looking to get laid. Two of the ladies got in the back seat with Mike, a guy who lived in the Quads, and one got in front with me. Todd, Mike’s roommate, was driving, and he kept looking back at his girl. He kept telling her that he had a big black cock for her. She kept laughing and talking very loudly to the other two girls. She suspected that one of them stole some money from her earlier that night.
My girl told Todd where to drive. He pulled the car into the parking lot of a run down motel. It was one of the nastiest, scariest places I had ever seen. Most of the lights were burned out or smashed out and the lights that did work only provided a dim amount of exposure. It was an extremely dangerous position for us to be in. But we were drunk and we were about to pay money for sex. It was surreal.
We walked up to one of the motel rooms that had an open door. There were two beds in the shape of an L lined up against one another and a dresser drawer on the opposite side of the room that had a desk lamp on it.
I was told by my girl to sit down on the bed and wait. Todd stood next to his girl, rubbing her legs and smacking her ass as he nervously laughed. When a little black man—I now know was their pimp—rolled up in a wheelchair demanding that we pay him for his bitches, Todd immediately bolted out of the room yelling he’d meet us in the car; this wasn’t for him.
The pimp continued to demand money. “I want my fucking money for these bitches time, it ain’t fucking free for these whores to suck you boys off so you better show me some fucking paper before I get pissed off and slap your asses up.”
He was very convincing. He was an employer demanding what he felt was due to him for his employee’s time. I was bigger than him—each of his girls was bigger than him—but he spoke with authority. It scared us into following through with our actions. Todd was the lucky one. He got out at the right time. Mike and I handed the pimp $25, which we were told, was enough to get both sucked and fucked.
I was told to take off my pants and put on the condom I was given. My girl started to give me a hand job. She kept looking over at Mike and the girl with him. She was still mad about the money she insisted was stolen from her.
One moment she would go down on me and start saying, “you like this don’t you, sweet boy? I’m gonna take good care of you, yeah.” The next moment, she would be yelling at the top of her lungs at the other girl. “You better give me that fucking money you took from me you bitch! I know you took it! That’s my fucking money!”
They went back and forth, yelling and jerking, yelling and sucking. The argument got so bad that eventually both of them were simply giving Mike and me aggressive hand jobs for $25. The anger they had for one another did not deter them from their task. In fact, the more they yelled at one another, the faster and harder the hooker servicing me got. I finished long before she realized. She was swinging her free hand at the other girl, pulling me toward her with the other.
When she realized I was done, she yanked the condom off of me very systematically and whisked it and herself out of the room.
I’m not sure what the prostitute did with my semen filled condom. I wondered if part of her deal after she was done prostituting was to take condoms to sperm banks for money. I did notice that she inspected the condom as she was leaving. She held it close to her eyes smiled and nodded as she left. Whenever I see a child that would have been born in 1994, I often look at him or her to see any resemblance.
Maybe someday I’ll get a call to be on the Maury Povich show to see if I am some baby’s daddy.
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