Tuesday, February 24, 2015

A Fine Romance- Details on Dating a Hooker Part II

            I was surprised when Tabitha called me the next day, having forgotten that I had given her my phone number. She invited me over. “We can just hang out and like do whatever. I don’t feel like going out and stuff.” She said in her scattered way. Why the hell not? I grabbed a couple of bottles of Jack, a cheap pizza, and a few plastic cups that had been rattling around in my cupboard (I’m so generous) and headed over.
She greeted me at the door, giggling, obviously high. She grabbed me about the neck and grinded her crotch against mine. I pushed her back and told her to eat. She dove into the Little Caesar’s pizza ravenously, while I mixed a few drinks with the leftover coke in the bathroom. Dangling the booze in the air, I called to her and she bounced over, gripping the cup with both hands like a child, and took a loooong sip.
She rolled around on the bed grinning, the booze and pain meds in her system really fucking her up. I downed my first drink quickly, and we spent a pleasant evening just hanging out, drinking, talking bullshit, watching garbage shows, and having very specific sex (more on that later).
This was pretty much the template for the whole of our relationship. We never did anything outside of that room. We never went anywhere. We never saw anyone else. It wasn’t as if this was some awkward topic between us. We felt absolutely no need to do anything else. We had booze, food, and sex all right there. The trifecta. What more could we have added by leaving?
We both still had to work though, which was probably the only reason I ever left that dump for an extended period. Her job, of course, was a little different, with more flexible working hours. I’m sure that everyone thinks that her profession would've (or should've) been a big problem in our relationship, but that was actually the least of it.

When we were together it was almost as if her job didn’t exist. I might’ve even forgotten about it, except for her collection come-fuck-me hooker clothes and the slabs of slutty make up she put on before leaving. Those and the seemingly never ending supply of condoms she kept on the top of her hefty handbag- for easy access. Occasionally these would spill out in a long long long strip and scatter about the floor. Embarrassed, she would hurriedly put them back in and I’d pretend not to notice.
She would leave when I did and come back some time later, and absolutely would not discuss where the money came from. It was a verboten topic. Not that I was dying for details. I think she entered a dissociative state while blowing random jerks, so that it felt like someone else. She just got it over with and moved on.
At this point I’m usually asked, “How do you know she just wasn’t using you?” I reply, “I didn’t have to pay for sex, which is a step up from all the others.” Again you would think that the physical side of our relationship would be a big problem, but it wasn’t.
Sex between us was odd but frequent. During it, she was  bossy and liked it rough, but in a very specific way. Our sexual trysts took on a ritualistic element. Everything had to be done with correct precision.
First I made her clean up, which was my only real contribution to the performance. Then I’d take her and lay her out on the bed. She’d try to get up and I’d push her back, yelling at her to, “STAY DOWN!” All part of the dance. When I roared, her face grew terrified and excited, eyes completely wide, hands gripping the side of the bed in anticipation, her entire body shaking slightly. I’d  roughly force her legs apart and pin them down with my elbows. Then I would pull  her lower lips apart, stretching them as far as I could, and act as if I was going to dive right in, only to stop a centimeter above. She’d stare at me, waiting waiting waiting.
After building the anticipation to its highest, I’d blow a steady stream of air onto the exposed clit. Her head would slam back into the pillow, writhing in pleasure, and she held her breath until mine ran out. Occasionally she would want me to do it again, but that was rare.
Then with the tip of my tongue I would ever so lightly begin to caress her clitoris. Slowly, slooowly, I would stroke harder and harder. It was never faster, only slow and hard. Her stomach rose and fell in time with my tongue. We would go on for fifteen to twenty minutes, when, at her behest, I would measuredly insert two fingers and manipulate them inside of her. She’d jump and start randomly when this began, like a jolt of electricity had hit her. Her favorite was when I would twist the fingers and then spread them as wide as I could horizontally, or curl them up into a ball then slowly straighten them out. All of this was still done at a slow calm pace.
After about another fifteen minutes of this, I could usually coax a gushing orgasm out of her.  She would moan in an odd low whine, almost like a male cat, and start banging her head savagely on the pillow. Then grab my wrist with both hands, while still not looking at me, pause, and then climax. All of her tension evaporated with that. She’d lay back smiling wide, staring at the ceiling, as if all the saints in heaven had come down to bless her.
Then it was my turn, and again this would have to be very specific. I’d flip her over and push her face into the pillow with her back end arched up. Then I’d have to insert myself, keeping one hand on the back of her head and holding one of her arms behind. It was quite a balancing act actually and took some practice until we could do the routine smoothly. Sometime later, while talking to some shrinks at a bar, that I was told we were probably reenacting some rape trauma from her childhood, only in a way she could control.
Her drug of choice was prescription pain medications. She got them from a host of different doctors and for each one she used a different ailment pulled from her sack of injuries. Some of them real, some imagined, and some outright faked. She had an intricate list of which pharmacies (and pharmacy chains) she had used for which doctor and what prescription, and went to great pains not to overlap any of them. She kept track of this with an incredible focus that was not displayed in any other part of her life. Most of this was paid for by Medicaid by the way. Your tax dollars at work. Sometimes she would plunk down straight cash (the wages of sin) to avoid too much scrutiny from anyone who might be looking, but I don’t think there ever was.
When on the pills, she was eternally happy. When on them with a booze mixer, she was the most easily amused person I have ever met. She was relaxed and unafraid of the world. As they wore off, she would become frightened of people and often mistook any glance in her direction as some sort of evil intent. Emotions would overwhelm her and she’d burst into tears at the most bizarre provocation. If there was no light for her cigarette, she’d cry. If she couldn’t get the flavor of ice cream she wanted, she’d cry. If she looked in the mirror and some of her clothes didn’t fit right, she’d cry. At first this inspired sympathy in me. Later on it turned into annoyance.
She took the pills to cover up some mental problem that had plagued her for most of her life. What exactly, I’m not sure. As time went on, she randomly retold bits of her life and mentioned more and more men, all of which she claimed had raped or attempted to rape her. Starting with her father, then moving on to include uncles, brothers, school gym coach and so on. Eventually the amount of men whom she accused reached a ridiculous number. I seriously doubted that a woman, outside of a United Nations refugee camp, could have been molested by that many different men.
I didn’t doubt that at some point she had been repeatedly raped, probably as a child, by a relative or a family friend or whoever… but along the way I guess she learned that people will excuse certain behavior if you have been traumatized in some manner, and will even sympathize with you. Desperate to have people actually want to be around her, she played that card over and over, even when it obviously wasn’t working. It’s like when you hear a dirty joke being retold, it loses its impact around the third time.
Yet she seemed unable to move on from this theme. She often would do the same things over and over again, mostly I assume because it had worked once. Her addiction to prescription pain meds and constant hypochondria fell along those lines. They helped her, at one time, with whatever mental problems she had, but even when she received something specifically designed for her problems, she would not stop taking the other stuff. No matter what. Even today, I’m sure, she would have the exact same style of life… if she were able.
I realize that I’m not exactly painting her in a favorable color, so I’m sure you’ve muttered to yourself, “Why the hell did he talk, much less go out, with her?” There was still something about her. A beat, a wildness in her soul that called me. The whiff of craziness that flows off a person attracts me, even though everyone else seems to be repelled. I have a fondness for broken things. I usually label it as character. She had real character. Not like these normal drones that try to fit in with society. Normal is boring. She dared to be different.
 That’s the official line, but she really couldn’t have been any other way. It’s sad, because she really wanted to be just a normal person and have an ordinary life. It just was not going to happen.
There was also her smell (once cleaned up), something about it drove up the wall. She had the perfect pheromonal mixture that caused me to throw away the rest of the world. I couldn’t help myself. Several times I went over to her wrecked motel room, intent on never seeing her again because she had acted really crazy the night before or had vomited all over me in bed (happened more than once). But when she grabbed me and pulled me close, my resolve collapsed and the sex instinct took command.
A Fine Romance will be continued in Part III