A Hooker’s Tale

“I’ll do anything for fifty bucks.”

I looked at the hooker in front of me.  She was thin, black – a real skank whore who’d been wandering the streets off South Augusta (that’s Augusta Georgia to you folks) and I’d been visiting a friend of mine.

She’d walked up into the yard (old torn chain link fence, a beast of a hound staked on a too short chain – raising hell obnoxiously) seeing us two “old men” (or rather middle aged) standing in the yard conversing.  I was about to go home – I suppose it was my gorgous white Mustang (a convertible, you know) that had drawn her in.  Here’s a man – or some men – with some money, she was no doubt thinking, someone who can afford me my next fix.

Crack cocaine is a plague upon this land – I should know: there’s barely a drug under the sun which I have not done.  (Anyone remember that scene in Thompson Hunter’s “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” where he talks about shooting up adrenalin and it feels like “40,000 volts running through your skull”?  It doesn’t.)  I advocate marijuana usage – more alcoholics should fall under it’s allure, giving up the old bottle in favor of a joint.  It certainly would take some of the violence out of this land – as well as a hell of a lotta car wrecks.  Or at least two or three.

This young lady was a crack whore – a down on her luck drop out (probably has kids at home) who was attempting to make a deal with me, here – a crazy Marine with his devious Bro.

“Anything?” I asked, grinning slightly.  I had gotten my car keys out.  Best be prepared in case this bitch wanted to take a ride.

“Anything for fifty dollars,” she repeated, tonguing her thick white teeth (Chiclets, anyone?), and then offered: “All afternoon.”

“All afternoon, huh,” I said, making it more a statement of fact.

“All afternoon – on into the night if you want to,” she said firmly, her eyes growing somewhat suspicious – and yet that greedy burning hunger was there.

“How much for two days?” my friend butted in, nudging me with his elbow.  It caught me slightly below the ribs; he’s shorter than me.

“Two days?” she asked, cocking her eyes at the sky.  The tongue continued to wash those front teeth – blank white spaces in her mouth – as she considered.  Suddenly her eyes dropped down back on us two, flickering with hard intelligence and that ever current undercurrent of suspicion of hers.

I live in the 5th poorest state in the nation, judging by the levels of poverty and national ranking.  The county I was in has a 49% poverty rate.  The High School dropout rate hovers right around 30-40 per cent.

For some reason the folks down there don’t seem to make the connection – not between education and having a high paying job.  Instead they rely on the welfare system and having more babies to support them – and this: whoring during the day so they can get to cracking all night.

“Two hundred dollars,” she finally said.  I opened my mouth to protest her math when my friend said:

“One hundred fifty dollars.  And you’ll do anything, like he said.”  He nudged me hard so she would know the intended victim he had in mind.  I don’t mind a piece of fine ass – it’s what comes with it that I can’t stand.

If a whore is willing to cut a bargain or deal with you: stay away.  Chances are you are going to come away with a lot more than you got.  Maybe even some dependents in terms of fleas and lice and crabs . . .

Oughta come in handy on them W-2’s.   Lord knows how many dependents that girl has.

She looked at me, mouth pursing, the tongue disappearing at last: head drooped, eyes rolled up coitiously as she considered my friend’s offer.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” she said firmly, holding out her hand.  Like, what’s this?  Let’s make a deal?, I could hear a part of my mind asking as I took her hand.  It was firm and limp and hard – all at the same time.  I could practically feel the skeletal bones grinding beneath her skin.

“Great!”  I breathed a sigh of relief.  “I can use you from say – sun up to sun down?  Give you a break tonight?  Then you get another chance to go at it – say tomorrow morning?”

“At your place or mine?”, she asked, a tongue of sharpness escaping into her language.

“Mine, of course!” I said.  “I’ve got mowing to do – some bushes need cut; my Mustang over there needs washed.  You ever wax a car before?”

Her eyes grew quite round.

“I’ve also got a barn that needs painted, inside it needs cleaned out – you ever handle a mop and broom before?”  By this time I was grinning – trying to force myself not to – but there she was, backing away like I was a crazy man threatening to rape her AND her child – cut them up and eat them for bacon like a breakfast item.

“You want me to work?” she said, her eyes growing big and round.  “You gotta be crazy, man!  I ain’t working for no man – not like that!”  She threw her head up proudly – it was a wonder her Jerry-curls didn’t fall out, they swayed so hard.  “I don’t gotta do no work like that!”  And with that she thrust out her boney hips.  “I got this!”  She waggled them suggestively.  I took a step back.  I didn’t want to catch anything from that.

“I just got some housework needs done!” I called out as she stalked off.  “Windows washed?  Clothes need airing out?  Anything?”

And with her head held up proudly, she stalked out – frustrated dog barking at her through the chain link fence as she stalked down it’s length, looking for her next customer . . . one who wouldn’t make her work so hard, wouldn’t make her work for a living.

A girl’s gotta have her pride, after all.

And that one’s got hers.

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About jeffssong

JW is an adult childhood abuse survivor with DID*. He grew up in a violent family devoid of love and affection. He is a military brat and veteran. He no longer struggles with that past. In 1976 JW began writing "The Boy". It took 34 years to complete. It is currently on Kindle (http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004T3IVKK ), or if you prefer hard copy, on Amazon ( http://www.amazon.com/Boy-J-W/dp/1461022681). JW resides somewhere in the deep South. He is disabled and living with family. Note: Please feel free to take what you need; all is free to all. With that in mind, keep it that way to others. Thank you. We have 3 Blogs - One for our younger days, 0-10 (The Little Shop of Horrors); one for our Teen Alter and his 'friends' (also alters) with a lot of poetry; and finally "my" own, the Song of Life (current events and things)
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4 Responses to A Hooker’s Tale

  1. Mustang.Koji says:

    Great story-telling… And you are right. Drugs are a scourge, much like the wine in iron decanters with the Romans. It will take us down.

    Like

  2. Michael says:

    It is a funny thing. prostitutes never approach me.

    Good story telling. Got me real angry. Got me wanting to attack you and your delusion that you are better than that woman. Maybe even write a story about a fucked up pot head that used to think straight and settled for being stoned rather than a good human being. Thing is I do not believe you actually did that. I would believe you gave her $50.00 and left without being cruel.

    You see my delusion is you are not a worthless piece of shit that would actually do such a thing. Could go either way.

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    • jeffssong says:

      My problem is that she, like so many others, are able to work – but won’t – and are relying on the welfare system to support them. A bit hypocritical, I’ll agree, as I am on SSDI – but I paid into the system.

      I doubt she declares any of her income. And why NOT come and do some legal work for me? I could use a hand with my chores. Don’t need the sex, LOL! But do need someone to help out on the yard. Why wouldn’t she accept that instead? No . . . she’d only agree to lay on her back for the money – nothing else.

      If you want to look at this rationally: I offered her a job. She refused the work. I didn’t insult her – I actually treated her with humor and respect. It just baffled me that she wouldn’t take a job when it was there. Honesty sucks – but I tell it like it is – even if it does make me a dick sometimes, LOL!.

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    • jeffssong says:

      Oh, and PS: this was in a bad part of town where a friend of mine lives. He knows this girl – thus I knew her tale (crack whore, has kids around the block) – and he filled me in on the story about her. Turns out she is one of many down there.

      You need to get out more – cruise the bad parts of town. I’ve lived with these down and out folks – WAS one for a long time – and learned. I love ’em & respect them – just not their decisions in life. And whenever one has asked – I try to help them down the right path, not the wrong one. If I’d given her fifty bucks she’d have visited her dealer – spent the money on crack – and spent the rest of the weekend high – then back out on the streets selling her body for more. Sad to say – a vicious cycle. But as you know: when it comes down to brass tacks, a person has to accept that they must at least make the effort to help themselves – no one can do it for them. Not for real.

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