You Said I Should Write About The Whoring

March 28, 2011 § 11 Comments

The worst part of that noise wasn’t the cockroaches with their shiny brown backs dancing on the lentils in the open pot on the stovetop. I mean, those were bad alright, especially since I got the feeling this pot bellied fuck would be returning to the rest of that meal once I’d left.

The worst part wasn’t having to swallow straight Hennesey from a dirty solo cup, the feeling of his hand on my knee and the urgency of wanting me to drink fast so we could get to it already. We knew the drink was a formality, and I considered not drinking it, but from the looks of the situation, I knew I’d rather have a drink in me than deal with whatever we were about to do completely sober.

The worst part wasn’t the bedroom with four sheetless mattresses, one in each corner, crusted laundry laying in piles, the prospect of other apartments that were just the same.

“Tell me about India,” I tried to be informal. I would pretend for a while that talking to them was my specialty, though my blow jobs were pretty outstanding, too.

The worst part wasn’t the broken English as he tried to tell me about Cochin, clearly agitated that I wasn’t just laying down, grabbing his cock, and putting it inside me right away. My conversation wasn’t needed. He tugged at my dress, pulling it straight up, exposing my cunt and my belly.

The worst part happened right then, with a clucking noise, this Indian chicken- his face went sour and he said “How old? How old?”

I’d been told by Max that I was supposed to say 23 in these situations, and I figured that this guy had called the agency asking for a 23 year old. I had my own opinions about the age thing, anyway, but I was quickly learning how much my opinions didn’t matter in this line of work. Nobody asks a whore for her opinion on the current political climate, or even which shoes go best with a suit.

Even after I lied about my age he repeated “No. How old?”, becoming increasingly angry and eventually sighing, caraway breath hot and stale in my face. Yeah, you’d think the worst part was the sex, the way his dick could barely get hard, and when it did, he covered my face and lamely thrust, fucking the way some people dance at a club, just slight motion of the legs and shoulders. But it wasn’t. The worst part was knowing that this turd, like so many other turds, had just had his expectation of a hooker blown out of the water. I was already here, and he’d already counted on sticking his dick in something, and that was the only reason he was going to go ahead with this.

They look at the ads, pick out cherry pink assholes pointed at cameras, glistening dripping pussies, docile faces with tits that look as big to you as they did when you were a little kid. Then we show up, stretch marked and stringy haired, scars and pancake titties, pussies that look like roast beef sandwiches. They have every right to feel cheated, you know. I totally get it. But I keep thinking one day I’ll walk through the door and the guy will think instead, “This bitch may not be the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, but she’s better than anything I could normally score, and she’s  about to fuck me better than anyone ever has.”

Instead he fucked me twice, tipped me poorly, and made a face like he wanted to spit me out of his memory as he let me out the front door. I clicked on my heels over cracked sidewalks toward the car where Max was waiting, talking on his blue tooth in Russian, not bothering to look at me as I legged into the back seat and slathered purell over my arms and legs. I tossed the wad of money up to the front seat and tried to remember baking pies in the winter, offering things that were parts of me that nobody could be unhappy to receive.


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