Will NOT Work For Dick

It is said to be the world’s oldest occupation, and I can believe it. The urge to procreate or fuck is one that unites the world, or most of it. People need to procreate to keep on going. History is full of stories of prostitutes and sex workers, and I respect that.

I have also done my fair share of sex work, which includes me posing nude for photographs, fucking strangers and sucking a girl’s asshole in movies, snuffing lit cigarettes out on a guy’s feet, and spitting in freaks’ faces, but from what I remember I have never actually accepted money from a guy for intercourse. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, and I’m sure I’ve done far more bizarre things. But wherever I go, people seem to think I am a prostitute.

My neighborhood is mostly Puerto Rican and not the nicest area in the city, but I don’t mind it. I just wish that I could lose the neon sign floating above my head that apparently screams out: “PROSTITUTE! WILL FUCK FOR MONEY! PLEASE INQUIRE!”

Then maybe people would leave me alone.

There have been times when I would have loved to get paid, times when I have had sex where I swear I should have gotten paid, but never times when I did. I don’t even get dinners or movies or rides home, maybe a drink if I’m lucky. But I’ll be damned if I can walk two blocks down the street, head facing the ground, in my dirtiest, most disgusting outfit without some monkey-shit giving me a “psssst” or pulling over his car and asking me if I want a ride.

At a better time, when I was more naïve, I used to think that these men were actually kind enough to want to give me a ride in their car somewhere because they did not want to see a lady walking outside by herself, especially in my neighborhood.

But I have learned, by actually getting into these pseudo-Samaritans’ cars and getting kicked out half a block later when they learned that I had no intention of putting their infested cock anywhere near my body, that they had no intention of delivering me to my destination and making my life easier. They just want me to suck them off or fuck them in the backseat or in an alley or in their apartment.

So I ignore such come-ons. Now.

I am, in fact, very pro-prostitution and I think it should be legalized, but I just want people to leave me alone. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

As a kid, when I’d travel to the city from the suburbs with my father, he would pick out women and nudge me and say, “See her, that’s a prostitute.”

And these women, to me, just looked like everyone else, so I would always ask him how he knew. They were not wearing six-inch red high heels, miniskirts, and tube tops, like I thought that all prostitutes wore at the time. They were regular people doing regular things.

They also never stopped my dad and asked him anything, for a fuck or for some money. And I don’t remember these particular women even looking at my father funny, but he could pick them out of a crowd as if they were wearing big billboards that said “Ten dollars a fuck!”

Daddy always knew though, and he never hesitated to cloud my already-traumatized mind with ideas about these women. So I figure that I must have the same stench as these women did. The ones that my dad would pick out of a crowd and just know that they were selling sex for money. Which would be great for advertising if I wanted to fuck for money, but I don’t.

So how do I get this stench off of me? I have no idea! I could take a billion showers and not wash it off. I tried. I try to dress differently. It doesn’t matter. I try to make myself ugly, and they still proposition me. I leave my head down, and constantly stare at the ground, so as not to make eye contact with anyone . . . and the cars still follow, and honk, and crawl down alleys after me.

The other downside of being a prostitute that sucks for me is the fact that it is illegal. Not only do these cum-draining johns bother me, but the Chicago Police Department’s perv patrol is almost as bad.

Now that I have lived in this neighborhood for almost a year and most of the police have seen me and have never been able to catch me doing anything illegal, they have almost stopped bothering me, but when I first moved here, they’d stop me all the time and ask me what I was doing and always ask me if I was “working” and tell me that they would catch me and put me in jail. I guess they smelled the same stench.

Oh, and I won’t forget about the great tenants who lean out their apartment windows and yell, “You and your TRASH should stay out of our neighborhood. You’re RUINING it!”

Alas, there is no way of winning this battle unless I stop leaving the house entirely. I have even worn a shirt that declares, “I am not a prostitute.” But instead of making things easier, the shirt makes life harder, by drawing the regular creeps that stop and talk to me and then stupid idiots that want to comment on my fashion sense.

I am out of ideas. In the meantime, I have grown accustomed to it, and I am ever-vigilant and always expecting a little Mexican peanut-looking man to jump out of a garbage can and say, “Psssst . . . mamasita . . . how much?” And I reply by saying “NO” every possible way, verbally, and manually, using as many parts of my body and as many international signals I know for the word NO.

There are all of these clichés like “When in Rome . . .” and “If you can’t beat them, join them” that all tell me I should just collapse and give in to my fate, and since everyone else knows it, why the hell don’t I?

So maybe I should just start getting money for sex. Maybe the ultimate solution is to crawl into the garbage can with the little peanut-looking Mexican. I don’t know the answer.

For now, I’ll just wear a bag over my head until I come up with a better idea.

Em-bare-ass-ing Moments

Sex is not glamorous and it is often disgusting. I have had many sexual experiences and many of them were with degenerate slugs whose rat breath was their most charming aspect. Still, I keep plugging onward.

I have also survived more than my share of embarrassing moments on the sex front. And I mean beyond just embarrassing--I mean humiliating nightmares beyond even what you might read in Seventeen magazine about a girl getting her period while driving on a first date to TGI Fridays and staining the dude’s Pontiac Firebird seats with menses blood.

Boy, can I top that. Three times.

Shit Volcano.

My faithful readers know of my ambivalence toward anal sex. I’ve tried it three to five times and it always felt like I was taking a big shit, only not in an enjoyable way. But I left one detail out previously.

While I was fucking my second long-term boyfriend, he brought up wanting to pound me in the poo-hole. I didn’t want to and, more than that, I wanted him to be sickened by the thought. And, believe me, he was.

He stuck his dick up my ass and it was in there for about six minutes and I didn’t like it, but I thought that the longer we went at it, the less I might mind it. So I said nothing and we had ass-sex for about 10 minutes, until I could not possibly stand another second. I squealed and he pulled out.

Sure enough, his dork was covered with liquid shit. And, in addition, his quick removal prompted some sort of spasm out of me and I sprayed a hot blast of diarrhea on the wall behind us. There wasn’t a ton of it, maybe just a quarter cup or so. But that did the trick.

Let me just note here that this was, and remains, the only time that liquid shit has shot out of my asshole.

We both had a good laugh about it, once the doot was scrubbed up.

I had wanted this experience to make both of us either love or hate anal sex, and we both ended up hating it. So my job was done.

Dirty Doc.

This flea-infested garbage dump of a Pakistani scumbag who was twice my age and claimed to be a doctor once approached me in a bar. I was trying to leave when this rodent made his pass.

He wanted to give me a ride, but I got a sick vibe from him, so I said that I was walking the mile or so to my apartment. He wanted to come along. I told him that he could walk with me for one block, just because he was so insistent.

Naturally this waste-case followed me all the way to my front door. And then, just as naturally, he tried to wedge himself in the front door with me. I told him that I had three huge male roommates who would stomp his ass. He was undeterred and attempted some forced making-out on me.

I banged on the walls and kept pushing him away. My roommate finally opened the door and saw this mouth-pig trying to slobber his decay-stink all over me. In a flash, the malignant medic bolted out the door and down the street. I wasn’t scared as much as I was nauseated. Nothing happened, but it was a close call.

Since then, I have had nothing to do with dirty docs. In fact, it rattled my whole perception of flesh-pressing encounters. Many times, I don’t know if I am meant to be having sex with a person or a toilet. Often enough, they seem to be the same thing.

Home Movie.

Back in high school, it was a very big deal for this boy I liked to be coming to my house. He and I were going to watch movies. I was hoping that that was just a pretense for making out, which it did turn out to be.

I threw a tape in the VCR. I think it was the movie River’s Edge. It was on some old cassette that I just recorded over. About an hour into the action, he and I started getting into action of our own on the couch.

We went at it pretty feverishly, not noticing or caring that the movie ended and that the tape just kept playing.

Suddenly, I heard: “Come on, Meg! You can do it! Just try harder!”

It was my parents. Both of them.

Their voices were coming out of the television. They were on the tape that was running.

Frantically, I tried to find the remote control, but it was too late. The guy I was with looked up and saw the video image of seven-year-old me in a ballerina costume trying to ride a bicycle for the first time.

Again, we both heard my parents cry out: “Come on, Meg! You can do it! Just try harder!”

I hated watching home videos of myself under ideal circumstances, but this was another dimension of mortification. I felt as though Mom and Dad were right in the room with me, egging on my juvenile sexual experimentation.

How much easier it would have been to bleed period mess all over his car and/or ruin my prom dress than to deal with this. I had to stop what we were doing right there, in the cathode glow of myself as a second grader.

It was too bad, too. I hardly got any action at all in high school.

The Big Blow Off

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