Chapter 28

Last week I took a glance at the timeless question, How does a nice girl start charging for her favors?

But here’s another question with a lot more bark on it, and I don’t see any reason to word it any gentler than this:  Do I feel like shit for screwing around with married men?  Yes and no.  Not exactly like shit, but I’m not all that proud of it.  It’s like abetting cheating, right?  But every time I thought it out, what I came up with was, there’s no way to know, anyway.  If I made some sort of “no married guys” rule (which would get me laughed out of the hussies’ union) they’d just lie.  Over half of them do, anyway.  You see where rings normally sit, you know?  And another thing, this was a tendency I discovered way before I started being an honest floozy.  (Again, I recommend my book on blasting your boyfriend’s pachacas off.)  So, bottom line, I can live with it.  Beside, everybody else is doing it and Sis did it first, and I was just following orders.

I don’t know  if this is inconsistent, but I never screw around with married guys in “real life”.  That’s different, but it’s hard to say why.  For one thing, it would really be me, really doing it, really meaning it.  I don’t know how to word this other objection, but it has something to do with this:  Would a wife get more upset to find out her hubby boinked a call girl in Vegas, or that he was doing his secretary or that little slut down the street?

You know the answer.  And it has something to do with that “real life” thing.  He’s not going to leave her and move in with the whore.  He’s not going to stop loving her and love a working girl.  Probably.  I’m not a threat to her.  The last thing I want is taking her man away and having him on my hands.  And even if she never knows about it, I feel that.  The client might be cheating, or not.  But I’m just there doing business.

 

So, there was a point in my life when I was still too young to vote and was shaking my bare booty and boobies in front of lustful men for their prurient pleasure, then a few years later putting myself partly through film school taking money to let guys stick their dicks in me in fairly boring ways.  Not exactly Horatio Alger.  But not exactly Jezebel Kumquat, either.  Am I being snobby and delusional to think there’s a difference between me and some tranny cruising cars at stoplights in South Central?

Actually, I don’t think so.  Let me trot out some cheap rationale. I’ve been dying to do this, and nobody I know wants to listen to it, so you get it.

First of all, there’s this old joke.  I know it’s old because I first overheard Mister Bodean tell it to a bunch of his customers at a pig pickin’ my mama had over at Cousin Junie’s house because she has a bigger yard.  And if Mr. Bodean told it, you know it was shopworn on the street ofUr.  Anyway, a guy hits on this nice-looking blonde.  It’s always a blonde, right?  Thank God. She lets him talk to her palm, so he asks her if she’d consider it for a million bucks, tax free.  She gets thoughtful, says, yeah, she’d consider if for that.  So he says, how about we go out in my car for fifty bucks?  She slaps his face and asks what kind of girl he thinks she is.  He says, “We’ve established that.  We’re just haggling over the price.”

But, I always thought, is that true?  Isn’t there a difference between real amounts of money you can imagine and A Million Smackeroos?  Would you kill somebody for a million bucks?  Kick an old lady down a flight of stairs?  Eat dog dookie off a hoagie bun?  (Willy Ray Moke did that for free one night when a bunch of those Kappa Alpha assholes got him totally drunk, so does that make it better?)

Does that make any sense?    I really haven’t figured it out yet.

But since I mentioned killing folks, let’s take a look at that.  First of all, I think a lot of people would kill some stranger for a million dollars.  But how about my great-uncle Campbell?  He was minding his own business, next thing he knows he’s drafted into the army and over inAsia killing dozens of strangers for like $375 a month.  And they gave him a medal for it.  Not some big major medal, but still, a real medal.   So it was okay, right?  But if I paid him to go kill somebody, instead of throwing his ass in prison as a draft dodger, it would be a crime and a sin, right?  Have you got that one sorted out?  Well what if he’d needed the money to stay out of prison?

You ever see “Casablanca?” Of course you did, everybody did.  And, by the way, I have no problem with the colorized version.  Ingrid Bergman looked great.  She’s the star I got compared to most, by the way, so I’m a special fan.  Her and Cybill Shepherd, who seems less classy.  Anyway, remember the girl who’s trying to get a visa and wonders if it would be okay to take a trick from Claude Rains to get one so she and her naïve, loving hubby can get their lives back?  And she asks Bogie if it would be so wrong to do it?  Well, would it?  Wouldn’t you?  So…

Of course Rick lets him win a bunch of money on his roulette wheel so she doesn’t have to.  Happens in real life all the time.  But more often, I think, some girl decides the holy temple of her inner sanctum and protection of future bridal veil symbolism isn’t as important as other concerns.

In my case, I wanted to pay the rent.  I wanted a car and a pilot’s license and a film career.  So I ended up becoming an Escort.  By way of being a Call Girl.  There’s kind of a difference.  But it’s pretty subtle compared to being a whore or not.

The rest of my “transition” is pretty common and dull, I guess.  Again, though, I moved into it consciously and planned, instead of drifting in ass-end-up like a lot of gals.  I could see the “venue” but before just taking out an ad in the LA Weekly  I poked into it a bit.  You know, asked around.  Girls I knew in the clubs and beach.  Then I called this somewhat older woman I picked from an ad and offered her half her price to let me buy her a nice lunch and give me the 411.  Very handy, saved me a lot of trouble.  I ended up talking to three different future colleagues and was getting the same answers.  So I did the things they suggested, as far as money and law and residence and such, then took out an ad myself.  The real action for that is internet now, by the way.  I’ve gotten to the point where it’s all word of mouth and referral services.

Once I had established myself as a commodity, I was pretty surprised at how many other girls were hooking their way through school. You’d pick up those tabloids and they’d be full of ads.  Let me move into your luxury pad with privileges and you pay my way through Law School.  Yeah, right.  It’s not just johns who have fantasies, honey.  But it does happen, or some version of it.  There are sugar babies around, and quite a few of them are college students. I could probably have started a Sorority or intramural club at UCLA for girls working their way through school.  Is that awful?  I mean, is it?

One way I’ve looked at it is: are they worse off being a mistress to some older, successful guy than going through the mill of normal college dating and sexual experience?  Luck of the draw.

Anyway, why be surprised they’re doing what I am?  Or vice versa?

One thing I’d point out, hooking your way through college isn’t quite the dead end as working the streets to support a boyfriend or habit or baby or rotten self-image.  That’s a pretty steep dead-end street, but a couple of years short-selling yourself and ending up with a college degree is a different story completely.   Perfect scenario, you can quit being a whore and start being a lawyer.  With years or experience in screwing people.

What really amazes me is all those cute fresh little chicklets you see now, doing smut films.  And I see quite a few,Burbankbeing the Porn Clip Capital Of The USA, and there being a continual ebb and flow between stripping, dancing, hooking, and outcalling.  I look at these kids, all fresh and sweet little schoolgirls and they’re making minimal pay for getting cornholed on camera then licking it clean. Having the record of it slapped up on the internet for all to see.  I don’t get it.  And I’ve asked them.  And they don’t get it either.

By the way, I have yet to meet a male sex performer for film that I can stand being in the same room with and whose nuts I wouldn’t kick through the top of his head if he laid so much as a finger on me.

But maybe that’s just me.