Why do sex workers hate me?
OK, perhaps that is a little dramatic for a number of reasons. I'm using a very inclusive definition of sex worker, and it probably isn't true that every last one hates me. I mean, I had a fling with a stripper once, and this porn site chick used to proposition me on a regular basis (Porn girl: "Jim, do you need a ride tonight?" Jim: "Oh, no, thanks. Calvin is giving me a ride home." Porn girl: "That wasn't what I was asking." Mexican cook in the background: "Oh, fuck, dooooooooooooood." (Important to note that I was well aware what was being offered, and that refusal was the TOTALLY RIGHT WAY TO GO IN THIS CASE.))
But, it occurred to me today, that there are a few stories in my life that resonate with one another, and lead me to suspect that perhaps the default setting for sex workers is to hate me.
Age 20, a sexually-frustrated virgin (I was a very late bloomer), sitting at home on another Saturday night (even in college, I rarely ventured out on Amateur Night), leafing through the alternative weekly and perusing, again, the phone sex ads. I had failed to rise to the dares I had dared myself (I'm not very daring, apparently) many times before, but thought "Fuck it. The roommate is back home for the weekend, and I'm curious and horny."
So, I did the deed. This was one of those deals where you call the service and then the hot-voiced chick (who was likely 300 lbs and bouncing a brat - I've seen that Aerosmith video) calls you back.
I'm totally nervous. She starts chatting a bit, and that voice, damn, well, I just gotta say that their hiring practices were right on.
She asks me how old I am, casually.
22, I say, because a 20-year-old college kid calling phone sex lines on a Saturday night, especially one attending one of Playboy's top-five party schools in the country, was just too pathetic.
More chatting, nothing sexual yet, and, again casually, she was good at her job, she asks what year I was born. Fucking math whiz that I am, I tell her my actual, and therefore incorrect given my lie, birth year.
"Oh, really? But that would make you twenty, and you said you were twenty-two. This phone call is over. Goodbye."
And she hung up, leaving me a shamed young man with a withering hard-on in his hand.
I never called a sex line again.
Fast forward three years, and I'm still in Syracuse, out drinking with my girlfriend's brother, Tim, and his friends. The guy driving us is a dry alcoholic, and cuts the deal that he'll only drive if we end up at a strip club. Not a problem.
Place is dead. It's a weeknight in Upstate New York, after all. I'm up near the stage, drinking and talking to Tim, while a semi-attractive girl is dancing.
(Side anectdote: Walking down Denny Way past the old Razzmatazz strip club years back, I see a stripper out front smoking a cigarette. The guys walking a few meters ahead see her, too, and one says to the other "Sheee-it. I go to a place that to see girls I can't have, not one I can." Moral of the story is that 75% of strip clubs in the world feature chicks you'd rather not see naked even for free.)
Anyway, I'm not paying attention to her. I'm bored and talking to Tim about the bachelor party he'll soon be hosting.
"Excuse me, I'm dancing here."
I turn to her briefly."I can see that."
"So, are you going to give me some money?"
"Why? I'm not even watching."
"You're an asshole."
Yes, called an asshole by a naked chick on stage. And not for being lewd. Awesome.
OK, last one, and it's brief.
Worked in San Francisco for a few months a couple of years back, and was walking home to our incredibly posh corporate flat one night through the strip club/massage parlor/hooker section near Chinatown. I'm thinking about something else, but apparently staring at a lady (I think) of the evening, and she says, I shit you not, "Keep walking, small change, else I'll spend you."
That floated up out of my besotted memories just today, and got me thinking about this whole thing.
Why do sex workers hate me? Is it because I've put so little money into their industry? Channeling that money instead into copious amounts of liquor in an effort to make girls cuter and me at least marginally charming? Did my mom pay them off?
It doesn't really, matter, I suppose. All of that happened before I was married. But, it does seem to add yet another reason that I'll never visit a prostitute. She might laugh at me or kick me in the balls or something, and somehow I don't think I'd be sharing that story with anyone.
But, it occurred to me today, that there are a few stories in my life that resonate with one another, and lead me to suspect that perhaps the default setting for sex workers is to hate me.
Age 20, a sexually-frustrated virgin (I was a very late bloomer), sitting at home on another Saturday night (even in college, I rarely ventured out on Amateur Night), leafing through the alternative weekly and perusing, again, the phone sex ads. I had failed to rise to the dares I had dared myself (I'm not very daring, apparently) many times before, but thought "Fuck it. The roommate is back home for the weekend, and I'm curious and horny."
So, I did the deed. This was one of those deals where you call the service and then the hot-voiced chick (who was likely 300 lbs and bouncing a brat - I've seen that Aerosmith video) calls you back.
I'm totally nervous. She starts chatting a bit, and that voice, damn, well, I just gotta say that their hiring practices were right on.
She asks me how old I am, casually.
22, I say, because a 20-year-old college kid calling phone sex lines on a Saturday night, especially one attending one of Playboy's top-five party schools in the country, was just too pathetic.
More chatting, nothing sexual yet, and, again casually, she was good at her job, she asks what year I was born. Fucking math whiz that I am, I tell her my actual, and therefore incorrect given my lie, birth year.
"Oh, really? But that would make you twenty, and you said you were twenty-two. This phone call is over. Goodbye."
And she hung up, leaving me a shamed young man with a withering hard-on in his hand.
I never called a sex line again.
Fast forward three years, and I'm still in Syracuse, out drinking with my girlfriend's brother, Tim, and his friends. The guy driving us is a dry alcoholic, and cuts the deal that he'll only drive if we end up at a strip club. Not a problem.
Place is dead. It's a weeknight in Upstate New York, after all. I'm up near the stage, drinking and talking to Tim, while a semi-attractive girl is dancing.
(Side anectdote: Walking down Denny Way past the old Razzmatazz strip club years back, I see a stripper out front smoking a cigarette. The guys walking a few meters ahead see her, too, and one says to the other "Sheee-it. I go to a place that to see girls I can't have, not one I can." Moral of the story is that 75% of strip clubs in the world feature chicks you'd rather not see naked even for free.)
Anyway, I'm not paying attention to her. I'm bored and talking to Tim about the bachelor party he'll soon be hosting.
"Excuse me, I'm dancing here."
I turn to her briefly."I can see that."
"So, are you going to give me some money?"
"Why? I'm not even watching."
"You're an asshole."
Yes, called an asshole by a naked chick on stage. And not for being lewd. Awesome.
OK, last one, and it's brief.
Worked in San Francisco for a few months a couple of years back, and was walking home to our incredibly posh corporate flat one night through the strip club/massage parlor/hooker section near Chinatown. I'm thinking about something else, but apparently staring at a lady (I think) of the evening, and she says, I shit you not, "Keep walking, small change, else I'll spend you."
That floated up out of my besotted memories just today, and got me thinking about this whole thing.
Why do sex workers hate me? Is it because I've put so little money into their industry? Channeling that money instead into copious amounts of liquor in an effort to make girls cuter and me at least marginally charming? Did my mom pay them off?
It doesn't really, matter, I suppose. All of that happened before I was married. But, it does seem to add yet another reason that I'll never visit a prostitute. She might laugh at me or kick me in the balls or something, and somehow I don't think I'd be sharing that story with anyone.
posted by JJisafool at 3:39 PM
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