My friend the Whoremonger was in town last week, which made things lively. He swings through town about once a month on some sort of business-related thingumy. The rest of the time he lives in some godforsaken, hardscrabble dry county of Arkansas. When he gets to town, he lives it up: whiskey, whores, and yours truly.
His favorite hooker is a young black or Hispanic girl. He doesn't like white girls, he says, and 21 is too old. Still, somehow he's taken a shine to my pasty white, past-date ass. Mostly, we just sit back in the VIP and drink Dewars while he regales me with his latest exploits. I do dance for him, once in a while; he is surprisingly gentle. Mostly we just talk, though. I egg him on, prod him for details. I'm not faking it, either; I've never met anyone else who was so openly, passionately into prostitutues. He knows a lot about it, too -- watches the message boards, follows the careers of all the top girls like some men follow professional athletes.
This time in town, he is full of the details of his last day or two in Dallas, where, if I can beleive him, he fucked three different prostitutes and, later that day, two strippers in the VIP room at a well-known Dallas strip club. "It was so hot doing it in the club," he says. "They said they were sisters."
I gently walk him through the story, drawing out the details of his favorite parts, and he gets excited like he's living through it all again. I sympathize. If he's like me, then doing things isn't nearly as exciting as thing talking about them afterwards.
Finally, though, I have to ask -- is he disappointed that I've never fucked him in VIP?
No, no, he protests. He looks almost hurt. "I know you don't like to play," he says. "It doesn't matter. If you ever do, though, you should let me know."
I try to imagine fucking this man with his twitchy mustache and retired-military bearing and skin like a boiled tomato, and can't. I wonder if getting paid for it would make it better or worse.
Out of curiosity, I ask him what the going rate is in this town. Not much, he says -- "I can get laid around here for a buck and a quarter." According to him, the most beautiful and highly sought-after escort in the city has recently raised her rates to $300 an hour.
That's not quite half what he pays me to sit and listen to him talk about fucking her. Of course, she's done in an hour. It took me all night to make that money. Then again, what else was I doing with my time?
If there's a discrepancy here, I'm not quite dumb enough to point it out, but he's no fool. "Hookers are cheap," he says, unprompted. "It's strippers that cost you."
"Is it worth it, though?"
"Oh, yes." He kisses me sedately on the forehead. "Oh, yes. I always have fun with you."