[Sunset Boulevard. Hotel. 7 p.m.]
I’m in the room with my customer, the Texan. He’s on the phone with the wife, and I’m scribbling in my composition pad like a lunatic (I better slow down or I’ll have zero chance of transcribing this later). The wife’s in rare form tonight. She’s keeping him on the phone longer and more often these last few trips. It’s good for moi, gives me time off. A small break in the debauchery. He just said, “Of course I miss you.” He left home merely hours ago. Jesus, woman, get a life! A hobby. Drunk friends. A hot gardener. Something. I don’t understand her. I mean, I get it, she knows, but she doesn’t know. Her husband cheats on her it’s not a great thing. But he loves her, and will never leave her. She can’t scratch his freak itch, it’s a simple fact. I wish she’d just find peace with it. Having said that, she’s saving my pussy with her insecurity, and for that, I thank her. Oh crap, he’s off, gotta go.
[Twenty minutes later]
He’s back on the horn. The porn is playing. We knocked back more hooch and powder, as well as shed half our clothes. Since he’s not a boob man, I’ve been wearing soft, sexy, torn-up tanks tops, which I love, because it hides my poochy belly. Is it just me or is it weird (and slightly disconcerting) to hear a man say “Gosh” while he’s fucking in a skin flick? I laughed when it happened, and then had to explain why to the Texan. Never want a man to think you’re laughing at him when his dick is hard. He didn’t seem to be as impressed with the silliness of it as I was. He thinks I’m nuts. Uh, yeah, the feeling is mutual. Shit, that was a short phone call. He told her that he was going to take a quick shower and get ready for bed, and that he’d call her back in ten minutes. I hate hearing from him when we’re not in person, and this lady wants a constant dialog. Their conversations are completely banal. They speak a hundred times a day when he’s out of town, so it’s like, “What are our nine Labradoddle’s doing now?” This isn’t an overstatement. I’ve overheard them have this talk about their crazy curly stock of dogs.
He always stretches the time frame. He wants her to go to sleep. In the break just now (not enough time for us to really start the sex spree), he was telling me that Kelly—his long term girl and travel partner before I came along—got mad at him because he wouldn’t fuck her in San Francisco. She was with him for a night, and then I came in for two. We’ve never done that before. Same room. I didn’t mind. As long as I get my money. They had done a bunch of drugs—she’s no joke on this matter, she shoots speed—and apparently she disappeared, walking around the city for like eight hours. She brought back roses and local flowers (stolen from who knows where) for the room. They were still there when I arrived. He asked if I wanted them removed, I said no. She went MIA after he dropped her at the airport. She never sent him the, “I got home safe” text. He was concerned, but not a lot he could do.
A couple days later, she text him and used the “I’m mad at you because you wouldn’t fuck me” as an excuse. What horseshit. She’s a working girl. No hooker on earth is UNhappy when she gets paid and her trick doesn’t want to or doesn’t end up fucking her. She’s usually doing cartwheels. He used to see her a lot more often and give her more money (like I said, before I came on the scene), and perhaps this is what she really means, but her lifestyle freaks him out. He doesn’t trust that she doesn’t have something that could be passed along. I don’t know. I’ve never met her. She’s younger than me by a bunch. My second guess is she said it because she’s known him for a long time, and his ego is the best misdirection there is. Maybe she’s psyched to travel, get some cash, do drugs, and not get fucked. I wish he didn’t want to have sex with me. But then I guess I wouldn’t get the big bucks. Or perhaps he’s making the whole thing up in the hopes of impressing me (or make me jealous). Who the hell knows? The hierarchy of whores is an interesting concept. Sometimes I feel like I’m in an episode of Big Love. Especially for someone like The Texan, who, like me, keeps people in his life for a long time. He’s still in touch with all of his main girls, and hears randomly from the one-timer’s and part-timer’s. I’m the current queen bee. He’s told me a lot about these women, and I ask after them as if I know them. How they are doing, et cetera. It’s a great topic platform. Keeps the attention off of my personal life. A perfect deflection; I most certainly do not want to talk about myself.
[Pee and drug break]
This is fantastic, she’s really keeping him on the line tonight. Oh, I forgot, when I got to the hotel, the first thing he said was, “What the fuck. My dick gets hard the second I see you. In fact, it gets hard the minute I know you’ve parked. I was jacking off before…nada, you text and step in…boom! Feel this.” I felt his dick. Yes, yes, it’s hard, where’s my medal? He continued, “Seriously, no one does this to me but you. Is it like this with every guy you’ve been with?” I giggled. Always giggle. I wanted to say yes, but men don’t really want to hear that shit. They want to be unique. Special. Yeah yeah, so special. What does it matter if it happens with everyone, it happens, be happy. I don’t know why it does. I don’t think I’m special. I can’t explain it. Bull Durham jokes that I sprinkle crack on my skin and pussy. Up, gotta go.
[Two hours later]
He ran out to get more booze. I polished the bourbon. My stupid period started today. It’s been shit timing for poor Texan. His trips happen to be coinciding. I did the whole, “Oh shit, really? Oh no. It wasn’t supposed to start until this Friday.” That last part was true. The former was acting. I felt like Chevy Chase in “Caddyshack” when he opens an already opened Perrier bottle for his date, and does a whole, uh oh as the top comes off, as if the pressure from the bubbles made it froth. I knew I was bleeding. I was just praying that it would hold off until some fuck time had commenced so it would be believable that it had just started. I think I fooled him. Who knows if he buys half the shit I’m pushing. Who knows what’s in that head of his. We feed each other lies on the regular. It’s a relationship built on fantasy and bullshit. I hear the door key.
[3:40 a.m. He’s passed out. Finally.]
I was force-feeding him sleeping pills. He came twice. I “came”....who knows. Actually, I did have one real one as we mutually jacked off watching porn. I love this one vibrator he bought me. It feels perfect on my clit. I’m a tired ho. After the pills, and many more swigs of booze, I snuck over to the thermostat, and cranked up the heat. Trying to put him to sleep like they do on Southwest. I’d crank down the oxygen if I could. The pills and warmth is the next best thing. I don’t want to kill the SOB, just make him unconscious. Ugh, he’s snoring up a storm. I miss our rooms with two beds. I told him I’d stay tonight, hence why I’m so cracked out. Knowing that I wouldn’t be driving. I told him tomorrow night would have to be chill. No sleepover and not as much partying. He wants me to, but I won’t. It’s heaven sleeping alone in my own bed when he comes to town. Why the fuck would I prefer to sleep with a sweaty, snoring client with a constant hard on? Not when my bed and fluffy cat are just a few miles away. I'm seeing triple. Time to put my earplug in and call this one.