Saturday, November 28, 2015

thwap's hooker stories ...

When I was a young man of thirty I worked at a place in a neighbourhood where street prostitutes were known to conduct their trade. (The tavern at the corner was supposedly a place where you could get a hooker at any time of the day or night. Irony of ironies, it is now a women's shelter.)

One Saturday morning, when I went to open the place there was a tall, blonde woman in short shorts who looked about 50 standing by the front door. In the same way that I was cuter in my twenties than I am now, I'm sure she must have been quite striking when she was younger. Now she looked like a good-looking, leggy 50 year-old.

"Are you waiting to go inside?" I asked nervously.

"What's that gorgeous?" she asked.

I blushed and asked if she was waiting for the place to open.

"No. No. I'm just waiting for someone."

Even though I knew what was going on, I still felt a wee bit of a thrill at having been called "gorgeous." Then, an 1970's-style sedan slowed down in front of the building, and a fat, bald, middle-aged guy looked over at us. She sauntered over to the driver's window:

"How's it going gorgeous?" she said.

A few seconds later, she got in his car and they drove away.

And so it ended.


Another afternoon and I was walking down King Street. About a block east of Victoria (around the corner from Tabby's Variety) I heard a man's voice (a middle-aged man, with experience and authority behind it) exclaiming: "Come on honey!!!"

I looked around and saw a car parked beside the sidewalk. The man was in the driver's seat, but it didn't look like he was in control of the situation. He would have been a bigger than average fellow. (He was seated, so it was hard to say.) Like everyone in my post so far, he might have cut a dashing figure in his youth. Now he looked like an ageing 1950's greaser type. Round around the middle.

His "honey" was a tiny, sour-faced little woman in her 30's who sat beside him pouting with her arms folded in front of her in defiance. I could hear her little voice but I couldn't tell what she said. Whatever it was, it made him more frustrated.

"I don't want to go to a goddamned motel!" he shouted.

She muttered something again in her squeaky voice.

"Aww, come on Baby!!!" he wailed. He was definitely flustered. She wasn't going anywhere.

It appeared he'd picked her up hoping for a quick hand or blow-job in his car but she was insisting that they go to a motel where he could get the full treatment and, subsequently, pay the full price. In the end, he gave up protesting and they drove away.

I still can't get over how this tiny woman was so determined to have her way, and dictate terms to this much larger man. How he didn't even try to push her out of his car or anything. I'm not trying to argue that maybe women rule the word and that 'john's" are helpless hostages to the power of the pussy. Just that in that situation, it seemed like she was in charge. Gord only knows what happened later.

It was a hot, HOT, humid summer day. I was walking south on Wentworth Street, near Cannon. A young woman was waving enthusiastically at me from the corner. I actually thought she was a young woman I'd worked with a year or two earlier. (Who I wasn't attracted to.) (I'm around 40 in this story.) She beckoned me over. It's not everyday that a past acquaintance seems to want you to cross the street and talk to her, so I didn't really know how to respond. I crossed the street. As I got closer I realized it wasn't who I thought it was, but, whatever. She smiled and said:

"How'd you like to come over to my place for a blow-job and a cold beer?"

To be honest, it was so fucking hot that I was actually tempted by the cold beer. Getting a blow-job on top of that would have probably been nice. But paying for a blow-job from a stranger, ... nah. I stammered, "Sorry, no. I thought you were someone else." and extricated myself from the situation. At least she stayed smiling and bid me a friendly farewell.

That was the second time I'd been propositioned. The first time is described here.


So, there was this guy across the street from me when I was a kid. A widower in his 60's or 70'. Italian guy with the "wife-beater" under-shirt on. He was friendly enough. Quiet guy. I was inside, alone with him for some reason when I was 8 or 10. He didn't seem creepy at the time and in retrospect I'm still pretty sure he wasn't. He'd had a glass of whiskey on his table and either I asked to try it, or he asked me. I'm not sure. Regardless, I took a sip and said I didn't like it, and he didn't seem to surprised by that.

By the time I was a teenager, (mid to late 1980's) he started to have escorts over to his house. Pretty damned often. To the point where one time, when I walked to the corner and saw this vision: I'm 17 years old and this beautiful, absolutely gorgeous blond, 18? 19? Whatever the "legal" age was;, ... dressed up like an angel/stripper for an Aerosmith video comes walking toward me with the most lovely smile. I knew where she was going. His place. (I also didn't think that she had much going on upstairs, to have travelled across town like that on the bus. I knew she'd taken the bus because I saw it pulling away behind her.)

Something like this but without the wings or the halo.
Anyways, 17-year old me smiled nervously back at her and hoped my knees wouldn't give out on me while I was crossing the street.

As I said, this guy lived right across the street from me. I could watch from my second-storey bedroom window as they arrived at his house. One time I was struck by how one young woman was accompanied by her boyfriend. They were holding hands and they kissed before she "went to work" and he left.

I'm pretty sure the last time he had an escort over was the night the young woman (dressed in jeans and some kind of sports jersey) got into a loud drunken tirade in front of his house. It was probably around midnight and the whole street could hear her. Men were shit. Men were assholes. The world was shit.

He kept trying, nervously, embarrassed, quietly, to get her to calm down and come inside.

She yelled at him with disgust that he was as bad as all the rest of the men. He was just an asshole too. An exploitative piece-of-shit.

He never got mad. He didn't yell back at her. I can't remember if he got her inside to wait for the cab, or if he went in by himself to call. I remember it was quiet for about ten minutes or so before it came and she got in and left. So either she'd waited inside for it or she sat quietly on his steps.

And I think that was the last time.  It might have even caused him to move away a year later. I'm not sure.

No comments: