“Ohh yes that’s it baby fuck me, fuck me hard.
(Shit I hate it when they want me to talk. Now I am quite talkative by nature. One of those annoying creatures who has vocal opinions about waaaay to many things. But sex talk? I am more than happy to spend hours discussing the sex habits of the bonobo chimpanzees. Of erotica I can talk Karma Sutra and Japanese pillow books. But , Fuck me hard? Oh oh yah like that baby do me now. Why ohh why do they want me to talk?
When he asked me to marry him he said he would die without me. I said I would be with him till the day he said he no longer wanted me.
I arrived in San Francisco having attended no funeral. Why San Francisco? I think it was the rice a roni adds I saw as a kid. San Francisco always looked so pretty in the ads. Starting your life over why not choose some place pretty? San Francisco is indeed very pretty though despite rice a roni being called the San Francisco treat I never actually saw anyone in San Francisco eating the stuff.
I hit the ground running and in a week I had an apartment. 430 O’Farrell st. Apartment 401 .Richard J. Boccie, the land lord. He was a short slim man with dark brown hair and eyes, He drove a bmw he wore an expensive suite, he had very soft hands. His smile was a near prefect imitation of open friendliness.
“If you have any problems just let me know.” He said.
“Ohh don’t worry I’m not the suffer in silence type. If I’m unhappy you’ll know. And if I’m really unhappy well I guess just about everyone will know.” I said.
It is an odd thing, when ever I tell someone exactly what I will do, thay always seem to think I’m telling a cute little joke. Meh, what ever dismissive mental shrug. Boccie: Classification: Mostly Harmless, and he lived in Daly city so I figured he wouldn’t be too great an irritation. Ok I was wrong about that, On a rather epic scale.
I set about decorating my little home. Damn the security deposit I wasn’t going to live with white walls and beige carpet. I rag painted the walls in several shads of pale blue and chalky white, the effect was of mottled turquoise stone, the ceiling in lighter shades of white and blue like blue sky and clouds, the kitchen I did in bright apple green and tomato red for the cabinets and trim the bathroom I treated with reactive copper paint to look like copper aged in the rain. At a flea Market I got a large old Indian capet to cover that ugly beige wall to wall ., from a thrift store I got an old wicker child’s sleigh style bed, it was just large enough for me to stretch out in, painted a hidiouse pepto bismale pink I set to work covering the bed in gold leaf, from the same store I got a wicker chair to match and gold leafed that as well. It was a very small apartment so other then the few odds and ends like bamboo shelves from china town and a round low coffee table in the center of the room I was all settled in.
So becoming a whore, that’s the part everyone wants to know about. After all everyone gets an apartment at some point or other in their lives and the details of such are of little interest. Even if you do rent an apartment from the devil. Becoming a whore that’s something the creates all kinds of interest.
I was bored
A year after moving in I had a perfectly normal job, office temp. Life had settled into a routine. I became frustrated with my own dullness. It seemed such a waste, move all the way to San Francisco just to do what could be done in any small town anywhere.
I went out one evening to an art show. The artist had inked up naked people and splatted them on the canvas. I wasn’t sure what to feel about the art. Was human ink splats good art? Just as I was trying to make up my mind at what to think of it when a tall lanky young man introduced himself to me and proudly pointed at the ink splat he had been the ‘model’ for.
“That’s me”. He points with pride to the ink splat of his cock.
That’s the moment I knew I was looking at art. Only art can flash its ink splatted cock at you and have social convention set so that I have to act coolly impressed.
For some reason he thought I was impressed with him.
I was very bored so I took him home. The sex was bad, counting the cracks on your ceiling and making out your grocery list bad.
Second date, yeh yeh I know why? I thought it might be like training a rather over eager puppy. It’s not like men were exactly lining up in front of my door. I don’t know maybe San Francisco was the wrong city for a straight gal to get a date. Anyway we went to dinner, which was a mistake. Food was good but it gave him time to talk. Well the food was good.
Back home he was all happy expectancy. I tried to go all Cosmo on him. Attempting to discuss matters of foreplay and other variations on a theme besides endless drilling.
He took it badly.
“I don’t understand why we can’t just do it like last time. We had a great time last time.” He was whining at me. Whining, with his beer perched on his lap like it was his ink splatted dick.
It was the whining that did it. In that moment he was every man I had known in my life. They behave like complete ass heads and then whine at me like it’s my fault they haven’t a brain in their skulls.
My hand snapped out palm up, I smiled and said.
“Tell ya what sport, you put two hundred dollars in my hand right now and you can have it any way you want it. I’ll even pretend to be enjoying it. Now how’s that for a deal?
He started to hyperventilate. Seriously. I had to go into the kitchen and get him a paper bag to breathe into. Had a moment’s internal debate regarding paper or plastic.
Him sitting on the couch breathing into a paper bag, me biting my tongue so hard I tasted blood. I must not laugh. If I laugh he’ll pass right the fuck out then what will I do with him? I had a vision of me dragging him down three flights of stairs by his feet. In my mind I could hear the thunk thunk thunk as his head hit each of the stairs on the way down. I almost bit my tongue in two. (Must not laugh, must not laugh.)
Once he had calmed down enough to shuffle out the door, still asking if maybe? I shut the door firmly in his bewildered face.
I sat down on my little gold wicker bed sipping a beer, mulling the thought over in my head.
Men bring you money, you have sex, and they go away. No stupid pick up lines, no dull conversations and all the lies they tell I get paid to listen to. When I thought about it, I really couldn’t see much of a down side.
Of course it was illegal, but I thought how illegal could something be that advertises in the yellow pages? Honestly.
So far as I could tell whores only get arrested in the following circumstances:
• Street walkers. Well there they are, all out in open. Any time politicians want to look tough on crime they are the easiest targets. Well there was no way I was doing that. I hate waiting around for the bus and walking up and down the street in high heels for hours at a time…are you kidding me?
• Madams, the way high end types and that’s just so the powers that be can a hold of the client list. Well no worries on that count, I wasn’t that ambitious’
• Whores who set up in nice neighborhoods. You know, places with kids around and people who worry about strange men popping in and out at odd hours. I lived in the tenderloin, the place marked out in tourist guide books with the notation Here there be dragons The entire second floor of my building was given over to the Empire Massage Parlor and there were no children in the building. The massage parlor being already there, well a few extra men coming into the building wouldn’t draw any attention.
There were other issues that came to mind such as age. Thirty three is old to start in the business as I understood it. And I not exactly what one would expect in looks for the job not busty not curvy not cute. But I look young for my age, and can manage to look passable when I bother to take the time to smarten myself up a bit.
Nothing ventured nothing gained, I took out a small add in the San Francisco weekly, one tiny little add in amongst just oodles and oodles of similar adds. Minimum allowed wording, I didn’t even include a pictures. I just never cared for cameras and isn’t that just Gods own irony considering what all happened. The day the paper came out my dang phone started ringing off the hook.
An excess of business was something I had not considered. Which just goes to show you, in America if you have something you can’t give away; put a high enough price tag on it and people will line up around the block for it.