“So I paid some guy to fuck me last night.”
Standing in front of the mirror putting on makeup inside the club dressing room, I almost smeared my eye-liner across my face. The cosmetic equivalent of a record scratching.
“You did what?” another one of the girls asked.
“I went on this website and they have these guys there that you pay to come over your house for a few hours.”
“And he just came over and fucked you?”
“Yeah. I mean, why would I waste time going to a club to meet some guy? I spend money doing that anyway. And these guys know how to fuck, you know. They have big dick. They give you massage. You think some guy I meet in club is gonna do that?”
And to my complete disbelief, the entire staff of girls sat there and agreed. They asked her more questions. They commended her logic. They asked her for the website in plans of doing THE VERY SAME THING.
“But, honey,” one said, lowering her. “I wouldn’t tell anyone else around here.”
“Why?” She asked, dumbfounded. Her foreign accent making her sound exceptionally stupid.
“Cause, some people might not understand. There’re some ignorant people here.”
And by ignorant, I’m sure she meant me.
Like most nights, I wasn’t participating in their conversation. Just like they’re not gonna be able to keep up with one of our covos about Bogusky’s biggest blunder, my US Weekly reading hasn’t ever been exactly up to date. So forgive me if I can’t comment on the pros and cons of Britney be-dazzling her ass with Swavorski crystals. So while they talked, I sat in the same room secretly oh my godding in my head. Call me suburban raised but… a girl. Paying. For sex. If it’s ignorant of me to think this way then perhaps my morals do hail from the Midwest.
I suppose in my fuck-being-a-housewife mentality, I should commend her for her male-like attitude. If guys can pay for sex, why can’t girls? Like she said. She wanted to get laid, but didn’t want to waste time going to a club. Furthermore, these people are professionals. They “know how to fuck.” It’s a job to do and they do it right. If your sink is clogged you’re not gonna call a copywrtiter. (Even though, girls, I’m sure we’ve all had clogged sinks a few times in our lives and have mistakenly called an ad guy to come over and not know what the hell he was doing.) But forgive me for not wanting to be a job. Or it never even crossing my mind that gigoloing it was an option. In fact, I don’t even think highly of a guy paying for sex. When we saw that mug shot of Hugh Grant after his concubinal encounter, did we think, “I don’t understand the fact that he resorted to picking up a hooker. I should brush up on my civil rights and be more understanding.” No. We thought, “Oh my God. Why did a famous guy resort to this? Underneath his Prada, HE MUST BE A FUCKING LOSER.”
Loserness is not gender specific. And paying to get fucked is one of the most vile, pathetic things you can do no matter what your gender. So call me biased, ignorant, or whatever you want. But I still prefer to get my fucking for free.
Even if it’s from a Puerto Rican.