First Person: I Almost Got What I Paid For

It was the end of our Thanksgiving Day party, and my roommate and I were eyeing each other warily. The DJ was packing up; he had placed a long-playing ambient track on the last turntable. Most of our guests had left; a few stragglers were murmuring at the fringes of our loft, but–alas–no single women remained. I had chatted up a few cuties throughout the night, but the excesses of the party–the booze, the coke, the E–hindered my pickup efforts rather than enhanced them. My attempts at any sort of suavity resulted in a special class of inelegance that, while charming in a teeth-chattering way, resulted only in fumbled gropes and polite rejections.

And so D and I waved goodbye to our guests and refilled the occasional glass of bourbon, but we both had other things on our minds. D picked up the Village Voice lying on the kitchen table and flipped to the back section. He glanced down and read a bit before asking me, "Hey Matt, why don’t we get us some whores?"

Indeed.

I’ve known many men–and one woman–who have hired prostitutes. I’ve even met quite a few prostitutes, and talked to them about their jobs. I’ve lusted over quite a few of them, too. (When I was 18 and driving a cab in Minneapolis, I had a fare who was a beautiful woman a few years older than I was. I picked her up from a luxury high-rise and drove her to the University of St. Thomas Law School. Halfway through the ride she told me she was a call girl in order to put herself through school. I thought–and still do–that her purposefulness was singular and noble.) But I’ve never hired a prostitute. I find the situations these women are usually in to be debased in a way, although probably no more debased than the way many of us live our lives. Hypocritically, I think that the transaction of sex for money cheapens the act of sex. I guess I have a romantic notion of the act; it isn’t a turn-on for me if it’s just about the cash. Love would be the best aphrodisiac, but flat-out, fuck-me-now! horniness suits me fine. Sex for sex, love, an exchange of orgasms or simple comfort: these are the reasons to fuck another.

But I am a hypocrite because my sexual history is filled with examples that would make a simple cash-for-sex transaction look sacrosanct. Nothing evil, just situations that would best be if not at all. (And correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think I’m the only libertine of questionable morality floating about 20th-century New York City.)

But that night it seemed like a good–no, make that a great (I was really horny)–idea. D flipped through the paper until he found an ad that fit his criteria for a proper escort service (don’t ask me, I was just sitting there, rubbing my hands together and fantasizing–I have no idea how one should choose). He called, and after a few moments of negotiation the deal was made. He hung up the phone and smiled at me. "We got some whores on the way!"

I smiled at him and he grinned at me. Then I turned my head and noticed a half-dozen people smiling at both of us. The remnants of the party had gathered around while D was negotiating on the phone, and, to my embarrassment, they all overheard and knew exactly what was going on. Figuring that it would be creepier for me to ignore what we were about to do, I smiled back at everybody and winked in an "us boys will be boys" kind of way–and I prayed internally that they would be long gone by the time the prostitutes arrived. The party guests smiled, nodded, murmured back at me and helped themselves to more of our liquor, evidently settling in to await the arrival of our girls. Well, okay, I thought, might as well try and act normal. For some reason I didn’t want anyone to know that this would be my first time with a pro.

Time either flew by quickly or dragged on indefinitely. I don’t know, my mind was buzzing with the drugs and anticipation. The doorbell finally rang, and D and I ran over and buzzed the ladies in.

Two women climbed the stairs to our loft, and D and I were both relieved that they weren’t ugly (yes, we’re shallow, but they’re prostitutes for God’s sake–we weren’t going to talk philosophy with them!) nor completely skanked out in a whorish, syphilitic way. The older of the two looked to be in her younger 30s, quite attractive and more animated than her colleague. D turned to me immediately and asked if it was okay if he took her. I agreed readily, not wanting to fight over the ladies or risk offending the other. Mine was cute in a just-off-the-boat kind of way (which was exactly the situation she was in, I was to find out later), but she looked frightened and as if she would like to be anywhere but there.

D ran to his room while I stood around stupidly trying to engage the two in conversation, and moments later he appeared and handed the older woman the money. He then took her by the arm and guided her off to his room. I did the same with my girl in turn.

When I showed her in and shut the door I felt suddenly ashamed. I was staying at D’s loft temporarily, and I hadn’t bothered to unpack any of the many boxes of my possessions. My room was basically a storage container with a small futon among the cartons. I felt like a man in a flophouse who had hired a pro–which I was. I knew this and she knew this, and I was embarrassed. I don’t know why; I mean, she didn’t seem to be embarrassed about being the prostitute.

I stood there stupefied, not knowing what to do. From television and the movies I knew that it was improper to kiss a prostitute, but I didn’t know how to start a sexual liaison without a bit of romance. Luckily enough, she took over. Without any shame or self-consciousness she slipped out of her clothes, flung them into the corner and produced a tube of lube and one condom, which she tossed on my bed. She reclined on her back and gestured for me to join her. I undressed and slid in the bed beside her.

I fumbled with some small talk, not wanting to mount her immediately. I was acting as if we were just on a first date and I had lured her home. I suppose one is expected to just jump on/in a prostitute when one hires one, but I couldn’t do that; I’m a gentleman. So we engaged in conversation–small talk–and she explained to me her life. She was 18 (!) and had recently moved to the States from Ecuador. I asked her how she liked America, and she said she thought it was great. But then she looked around and realized where she was and what she was doing, and frowned. I asked her what she thought about her job, whether she liked it or not, and she said she hated it.

Note: If you want to have sex with a prostitute, do not ask her if she enjoys her job. Your erection will disappear. Which is exactly what happened to mine. The squalor of my room, the clinical-looking tube of lube, the condom on the floor and this poor, 18-year-old girl sadly talking to me in my bed ruined any animalistic feelings of rutting I had. I wanted to comfort the girl, not fuck her.

And that’s what I did, or tried to do. I gave her a cigarette and leaned back. I told her that we wouldn’t have sex. She looked at me like I was crazy, but I told her it was okay, she’d still get paid. I said I couldn’t fuck her like this (and of course I told her how sexy and cute she was–I didn’t want to offend her). We talked like this for an hour or so, listening to D fuck his girl in the next room. Occasionally I would stroke her stomach and her breasts, not out of sexual desire, but because I was really flying on the E. She probably knew I was fucked-up on drugs, but as I was so gentle with her (and she had been paid for), she let me stroke away. I didn’t have an erection, though; I can honestly say that sex was far from my mind. It was almost like a high school girl’s slumber party: a little caress and a whispered murmur, but innocent and chaste. We giggled at the grunts and moans in the next room and spoke to each other in whispers. Finally, the action settled down outside and we heard a timid knock on my door. It was her partner, and it was time for her to leave. We both dressed and I walked her to the door, where she smiled at me warmly and gave me a bear hug. Then she left.

I went to bed shortly thereafter, and when I awoke I fixed coffee for D and myself. He asked me if I enjoyed the night before, and I said, truthfully, that I did. I guess I’m glad that it turned out the way it did. I’m not sure if I’ll ever really use the services of a prostitute; my ambivalent feelings were only reinforced by the young girl. But I still don’t think there’s anything morally wrong with it. It simply isn’t my cup of tea.