Getting my passport stamped.
It was a tough week at work. Deadlines. Schedules. Bad coffee.
So at the end of this very stressful week, I figured I owed myself a treat. A visit across the border to Hookerlandia was in order.
Maybe it’s a sad commentary on my wasted life that the arcana of making a date with a hooker are so ingrained as to be almost second nature to me now. Just like the frequent traveler knows the routines of maneuvering through an airport. Check in for your flight, get your boarding pass. Put your carry-on bag on the conveyor belt, take your shoes off. Call once to make the appointment, twice to get directions, three times to get the room number. Take your shoes off.
I take a slight detour from my standard route up the 405 and pay a visit to a very lovely, very accommodating young lady who is highly recommended and highly reviewed. These days, I like to go first class when I travel to Hookerlandia. After getting the preliminary comments about my huge cock out of the way, we settled in for a rousing romp. One of the better sensual encounters I’ve been a part of.
My latest side trip to the frontiers of Hookerlandia had me thinking back to adventures past. Every guy who’s been at this for any length of time has a story to tell. Mine just aren’t about how great a lover I am.
In recent years, CraigsList has become the most common port of entry into Hookerlandia. I had a streak of about a few months when I would visit a different CL girl on my way home from work almost every night. I had all shapes and sizes, every ethnicity and ran the gamut in ages from barely legal to barely menopausal. Good times. Good times. Some were good, some were bad, none were great. But you get what you pay for, and you don’t expect greatness from the minor leagues.
One girl stands out in memory, unfortunately not for anything approaching enjoyability. I had seen her ads for several nights, and although I kinda knew better (certainly I should have known enough to do some basic homework) I didn’t bother to find out anything about her beyond what was in her ad. The picture of the hot young blonde that accompanied the ad captivated me for some reason. Even with the blurry face. I called once or twice and got no response. Undeterred, I tried again. In retrospect, I should have noticed the red flags. I called, she answered.
“Hi, is this Aubrey?”
“I’m calling for Aubrey, about your CraigsList ad.”
“Oh yeah, that’s me.”
The background noise sounded like a boiler room operation. She told me where she was staying, we set a time. Then she asked me to stop at the store on the corner and buy her a beer.
“What? You want me to bring you beer? In addition to the hundred dollars?”
“Yeah, a Heineken.”
Well, weird, but maybe she’s thirsty and can’t get away to buy her own beer. But what the hell, I buy a Heineken for her, a bottle of water for me. You never drink the water in Hookerlandia.
After making my way past the glaring front desk clerk, I get to her room. I hand over the beer which she sets, unopened, on the bathroom countertop. There’s at least another six pack in there. Come to find out later that this is another stupid urban legend “LE check.” The misconception is that a cop can’t bring you alcohol. So, if a guy shows up with a beer can, he’s not a cop. She’s a skinny blonde in a blue babydoll nightie. And she looks nothing like her picture. Another red flag. I should have walked right then, but sometimes you weigh the pros and cons and figure what the hell, you’re already there.
She had the TV on the whole time. I’m pumping away behind her and she’s watching a rerun of some cop show. The absurdity of the whole situation got to me, and I lost steam. Wilted.
This really pissed her off.
“Great! Now I have to start over!”
I understand. I hate reruns, too.