I can count on one hand the number of people who actually know me who are readers here (and I wouldn’t use up the rest of my fingers with the rest of you, no doubt), and when I’m done with this post, I’ll likely have fewer readers, fewer friends, or both. Hopefully, you’ll let me keep my fingers. Why not keep my dirty secrets to myself? Because A) I’m incapable, and B) it makes for a much better blog.
I knew my nightlife exposure would be pretty minimal this weekend. K__ and I still haven’t worked out a real custody schedule, but as Friday rolled around it was clear which way the wind blew. I called to get a read on the split and was informed it was hovering around 1:0. Daddy for the duration. Fine, I’ll pick some other battle.
I had a few errands earlier and noticed from my ATM receipt I’d been paid. I pulled $200 in walking-around-being-irresponsible money. I got a haircut and when I asked J__ about her weekend plans, she said she and her boyfriend were probably going to a strip-club after failing to find a girl to fill out their threesome fantasies. Great, thanks.
I__ and I ate a late dinner out after K__ dropped him off. She and I didn’t exactly fight, but furrowed brows and tones-of-voices were exchanged over what our agreed upon meet time had been and whether me being on time to the minute could conceivably be construed as a breach of our “around 5:30″ verbal contract.
But I digress.
I got I__ to bed around nine and proceeded to go online and troll adult services ads on craigslist. Judge that as you may. By all means, take this paragraph break and do so.
I found one that had caught my eye on a previous visit. I had even called the telephone number once before but got a busy signal. This time, I had a wallet full of cash and the looming thought of a long dry weekend ahead. The ad provided absolutely no details, but the person who answered the phone said “D__” was available. Would I like to make an appointment? Sure, I said carelessly. She can be ready in an hour. Fine. My next experiment in vice was scheduled before I really had any idea what I’d signed up for.
Unless you’ve been living deep enough under a rock that you don’t even know what craigslist is, you’ve probably heard stories about people getting robbed, murdered or the women turning out to be exploited, under-age, East Block immigrant sex-slaves. No? Police stings? Ok, surely one or two about STDs? I’m a great, big, ignorant dummy, but I have read an article or three about such things. No danger, no adventure. Let’s just leave it at that.
She was late. Not crazy-WTF late, but enough that I wondered exactly what it was going to take if you get my meaning. She’s not the girl in the photo. No surprise. My immediate freak-out was. Oh fuck, is she even eighteen?! I didn’t ask, but she claimed she was twenty-two and I didn’t argue.
We got down to business, by which I mean, not the business, but the business of agreeing to services offered for payment rendered (in advance, naturally). There’s a game of cat-and-mouse here that keeps both parties guessing due to aforementioned sting operations. Entrapment if you ask me, but again, digression. She assured I’d be “taken care of,” slang I’d heard before, but again, deliberately vague.
Something to drink? No thanks. Careful, probably one of the rules. Good sign. What kind of music you like? Whatever you like. I pressed the point because I’m like that, and her answer let me know that my initial vibe of incompatibility was dead on.
On the way to the bedroom, I felt compelled to inform her that my four-year-old was in the other room, and if that was weird to say so. Since I was covering my bases, and as she guessed, curious, I also told her I needed to make sure she wasn’t involved in some sketchy, involuntary, threatened-with-violence, borderline-sex-slave thing. No, she said, as if. What’s the money split? Huh? Well, the person who answered the phone wasn’t you, so I know you aren’t exactly independent. … Sounded like 70/30 her favor by my math. It didn’t scream “exploitation,” though I’ve got no point of comparison.
I was in for an “erotic massage” which I already knew meant a massage with some degree of nudity and most likely a happy ending. I was pretty sure that wouldn’t seem worth it in the morning, but after dragging my conscience (and pride) this far, I could see this was as close to some kind of twisted balance as I could hope to achieve. I’ve spent at least as much on bar tabs, talked earnestly with several women and not gotten so much as a phone number. You do the math.
Purely as massages go, I have to say, other than the fact that it’s nice to be touched, this was probably one of the worst I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never done anything remotely like this before, but I did have a friend-of-a-friend practice on me while becoming a masseuse. I’ll take that student amateur over this “professional” any day. Way too light a touch, put your weight into it!
She flipped me over and made an even weaker attempt to work my chest and abs. All a prelude to the big event, I suppose. She told me it was big. I’ve never known how to answer that — I assumed that it’s standard flattery. I said as much. You don’t think it’s big? Well, I read somewhere about average sizes, and well, any guy who tells you he’s never measured is a liar. Anyway, I always thought I was half-an-inch shy of average. Maybe it’s a body ratio visual thing. Just don’t laugh, you know?
As erotic goes, a handjob is as a handjob does, I guess. I’d go into it, but I think you’re hoping I won’t. The only clothing between the two of us was her panties and jewelry, but somehow the “full-body” that I automatically associate with eroticism just wasn’t there. At all.
Afterwards, she asked if I’d call again. Like they do. I think this is the first time I’ve ever told a girl that particular lie. I said maybe. She told me to give her a hug on the way out, and I found myself giving the kind of awkward one-armed deals I’d give someone with whom I shared a laugh while waiting in a checkout line.
It’s a good thing I did it for the story, or I’d be really disappointed. I hope you aren’t terribly so.
