So, you say you want to be alone with your party doll? You say you want to get away from it all? Away from the booths, the poles, the barmaids, the mirrors, the bouncers and managers, away from the unwashed masses who come here to try and staunch the flow of lonely, away from the religious zealots willing to pay for keys to non-existent hotel rooms? You say you want to get away from the freakshow and be alone with the girl of your wet-dreams?
Well, my friend, you’ve come to the right place. We accept all major credit cards.
“Ronnie?” I’ve got him by the tie, to keep him from flopping off the barstool. “Look at me, Ronnie.” I smack him lightly on the cheek a few times.
Everyone else has come and gone, but this suit’s been here for hours. His mouth is hanging open and his eyes are at half mast as he tries to focus on me. I’ve sent him upstairs with three different girls already, each time with the same unopened jeroboam of crap champagne and one of my killer speed-rack Georgi vodka martinis in a highball glass. Each time I run his card for a thousand dollars. Eight hundred dollars for the bottle, two hundred dollar tip for me. Whatever cash deal he cuts with the girls is their business. The credit card charges show up as a steak restaurant, the irony of which is not lost on us. A piece of meat by any other name…would never taste as sweet.
“Ronnie!” I’m loud and all up in his face, trying to make myself heard through the vodka haze and over the music.
“You’re losing him, JJ. Better give’m a blast.” Piper’s cleaning up the bar, my section as well as hers, getting ready to close up for the night. She smiles as she watches me struggle. She’s right about the blast too, of course she is. I take the vial of coke from her, come around the bar and slide onto the seat next to him.
“Ronnie,” softer now, my mouth right up against his ear, he reaches out and cups my breast in his hand and begins kneading it. “Here sweetie, inhale for me.”
I do not like sharing cocaine. I do not even like sharing your cocaine, but this is a necessary investment.
I pinch one nostril closed while I hold the tiny coke spoon up to the other, cradling his head with my other hand. He inhales, gently. I slide the spoon almost inside his nostril. “Quick now, baby, inhale again,” he does, “That’s it, there you go. C’mon baby, let the good times roll.”
The suit leans back in the chair and you can see the cocaine start to work, sobering him up just enough so he’s intelligible, but not so much that he’s no longer pliable. Not so much that he realizes how little he’s gotten for how much he’s spent. There’s a delicate balance that has to be respected, like mixing nitro-glycerin. Or making a chocolate souffle.
“Ronnie.” He looks at me, smiling slowly. “I’m gonna need my tit back now, baby.” He looks down, apparently confused as to how my boob wound up in his hand. He squooshes it like a wad of play-doh, and leans in for a sloppy kiss—he stinks of vermouth and cigarettes and sweat–and misses my mouth, resting his head on my shoulder.
“Gimme a blow-job. None-a these bishes will gimme a blow-job.” His head lolls to the side. “Willyousuckmydick?”
Piper laughs, grinding her cigarette out as she turns to make herself a fresh vodka. Myron shakes his head in disbelief, but never takes his eyes of the suit. I’ve run up over three grand for the house from this fish alone. I’ve wrenched eight hundred dollars in tips, plus my ten percent bottle commission, that’s another three hundred plus—means I’ve cracked a grand in tips and commission for the night. I’m finally making Winks money goddammit. I’m so fucking tired of hearing about how great it was and what an jerk I was for walking out.
It’s twenty minutes to closing; I need a new girl—the fish is drunk enough that I can recycle the bottle of champagne, but not girls. Three girls, three thousand dollars, and this poor john hasn’t even gotten far enough to get his own hand into his pants to pull on his limp dick.
Truth is, if he really wanted his dick sucked, if any of them really wanted what they say they want, they’d go two doors down to the Luxor Baths for a $10 “happy ending”, or pick up one of the street girls. But, after you’ve spent a couple of hundred dollars and no one’s even looked at your pud, no less pulled it, and you stay? You may as well admit that what you’re really looking for is the company and the fantasy.
I’ve got twenty minutes left to try and whack that gold card one last time. Over his shoulder I spot Carrie, smoking a cigarette, picking at her cuticles and leaning against the stage. I catch her eye with a nod and she snake-walks over, slides an arm around his neck, looks him right in the eyes and smiles. Hell, if he wants his dick sucked, she’s the one to do it. She’s the gypsy, the blow-job queen.
The suit looks from her to me, and back again, confused. We’re both tall, with short red hair, long faces and a certain rock and roll edge. “You sisters?”
Bingo.
“Yes,” I say, slipping his gold American Express card out of his wallet– I like to think of myself as a modern day gold miner. Myron rings it up, Piper packs the same unopened bottle of champagne and another vodka martini into the ice bucket. “Yes we are, Ronnie. We’re sisters….”
Myron coughs, loudly, reminding me that last call is only ten minutes away…
This entry was written by , posted on December 10, 2009 at 11:04 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1980, Butterfly, drinking, drugs, johns, partners in crime, strippers, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I walk in moonlight, my breasts full and plump, my ass soft and round, hips rolling seductively as I near the bed. My face a blank mask as I look down at him, thinking about what? The car? The money? The task at hand?
Floyd lies naked, an island of flesh lit by garish street lights. He does his best to spread his legs open, to expose himself more. The sheer mass of his stomach eclipses everything in the room. His chubby fingers grab at my dark curly pubic hair and he shoves a thumb inside of me (Audible gasp. Mine. I cannot tell if it’s pleasure, surprise or horror.) His thumb probes deeper, twirling around.
“Suck my cock.” His voice has lost its whininess. He pulls his thumb out of me and shoves me towards the foot of the bed. The thumb, shiny with my juice, he sticks in his mouth and suckles on.
When a man’s pound of flesh is surrounded by four hundred more pounds of flesh, well… finding it alone is work. Tucked inside the folds of those massive thighs, deep beneath the crevice below his belly, I root through his flesh like a pig after truffles. Holding his belly up with an elbow, his thigh away with a hand, I find my prey. No bigger than a thumb or a pale breakfast sausage, I take him in my mouth. Sucking him, stroking him slowly, making him harder, squeezing and pulling, rubbing my breasts while he peeks around his belly to watch me.
I’m getting us both ready.
He lays there, unable to move, a giant overturned turtle, a great sea mammal washed ashore, stranded and at my mercy. My juices are flowing. I’m wet, I’m wet, I’m so wet. I touch myself, separate the damp hairs, the pink outer lips, open myself up and rise up. I close my eyes and mount him as best I can.
“Suck this,” I command, slapping his hand away from his mouth and sticking my fingers, slick with my own juices, in.
I ride him, leaning forward as he grabs my tits, pulling painfully at my nipples. I grip his round arms and ride him, forgetting about his rash, his size, his lack of size. I ride and pump and thrust and grind. I moan and curse and Oh baby, and yes, yes, yes as he comes inside me. I ride him some more, pulling on my own nipples now, rubbing my clit up against his big firm belly, bringing myself to climax. I stroke his big round belly and when I feel him shrinking, I contract inside and try to hold that little sausage a bit longer.
And I think about where I will go in the cute blue Pinto I will buy with his money.
My money.
The money was the real reason I was there, I told myself. Yet, even describing it now, my juices flow and my puss tightens. His flesh repulses me, but having a man want me so badly he’ll pay what I ask, makes me wild. Opens me up inside. To be in charge. To be in control. To be paid.
He’d already washed my scent off and squeezed back into his brown polyester slacks when I realized no money’d changed hands yet. No crisp bills waited quietly on the night stand like in the movies.
“Floyd, uh…you’re leaving?” He stood at the doorway to the lighted bathroom. A gargantuan silhouette, his huge polyester behind reflected in the mirror.
“Yeah. I gotta see what kind of damage those boys did tonight. Keep the room. I paid for the night.” He struggled into the matching sportcoat, patted me on the head, checked his pockets, tossed the room key onto the bed and headed towards the door.
“I don’t wanna stay here all night. We talked about money Floyd… What about the money?” I snatched up my clothes, pulling my panties on without washing him off of me. A little bit of liquid Floyd runs down my leg.
“Lookit kiddo, I don’t have the money with me…”
“What do you mean, you don’t have the money? The cab, the room…?”
I came here to get paid, to turn a trick.
“That’s about all I had, I don’t carry cash. Look, are you okay? D’ya need cab fare?”
Cab fare you mammoth pig? I need three hundred and twenty five dollars. I need your head on a platter. I need my FUCKING MONEY I scream in my head.
“OK? OK? I’m not OK,” screaming out loud, pounding the bed. “What about my money? You said you’d pay me three…”
It’s not a trick if you don’t get paid.
“Hey,” he interrupted. His fat hand on my still naked shoulder, “d’ya think I’m trying to cheat you?” And it is, it’s exactly what I think, but I don’t say anything. “Whad’jew want me to do, tell the guys with the guns ‘Wait, don’t shoot nobody yet. Lemme get money outta the safe to give to my girl?’ ”
“But I thought….I thought you had money with you…”
STUPID, STUPID STUPID. STUPID BITCH
“No, kid,” he said softly, like you do with a child. “You stop by the club tomorrow night and we’ll straighten everything out. OK?”
I’m such a stupid bitch.
I nod silently and sit quietly watching us in the mirror as he kisses me goodbye.
Silent, I watch the door close after his fat polyester ass.
Silent, I sit as my heart and soul walk over and rejoin me, a little thinner now, a little paler.
Silent, I finish dressing and head down to the subway and back home. I have just enough money for the subway, I’ll panhandle the rest at Penn Station for the train ticket back to Long Island, to my parents house.
Maybe it didn’t happen that way at all.
Maybe it was just a dirty little room and I was just too scared or too stupid to ask for the money.
Maybe I was just a chubby girl having sex with a huge fat man and expecting him to keep his word.
Maybe there was nothing sensual about it at all.
Maybe it was just sad.
Stupid bitch.
The next night back at the Bon Soir yellow crime scene police banners criss-cross the doors. I scoot under and creep down the dark stairs to investigate. To find Floyd and get my money.
The dance floor is empty. The bodies are gone, but last night, the police say when I ask, last night was just crazy. A pile of bodies on the floor. They closed the club for good. There were no witnesses. Not a single bartender or manager or anyone who had seen anything. They couldn’t find Floyd either.
JJ forgot to teach me the first lesson of whoring. Get the money up front.
This entry was written by , posted on November 19, 2009 at 8:22 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1978, Bon Soir, dirty money, Greenwich Village, johns, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I never actually thought of myself as a prostitute. I knew girls who were, lots of them. They had sex in exchange for a prearranged mutually agreed upon amount of money.
the pickpocket ©2001 courtesy schmitt-hall studios
I, on the other hand, at various times took spontaneously offered cab fare from men I was having sex with. Granted, the cab fare in question was usually in the neighborhood of $300 to get from 47th Street to 7th Street, but still, we called it cab fare. The money came from the men of power and influence who made the rules in my little world: wise guys, bar owners, drug dealers. Ironically, while I wouldn’t have fucked any of them for fun, I would’ve fucked them all for free.
But I didn’t.
I fucked them each for somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred 1980 dollars, which is around a thousand of today’s dollars. Not a bad neighborhood no matter what I called myself.
I thought about making the official leap of faith and applied to a few outcall whore houses. If you’ve never done it, you can’t appreciate the irony involved in being interviewed for the job of “whore”. Each time, it started with call to an escort service listed in the back of the Village Voice. Followed by instructions to call again, this time from a particular pay phone within eyeball range of that particular House of the Rising Sun. From the pay phone, after passing the eyeball from the window test, I’d be given a specific address.
One shop liked me, but I didn’t like them. The “house” was depressing. A rundown apartment, stuffed with worn out furniture & threadbare girls sitting around waiting for a phone to ring. Not exactly what I had pictured after reading the Happy Hooker. But then, I wasn’t exactly Xaviera Hollander…
That point was driven home at Cachet, the creme de la creme, when Sidney Biddle Barrows declared me an exotic. I’m sure she meant to say ethnic, as in “Dear, you’ve got Jew-girl written all over that punim and we don’t like your kind around here”. She just had too much crust on her upper to actually say something like that out loud.
I did go on dates with strangers in exchange for prearranged mutually agreed upon amounts of money. I wouldn’t've had so much as a cup of coffee with a single one of them if they weren’t paying for my time. But while there was the implication of sex, the expectation of sex, sometimes even the anticipation and aroma of sex, there wasn’t ever any actual sex.
They always had a good time.
Even when I would rob them.
Most of the time they wouldn’t know they’d been robbed until later.
If I’d thought about it at the time, I’d have considered myself a thief
rather than a whore.
But,
I never thought about it
at all.
Not even
once.
This entry was written by , posted on October 26, 2009 at 9:20 am, filed under the diary and tagged johns, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Everyone turned up & tricked out for the funeral. Cindy and her man BamBam from the Bronx Savage Lords, Geronimo, Candy, Cowboy, Sharon, Fat Phyllis, Terry the Moose and all the pretty boys. It was the first time I’d seen any of them in the daylight. There’s something to be said for the kindness of moonlight and mirrored balls. I’m sure they were thinking the same about me.
One of Candy’s johns, a little Truman Capote looking thing, drove us out to the funeral home. Frankie’s mother and sisters introduced me to two or three other people who were also engaged to him, and another couple he’d already married. I met the jealous ex-girlfriend who was always banging on the apartment door because, she said, it was her apartment and she wasn’t his ex-anything. We’d shared the same lover and the same vaginal infection. Both were over for us now. She introduced me to more people who were engaged to him and others he’d married, some he only lived with. Half of them were younger women, the men were mostly older.
Standing graveside as they lowered the coffin into what would remain an unmarked grave, an aging blonde drag queen named Sunshine in a tasteful black lace dress & veil handed me a plain white envelope and offered me a ride home. She drove a big convertible with soft white leather seats, and a blazing cherry red paint job that matched her lipstick exactly.
I crawled into the back seat, tucked myself into a corner. Horse Faced Linda climbed in next to me and started to cry. Linda was neither engaged nor married to Dead Frankie, but had the dubious horror of being the woman whose bed he chose to kill himself in. She was the only one there I hated & I was the only one she spoke to. She wept and babbled into my ear the entire drive home.
I caught the blonde’s eye in the rear view mirror. Her veil lifted, the wind sent her Nice n’ Easy Honey hair flying around her head, catching in the fine stubble on her chin. She watched as I opened the envelope. I thumbed through the nude Polaroids inside. Two front view and one rear view. With matching wallet sized copies. They’re the only pictures I’ve ever had of Frankie. She smiled into the mirror, lipstick smears on her crooked teeth. I leaned back, opened a small vial of butyl nitrate, amyl’s cheap & easy sister, and watched the sun pulse as it slid out of view. The sounds of the road, of blood rushing through my veins, through my head, to my heart, drowned out Linda’s equine weeping next to me. The wind caught the tangles of my hair now, and beat me into oblivion as I inhaled a little more of the butyl.
He’d been about to turn twenty. I was seventeen. Overwhelmed by lonely, with fears and shames we couldn’t name–we hunted for somewhere safe, dark and distant.
It was a good day to die.
Todays question for my readers: What do you do in your life today to ease stress, how do you deal with sadness or loneliness? Do you have someone to talk to, do you meditate, go running, drink till oblivion? How do you handle that?
This entry was written by , posted on June 25, 2009 at 10:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1975, death, dirty boys, hustlers, johns, love, The Chalice. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
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