In Which I Try To Be A Whore And Fail

I’ve always heard that the strip clubs suck in this big scary city. Plus they have schedules, which sucks. I figure I’ll try some variety of whoring, because this is supposed to be that golden city where you can throw an ad up on craigslist for any crazy kind of sex work you want to do and have a million paying responses.

I wake up the first day and I’m in this park, and Bro and I walk and walk and walk for miles, and all our paths are lined in hippies, dogs, drummers, and kids. It’s like stoner heaven or something. If I ever have another puppy I’m definitely coming to this city to socialize him/her. When we get back to the van there is a little card shoved under the windshield. There are swirly dancing fairies on the front and the back says, “a faerie kiss for you!” Obviously this city loves me.

I’m aimless, driving around scoping out potential parking and internet when the phone rings. It’s this big fancy city courtesan and she invites me to her house. We have a really cool connection right away – she used to do wilderness therapy with kids, and now she’s a whore, and I am also a wilderness whore. Ecowhores unite!

Since I’ve been meaning to try whoring we decide that I’ll ease into it with her. She assures me that everything I’ve heard is true – just put up an ad and you’ll be innundated with calls. Choose the ones that most sound like someone you’d like to play with, and proceed. We put an ad up. No one calls, but that’s okay because we are busy walking around the city and talking about wilderness therapy theorists and Susie Bright and the Scarlot Harlot.

The next day we get a few calls and set up an eight o’clock guy and a midnight guy. The eight o’clock guy is bringing a thousand dollars for an unrushed session with the two of us, and the midnight guy just wants an hour. That’s almost a grand in a day, which is definitely way better than I could do in the strip clubs here or most places.

I make lamb curry and honey ginger baked apples. It turns out that baking apples in an oven is a lot different than baking them in my 12v frying pan: my frying pan is faster and juicier! We sit around eating yummy food and talking about sex, and the goon keeps our glasses full of wine. As the appointed hour draws closer the goon cleans up after us, makes the whole house shiney and presentable, and then dissapears into the closet he hides in during sessions. Every hooker needs a goon in a closet.

Our client texts. He’s on his way and he’s excited. We’re excited too. My friend is showing me all her awesome sex toys and the bestest strap on harness I’ve ever seen in my life. After a while we realise that the appointed time has come and gone, and we call our customer. He doesn’t answer, but he texts back: “I went to the cross streets you said and there were a bunch of cops. I bolted.”

What the hell. That’s an awful fucking excuse, because of course there aren’t cops outside. But when we look out the window, there are, and you can’t blame a guy for bolting. I’d definitely do the same. Oh well, we still have another guy at midnight, right? He’s definitely going to show up – he keeps texting to tell us how excited he is and that he wants to wear stockings.

I walk down to my van (I live in a van down by the grass!) and play with Bro for a while. There are tons of dogs here, and kids that run right up and hug him, and bicyclists that pass within inches of him. It’s all much more than he’s used to, and I’m so impressed at how bomb proof he still is.

Back in the boudoir we eat chocolate and drink more wine and get ready for the next guy. He’s on the phone with us, just twenty minutes away, when we hear the sound of a siren. “Oh shit,” he says, “I’m getting pulled over.”

They boot his car. Parking tickets.

“You could take a cab,” we say hopefully, but of course he can’t and the parking authority gets the money that was almost ours.

This is irony at it’s finest.