SURFING A DICK PIPELINE

February 13, 2017

 

Well, shit. What happened last night is exactly why I don’t date anymore. Sure, most of us have bad first date stories, but when you’re an out prostitute, it adds an extra layer of weird to the mix. I received an email through my website from a guy outlining that we had matched on Tinder ages ago but nothing transpired—in truth, I didn’t remember him but most likely I unmatched us after not getting that good good feeling—and that he ran across my site and decided to take a chance; a “long shot”. His timing worked out well because I’m finally settled into my new house and have been feeling rather tipped on the social scale and downright fume-y in the passion department. I responded and a fun exchange followed. He seemed lovely and witty. Whether a physical spark would come with that package remained to be seen. I was willing to find out. 

 

We penciled a plan for Sunday night (last night) and made a for sure cocktail date for Tuesday. I said I would likely be bar writing on Sunday and if his life allowed, he could join me. One of the first questions I ask when it comes to potential booty calls is what neighborhood they live in. I learned that we’re not exactly near each other, but also not outside deal-breaking territory (the west side or god forbid Orange County). 

 

Come Sunday: I went to a (now) local bar that I haven’t been to since my move, but seeing as it’s one of my favorites, it was high time. A gamble to some degree: inviting an unknown to my watering hole, but because of our is-the-dick-worth-the-traffic distance, it’s unlikely we’d run into each other again. At least not on my side of town. The bartenders at this joint—like most of my writing spots—know me. The sweet but semi-crotchety day gal, and the feisty late forties night guy. The latter knows what I do for a living and also that I write about it. Feisty’s a ball-buster. I happen to like ball-busters, but as I learned last night, they have a time and place. As per our penciled plan, I got to the bar an hour before my Tinder un-match was set to arrive. The downside to knowing bartenders is that I get less writing done, but that’s the way the whiskey goes down. 

 

My “date” (I had previously dropped that we’d either have a spark or be new drinking buddies) text when he parked, followed by a cute “3-2-1” as he walked in. I thought it was delightfully clever. I turned around on my stool—this is the only bar where I sit with my back facing the door, it’s a long story, don’t worry about it. I smiled. He smiled. No spark. Huge shocker. Irregardless, the conversation was fun. But seeing as I can carry a conversation with a tree, that bit never surprises me. Honestly, he was interesting and funny. Not in the industry I thought he was in (I hadn’t asked him in our emails). He’s in animal care. At one point, he said he liked animals more than people. Fair enough. 

 

This haunt—open since 1927—has two pool tables in a brightly lit area adjacent to the bar. Although I love playing pool, I’ve avoided the room due to the offensive light. But when Prefers-animals-over-people asked if I could and wanted to play, I said “yes.” I talked him into nine-ball. As I’m apt to do. He was a good player. I was enjoying myself. I like going for weird and difficult shots and into our second game (and fourth drink), he bartered a kiss if he made one. Sort of creepy, sure, but I decided to roll with it. I also doubted he could make the shot. He didn’t. I wasn’t sure I wanted to kiss him, as I said, I wasn’t attracted to him, but sometimes a kiss can change things therefore I was leaving the door ajar. I’m not looking for a husband, just a local booty call. He finally made one of the deemed-by-me-to-be-a-tough-shot so I kissed him. It wasn’t horrible, but a little too sloppy for a first kiss. 

 

A pair of young guys started playing on the second table. At one point one of them asked me for the rules of nine-ball (noticing we were playing it), and also if I would rack it for them. I said sure. I was in a friendly mood and it wasn’t like I was ignoring an intimate dinner date. But they continued to ask questions and I could tell the sloppy kisser was getting annoyed. I tried to surf the Kaanapali coast of appropriate behavior. The fine line of not being rude to any of the men in my vicinity. As I was surfing a dick pipeline, Mr. Feisty came over to retrieve our glasses and ask if we wanted another round: we did. All was decent in our pool table world, then as my trusty bartender walked away, he made an absurd thousand-dollar crack. 

 

“He knows what you do?” Sloppy asked. 

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I’m an open book, and I’ve been in here to write. One of those times he asked what I was writing about and I told him. Trust me, I don’t go around telling everyone I’m a hooker, but I don’t lie if someone asks.” 

 

He didn’t like this. Poker face this kid lacked. I continued, “It comes with the territory. You gotta be able to hang if you want to be in my life.” He was silent and his expression said truce for now. We continued to play. Whether this would go anywhere or not, I hadn’t played pool with a boy in a while and seeing that I was having fun, I let it go. 

 

The millennial’s left. The table was then taken over by a group of scruffy bar hero’s. One of them (with an epic ponytail) asked if I would take their photo with his dusty flip phone. I said yes. After taking said photo (and a reminder of how to do it) Flip Phone had his arm around me as he told me about his son. He was like a friendly pony-tailed butterfly. Sensing the steam coming off of my pool partner, I explained that I was being rude and needed to get back to my game. Although ponytail was in no way a threat—financially or otherwise—it seemed to really bug date-y pants. 

 

“Does he know what you do?” he asked in a not-so-great tone. 

 

“What?”

 

“Does everyone here know? Do you meet clients here?”

 

“Are you insane?! No. I like this place. And no, that guy has zero fucking clue. People are drawn to me. You saw that woman talk to me at the bar earlier. I can’t help it.”

 

He huffed. This “date” was land-sliding from underneath me. During the land slide I was thinking: no chemistry, sloppy kisser, but he might give good head. Not long after that rumination I felt his erection through his pants. It was a dick to be sure, but it was underwhelming. ​A few minutes later he asked about my thoughts on alcoholism. His therapist thinks he’s an alcoholic. He seemed to agree, even calling himself “high-functioning.” Not the smartest first date chat but I tend to get deep with people quickly so I didn’t mind. Also, it’s not like magic was in the air. He went into his family history—it was dark and not too distant. I asked questions and told him my theory about drinking and alcoholism; that it’s not the how but the why. Anyway, it was pretty intense. I was being waterboarded with red flags. Even for a booty call. No spark, weird jealousy issues, I knew no dick action was in my near future, as well as the fact that we shouldn’t have any more rounds. I voiced as much and gathered my belongings.

 

I was ready to leave my tall pour of Johnny Walker Black when he said, “You’re going to leave that?”

 

“Yep.”

 

He reached for it. His drive was significantly longer than mine, and I could tell he was lit, so I took the glass and a huge swig. It was a completely selfless yet ridiculous thing to do. He grabbed the glass before I could set it down, polished the rest, and then stumbled a little.

 

“Fuck” I said, “I don’t think you should drive home.”

 

“I could come to your place and chill for a couple hours.”

 

“Probably the smart thing to do” I said in a semi groan and with hesitation. 

 

It wasn’t ideal, but I was feeling prickly about the whole thing. He might drink and drive all the time, but there’s some responsibility felt when you’ve had drinks with that someone. He was impressed with my tolerance. Maybe I’m just a better control freak. I’ve been cutting back, but my body seems to (maddeningly) be retaining its ability. 

 

He was parked in front. My car was in a back-alley parking lot. I suggested he drive me to my car and then follow me. Outside he hugged and kissed me again. I had to wipe my mouth on the sly. I’m all for moisture, but if I have to wipe my face after, Houston, we have a fucking problem. Anyway, I was saying how cute the street was and he started dissing it. I couldn’t think of one thing to hate; he thought of five. I got into his scruffy, older model SUV. This part gets a wee fuzzy, but I gave him directions. As he drove he remarked that my boot was on his steel barbell, and that germs were now on it. I asked if he was fucking with me. He wasn’t. I could tell he was extremely uncomfortable. I have various dicks in my mouth on the regular, but my new boots were sending him into a Rain Man moment? 

 

“I’m a fucking prostitute, you had no problem with my tongue being in your mouth, but my brand-new boot on your metal barbell on the dirty floor of your car is a problem?”

 

He mumbled, “I forgot to take my pill today.” 

 

It was around then that an executive decision was made by yours truly, “You can pull over here.”

 

“Yeah, I’ll go home.”

 

“Good idea. Please be safe. Maybe sleep in the car for a while. Text me when you get home.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Bye” I said as I hopped out of crazy town. I couldn’t believe I was going to let a complete stranger come to my house. DUI (or worse) be dammed. His drinking and driving wasn’t my responsibility. I walked to my car and shook my head at the absurd and basically wasted evening. I didn’t get as much writing done as I’d hoped. My second thought: I’ll be single forever.

 

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