Saturday night. Same bat time, same bat hooker. But with a bone fracture. That I only found out was a bone fracture the day previous. I fell/rolled my gimp (nerve-damaged) foot while I was visiting my mom in Oregon. I thought it was just a bad sprang, but after two weeks—and it still hurting—I decided it was time for Kaiser. Yup. Fracture. The doctor was surprised at how much time had already passed. He asked me if it had been painful and I said yes, what I failed to mention was the fact that I had been surviving on super strong painkillers my client had given me. The doc gave me a weight-bearing boot and offered me Aleve. I took the boot. The night of our second rendezvous, I got hopped up on pills, a cocktail, wore my leather boots, and drove downtown to meet The Virgin. Of course I wasn’t going to tell him. I figured no man wants a broken call girl. Injured hookers aren’t a hot commodity. But in retrospect, I probably should have, because I ended up aggravating my foot. I parked at the pricey lot next door this time (not wanting to walk too far), and I ran into him on the sidewalk. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans (same color scheme as before). I wasn’t positive it was him, but I took a chance that it was and it panned out. Nothing says romance like not recognizing someone you’ve had sex with less than a month ago. I noticed he paused a tic as well, as if he were having the same dilemma. Or perhaps seeing me in direct sunlight was an issue, who knows. We hugged. He said he had to get something out of his car, I told him I’d get seats at the bar.
We had two drinks and caught up on life. As much as two people can who’ve only met once before. When the last of our Thai basil cocktails were gone, it was time to go up. Different room this time, this one was a little better. It had cool lights under the bed and behind the heavy curtain, making it Lighting Nazi approved. Proper dim lighting is important when you are an aging lady of the night. I brought my iPod this time, but the room didn’t have a hookup, so he played music on his phone. Not ideal, but much preferred over silence. I only had one condom this time. I was hell-bent on not giving him a year’s worth of time (yes, this is an over-exaggeration), nor a second go—as I had before. I got undressed. He was on top of me, kissing me, and easing his finger inside of me. And I’ll say this, his lack of experience teleported me directly to high school. To the early finger banging days. There’s something to be said for someone who isn’t trying to make you squirt. It was slow. Rhythmic. It felt really good. Fucker. Not too many men know how to properly use their hands. But I was on the clock, and not there for myself, so I faked a small orgasm. “Did you?” he asked. “Yes, that was yummy.” He didn’t seem utterly convinced, but whatever. I reached for the condom and opened it. My not-so-subtle hint.
The prophylactic came from a pack a friend recently gave me, and it was really thick. Too thick. He even commented on it. I didn’t have a backup plan, so my mental advise to him went like this: try not to think about it, buddy. Same biz as before—he seemed like he was in pain when I touched him. He even winced when he pulled his boxers over his erection. I was trying to be extra gentle, but his face looked like I was putting knives in his feet. “Why don’t you roll it on, honey, I don’t want to hurt you.” He did. I noticed that he had lost a little of his erection while doing so. He was still hard, but it wasn’t rocklike. Not the best scenario, but I’m a pro, I’d make it work, come hell or high water. I climbed on top. Again with the strange easement, but I got it in. We all hate condoms, there’s not dispute, but it’s just a fact of life, especially in my racket. After a few minutes (or ten), he initiated the roll over. Something I normally do. He was moving really slow, and didn’t appear to be making any headway towards an orgasm. Shit. I started to get nervous. A little more time passes, and then he says that he wants to roll over onto his back again. We did, and he sat up, trapping my broken (and damaged) foot underneath him. It was painful. Gracefully and without grimacing, I eased my foot out from under him. It took more energy than it should have, but at least it was free. I wrapped my legs around his waist. We were in a sitting lotus position. None of this was very smart for me to be doing. I was on too many pills, rendering myself open to further injury. And as faith always has it, he decided to make this night his marathon of yogini sex.
I needed him to come. I was working my little heart out. Meanwhile he was making like he wanted to “Barry White” me all night. He tells he wants to flip over again. Normally, I’d be psyched at the prospect of not being on top, but I was getting supremely worried that there was no pot of cum at the end of this rainbow. I pulled up and out and got on my back. Again. I would have suggested doggie style (somebody really needs to come up with a better term for that position), but I knew he wanted to kiss me and look at my face. Ten minutes later, he comes. I was getting ready to do my famous, jump-up-and-pee routine, when he says “I love making love to you.” Or was it with? I paused, but said, “Me too.” I was feeling somewhat trepidatious at agreeing with a “love-making” statement, fearing that it would be used against me later, but it was not the time to get into it, so I just agreed and ran my naked butt to the bathroom.
The bathroom doors at this place are bullshit. Sliding paperish things. No sound proof. My worst nightmare. I didn’t feel airy, but I turned on the faucet just in case. Yes, I waste a little water because I’m a freak of nature, but I recycle practically everything, so there. I peed like crazy. I had been holding it, thinking it would be a shorter run. I washed my hands and bits, and then he walked in to do his biz. I was only going to get half-dressed, knowing how sensitive men are when they get the, I’m-fucking-out-of-here vibe, but I didn’t I didn’t like my socks showing, so I put my boots on. Then I didn’t like my spaghetti strap tank top by itself, so I put my sparkly blouse on. And oops, I was totally dressed by the time he came out. To offset this fully dressed situation, I laid on the bed casually. It didn’t work. “Oh, you’re dressed already.” Shit. “In a hurry, huh?” Fuck. I knew it. I giggled. “What? Oh, I don’t know. I just. You know.” Actually, we don’t know, cause you aren’t saying anything, girl.
I hate this. Why does this have to happen? We aren’t married. It’s a straightforward process. You come, and I go eat a salad. He put his boxers on while I told him where his socks where. And then, me being an idiot, and hopped-up on pills, said, “So, for your birthday next week, I think I’m free…but you know I…still need to check on that photo shoot…see if it’s happening.” I was lying. Why did I even bring it up? He had asked me about it, and I told him maybe, but we didn’t need to discuss it right then. It’s because I’m always torn. I want to make nice, and possibly lonely people, happy, but I also have a ton of bills. The birthday fuck is a tricky bit. I never know how to say, “I’d love to celebrate with you, but you know you still have to pay me, right?” It seems simple, but rarely ever is. Luckily, he just said “No problem”, and that we’d “Figure it out”. Phew. Jesus, just get me out of here before I really stick my broken foot in my mouth. We kissed and hugged. He didn’t walk me out this time, which I was grateful for. I’m a big girl; I prefer to do my walk of shame alone. This is also a lie, I don’t believe in the walk of shame. I think what I (and thousands of women) do is an honest way to make a living. Apart from the fake orgasms and phantom photo shoots.