- Books, Literature, and Writing»
- Commercial & Creative Writing»
- Creative Writing»
- Humor Writing
My First Hooker
It was 3 pm on a Sunday and I was crisscrossing the streets of downtown looking for girls. I started the day playing Grand Theft Auto and drinking malt liquor. By my third 40 of Old English picking up a hooker with $50 my Grandma gave me for my birthday became the best idea I ever had. Here’s how it went down.
I had no idea where to start my hooker shopping. Maybe my expectations were unrealistic, but I wasn’t looking for your basic street prostitute. I wanted a bionic hooker with super powers. I wanted a hooker who could unhinge her jaw like a boa constrictor. Someone who had 6 fingers on both hands and gills so she never had to come up for air.
After about 40 minutes of aimless driving (and a small collision with a parking meter while pissing in an empty malt liquor bottle) I decided to lower my standards. Instead of extra fingers and gills I would settle for opposable thumbs and a pulse. I headed to skid row.
Just past the rehabilitation center I saw a homeless guy under the cross town bridge. He was sitting in an armchair reading a Hustler. I figured he was a good place to start.
“Hey, Andy Arm Chair, got a minute?”
Andy glared at me like I was the one sitting on a chair I found in a dumpster. Eventually he walked over to my car. His teeth were as yellow as urine.
Andy’s breath scared me. I quickly farted to cover up the smell. It was the only thing that could have kept me from vomiting on myself. It didn’t work. I puked a little.
“I’m looking for a hooker” I said as I picked chunks of Funions off my shirt.
Andy didn’t answer me, but instead turned and yelled over his shoulder.
I didn’t see Shelly when I pulled up because she was peeing behind a barrel. She wiped herself with a sock, put the sock back on her foot, and walked over to my car. Without saying anything Andy opened my car door and returned to his Hustler. Shelly didn’t say anything either and got in my car.
“What’s your fake hooker name?” I asked.
“Ecstasy” she answered. “You a cop?”
“No, do you have gills?”
Ecstasy looked to be about 40 but was probably 25. Her eyes (one real one glass) had as much baggage as she did. She could also challenge Andy for teeth yellowness.
“Whip it out" Ecstasy said.
“Shouldn’t we go somewhere first?”
“Whip it out so I know you’re not a cop.”
Ecstasy was wearing a Scooby-Doo nightgown and smelled like Vagisil. Per her request I pulled my junk out of my pajama pants and waved it at her. She didn’t seem impressed.
“It’s cold out" I explained.
Ecstasy shook her head and rolled her eye. I started driving.
“What are you looking to spend?” she asked in her pack-a-day voice.
“What does fifty bucks get me?”
Ecstasy turned to me and smiled. Several of her front teeth were broken and her gums were bleeding slightly. Her tongue was fury.
“Let’s go to your place and I’ll show you.”
My house was about 10 minutes away. Three quarters of the way there Ecstasy broke the awkward silence.
“Does your toilet work? I have to shit.”
When we got to my house it turned out Ecstasy was right, she did have to shit. She was in the bathroom for a good 20 minutes. When she was done I went into the bathroom, un-screwed the toilet seat and threw it in the trash. If she had taken a shower I would have moved.
“I hate it when I shit blood” Ecstasy said putting a sock back on. “You ready?”
I was sitting in my easy chair when Ecstasy walked towards me. She slid off her panties. For the second time that night I threw up on myself.
Considering the nature of Ecstasy’s occupation I figured she would be well groomed down south. I was wrong. Her muff was like Santa's beard: long, grey, and full of crumbs. Her naked body reminded me of grainy concentration camp footage. There were so many veins in her legs I thought it was a map of city bus routes.
Ecstasy climbed on top of me. Her boney ass was grinding on my hips and it made this eerie clicking sound like when Ethiopian people talk. I had to make her face the other way, though, because her whiskers kept tickling my cheek.
“If you want you can shoot it on my glass eye. It wipes right off.”
Banging a boney crack whore is like trying to achieve an orgasm while watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Daisy is kind of hot but at the end of the day she’s still a fucking duck. I knew there was no way I could finish, so I faked it.
I decided the best way to signify to Ecstasy that I was done was by shoving her to the floor and sprinting for the bathroom. I scrubbed myself from bellybutton to knee caps with Clorox and Pine Sol. Unfortunately I couldn’t clean my memory. I never drank malt liquor again.
More Short Stories By Bo Bixbie
- Poker, Dr. Pepper, and Flatulence
I don't know what every one else does at their family reunions, but at our trailer when the Jagermeister and Funions are gone it's time for Texas Hold'em. We usually have 5 or 6 players, but this particular...
- The Jagermeister Challenge
The Jagermeister Challenge was engineered by me while I was on my office computer trying to find out what a "Cleveland Steamer" was. (FYI it has nothing to do with trains.) The challenge works like this. Take...