Working Girl

    Please don’t try to save my soul, or tell me that my vagina is the gate to Hell, or that prostitution is demeaning to women. I’m not psychologically imbalanced, so don’t go looking for a Freudian complex down there either.  The truth is I have really bad luck.

    The first time I kissed a boy, I kind of vomited in his mouth.  I wasn’t drunk. We went to an all-you-can-eat oyster buffet on a date.  I know, I know, what the hell kind of date is that, the Shell Shack? The guy thought they were an aphrodisiac, you can’t blame him for trying.  He kept telling me to eat more.  He would dip the oysters in cocktail sauce and hold them under my mouth.  You know, get ready for the airplane, honey.  I think I decided at that moment that I wanted to vomit on him.

    So I kept eating. I ate until I had a food baby.  Then we got into his ’85 Cadillac Seville, and he asked if he could kiss me.  I thought, well, at least he was polite enough to ask. Maybe I shouldn’t vomit on him. So I said yes, and he leaned across the car seat.  I squeezed my eyes shut, I was concentrating so hard on keeping my oysters from reappearing. I barely felt it when he pressed his lips against mine.  All I remember is the taste of fish and Listerine.  He must have mouth-washed in the restaurant bathroom.  I think he meant to squeeze my tit, but he accidentally elbowed my stomach instead.  That’s when I lost it.  My oysters, that is.  It was just a little mini-vomit, a mouthful.  I thought, maybe he didn’t notice.  I can play it off — just a burp.  But he pulled away, and there was pale, grayish upchuck trickling down his chin.

    Honestly, it was an accident.  But I don’t think God felt the same way.  And so began my long history of sexual dysfunction.  Never once have I had good sex.  I can tell you now, it’s not my fault.  At least it wasn’t in the beginning.  The weirdest things would happen.  Like with Joe.  Five minutes in, he began sniffing my neck and hair before pulling out and shuddering.  “You smell like my mom.” He’d gone flaccid, the condom had slipped off.  He looked at it for about five minutes before turning to me and threatening murder if I told anyone. And then there was Ben, who began crying onto my chest, said I looked too much like Sharon Tate.  She died so young, after all.  He ran out the door half-naked.

    And so it went.  Twenty-three failed trysts, twenty-three mumbled excuses and promises to call tomorrow.  I really felt embarrassed, for the guys, I mean.  For all they knew, it was their fault they were having the worst sex of their lives, not mine.  But I knew.  God didn’t want me to have good sex for what I did to Oyster Boy.  He cursed me.  But if that was God’s plan, then I would work with what He gave me. So why, then, am I a prostitute? A street walker? A whore? A strumpet? A lady of expansive sensibility?  Because I’m doing a public service, for women, I mean.  You see, when a relationship ends particularly badly for a woman, she wants the guy to hurt as much as she does.  So she finds me, she pays me.  I make it hurt. Maybe it’s not where she wants him to bleed — his heart, that is.  But there’s something to be said for a bleeding penis.  Metaphorically, of course.  Make a man think he’s a sexual failure, and he’s no better than a woman cursed with an inhospitable vagina.  And hey, if I’m feeling particularly generous I’ll tell his friends.  Now, you think I’m a bitch, or a liar, or completely deranged, or starved for attention, or all of the above.  I’m not.  I’m just working with what the Big Man gave me.  It’s really a blessing.


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