Waiting at the Whorehouse
August 19, 1999
I’ve been so mad about everything. I don’t get enough attention in the day. Dave’s always working, and I’m always working too, but I wish I’d get interrupted by love. I was sitting on my office couch sulking when Lyle called to tell me about Carrie. He said she’s exactly like me except she’s nineteen and looks like an alien: crazy hair and fucked-up teeth. He said he bought a king-size bed. I suddenly became very aware of the surface of my body. “I have a bloody knee,” I said. “I don’t know how I got it.” I was pissed off at Dave for talking about different sex situations for twenty minutes every night before doing it to me. It used to charm me, but now my own flesh cried out to be paid attention to just as itself, just as a surface, not a tunnel to travel through, not as a springboard for his mind. Just a body. I licked some of the blood off my knee. Lyle mentioned that he was covered with bruises. From what, I asked. Wrestling. With whom? Carrie. On the king-size bed. God that sounded fun. Dave was right down the stairs, playing guitar. I didn’t close the door. It excited me that he could hear me laughing so much. I’m mean. I’m a mean, hard woman. There’s nothing right about me. Even though I was laughing, Lyle said I sounded sad. He said I was happier with him. There is something compelling in how perverse it would be to mess things up with Dave by going back to Lyle, because I know how stupid everyone would say I was. Boy did I need something to shake things up, to break through this malaise, this uncertain longing. I wished Dave would come upstairs and stand in the doorway like Clint Eastwood, and then come take the phone out of my hand and hang it up, and say to me, “I hate you. Good-bye forever.” Something. Anything. I half-listened to Lyle and laughed into the mouthpiece and fantasized about my husband. I loved the song he was playing; I’d never heard it before. I loved how it drifted up to me, so faraway and longing too. I moved closer to the stairs so I could hear.
The songs Lyle wrote about me are more complicated and they say I’m supernatural, stuff like that. Dave looks at me like a real human, and he likes me! So I hung up on Lyle and went on a walk with Dave, who must have heard me giggling for Lyle. He twisted my arm behind my back: “What are you thinking, looking at me like that? I’ll break your arms.” He talks psychopathically like that to me and to his beloved cat for whom he feels what I feel
It was. Then he took me home and cooked this meal for me: spaghetti with two pounds of cherry tomatoes sauteed in olive oil with red chilies and real oregano and basil leaves, not the flakes. Then for desert, figs and raspberries cooked in gin, with whipped cream he whipped himself. It was the most delicious food I ever had. It was wrong for it to taste so good. I started doing the dishes, and he said no, he’d do that, I could go upstairs and try to catch up on all my writing assignments. After the dishes were done he came into my office and shut off my computer and had sex with me so good and sweet, and I resolved that tomorrow I’d give him the best day in the world, starting as soon as I woke up.
And that’s how I got to be sitting here in the parking lot of a whorehouse, waiting for Dave to come out. I watch a hardened woman going in the back must be in her thirties or more. Auburn hair, jean dress, big shoulder bag a small-town Bianca Jagger. When we pulled up, I wasn’t sure if it was a sneaky sex place or just a legitimate massage establishment, for health and relaxation purposes. But the squat building in battleship gray convinced me. Dirty bookstores and dirty massage parlors try to make themselves as dismal-looking as possible, thinking maybe they’ll escape the notice of the upstanding community. “When you go in there, get totally naked and say exactly what you want,” I advised Dave. “That’s how they know you’re not a cop, because cops can’t show their penis or solicit. If they suspect you’re a cop, they’ll just give you a regular massage.” Dave was frozen in his seat, he wouldn’t get out of the car. I had to drag his body out, thrust the money into his hand and give him a shove towards the hideous building. “But I have to go to the bathroom,” he said, coming back, as if that were reason to just call off the whole prostitute thing. “Okay, just go in there to pee, then come back if you like,” I said. Once he was in the door, they’d know what to do with him. Prostitutes are used to scared young men. “Have fun!” I called to his slinking back.
I feel like Philip Marlowe, watching the door. A guy just came out smoking a cigarette. He’s wearing sandals. Can you wear sandals to the prostitute? It seems like your whole body should be covered up, demonstrating your social stature. I want to grab one of these guys and do him in Dave’s car for forty dollars. But they’re probably all fixed already, by the ladies inside. I want to suck on another cock. I want my mouth to be a new sensation to someone. Dave’s used to all my tricks. He never did properly appreciate my blow job powers anyway he’s not too into oral sex.
Twenty minutes have passed. So he’s definitely doing something. Wow I honestly didn’t think he would. Good for him. Ooh, there’s a man pulling up next to me. Doughy face, about fifty. Should I proposition him? I’m trying to catch his eye. What would Dave think if he came out and some strange man was in his driving seat, the back of my head bobbing. Strange-man hands on my tits or ass. If he (Dave) hadn’t come yet, he’d love it. He’d die. If he had just come, he’d hate it. He’d find the whole thing disgusting. Oh my, there’s another patron emerging enormously fat. Whoever Dave picked is probably so happy right now. It’s her lucky hour. I bet the assembled half-dressed ladies in the lounge were thinking, Pick me! Pick me!
Forty-five minutes. My god, he’s really, really doing it, isn’t he? I can’t believe it! Another patron exits. This one dough-faced and fat. He looks depressed. It didn’t go well? Maybe he ordered a specialty job, and now he’s feeling filthy and bad. Maybe he got peed on, and now he’s thinking, “What am I doing, I’m forty years old and I spent my Wednesday afternoon drinking pee.”
I love anonymous sex and I love going down on ugly people. On certain days, I’m really very pretty. I didn’t do anything to deserve to be pretty; neither does anyone deserve to be ugly. It seems just to share the unearned wealth to, on my prettiest day, give the best head to the ugliest, morbidest, swollenest man. I wonder what kind of girl Dave chose? I wonder if he got Bianca Jagger to spank him and break pencils on his cock.
Two men on motorcycles just pulled up, one fat, one just burly. That’s so dirty they’re gonna shoot their loads simultaneously, a mere ten feet and one thin wall between them. Dave definitely owes me a turn. At what, I’m not sure. He’s making me wait a long time out here in the hot car. I’d go buy an ice cream, but it’s a stick shift and I don’t know how to drive those. This place gets a lot of traffic! I wish I were a man, I’d fuck whores all the time. They don’t have anything like that for women. Supposedly there are a few gigolos but where? Anyway, I don’t want one of them. I want a woman. All right, I’m getting aggravated now. How long does it take to ejaculate in a pretty lady’s hand? I bet he’s talking to her. He’s trying to seduce her, that little scoundrel, I just know it. He’s one of those men who wants to make whores come. I wouldn’t worry about her at all, were I the client. I’d say, “Please me, Woman.”
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com