Wondering How I Would Approach a Woman of The Night
Ever felt like skydiving and looking cocky with your eyes squinting as the Skydiving Expert, “Bill,” who holds a BS., PhD Degree in Portuguese Spiritual Philosophy, begs you, “Sir, (or madam), don’t you think it would be wise if you wore a parachute?” Stupid questions asked to a stupid person who has, on occasion, dared Fate and cheated Death and giggled about it at work—the single secretaries all look at you with adoring eyes as you plump down at your desk ready to go to bat and start an exciting day of selling used vinyl siding, great for the newlyweds.
Guess which one in the above opening is me? Am I the stupid guy who has cheated Death or dared Fate and lived to gloat about it? I just might be tossing you a curve by dressing-up like one of those adoring secretaries, (a male secretary), who looks obediently as you walk by my desk. Give up? It’s me. And this time, I am taking no prisoners, not taking any names, and just choosing every word as if the Death Angel were watching over my shoulder (without me knowing it) and tapping me with his sharp sickle when I make a typo. The thing about Death Angels is there are NO Death Angels in the entire King James Version of The Bible.
How have I arrived at this ground-breaking discovery? In the early 1990s, I heard many men of the cloth stand at the pulpit every Sunday morning at exactly 11:30 am., and tell about a man with a broken back having to lead a stubborn mule up a dangerous, rocky hillside and when the going got tough, (this) preacher would pull off his spectacles, look out over his flock and say, “Then the Death Angel appeared from nowhere and took this poor man with the broken back home to Glory.” But the thing I remember is not the man with the broken back, although sad and very depressing, the main idea was (this) particular preacher NEVER alluded to telling me the scripture and verse on where (this) Death Angel was found. Figure that.
Go on. Look for yourself. You can start by searching the Book of Genesis where the Israelite were commanded by Moses to slaughter a lamb and mark their doorposts with the blood of that lamb and at midnight those with doorposts with NO lamb’s blood met with death to the first-born son. In Cecil B. Demile’s “The 10 Commandments,” starring Charlton Heston and Yul Brynner, we only see a green mist flowing downward from a high place into the land of Egypt where God’s children, the Israelite's were to take flight the next morning and leave according to Moses, their leader—but NO Death Angel.
If you are a female editor at HubPages, please go easy with me. I’ve never had a female edit a piece like this. If you are a male editor at HubPages, go on. Do as you please—it’s just us guys. Okay? The thing is: I have rambled on and on about this topic, but it turns out, I am scared out of my shoes. I am afraid what you might think about me writing a subject that you are close to knowing the name of this commentary.
Okay. We are adults here in 2017. Society has begun to live a more tolerant lifestyle and I know in my heart that you are not here to judge me. Just read this piece along with me and get me through this topic that just popped up on my laptop menu and it was as if a small voice, (that low down, doggone d voice) said, “Hey, you are walking on Virgin Soil, so tread wisely, my boy,” and who is calling me their boy? I am not into color or enjoy stimulating conversation about Racism, Bigotry or the Condition of the Trump Administration as it Pertains to the Cotton Farmers over near Columbus, Miss., I hear those folks sure know their way around a John-Deere cotton picker. (Manufacture’s suggested retail price: $78,000. 00 plus tax).
I am sharing what I would do if and the opportunity showed up one night and yelled, surprise, to just see if I would from a Cardiac Arrest. No such luck, Jim. This time I am talking about how I would feel to be talking with a prostitute who has recently moved from Phoenix to my hometown, Hamilton, Al.
I have never, and probably never will, approach such a woman who makes her living making guys happy. But then again, I know a waitress at Waffle House named “Betty,” who makes a lot of her guy customers happy by slipping their Western Omelets a hefty dose of Shredded Parmesan Cheese. No guy could turn that down. I couldn’t. But this “Betty,” I heard, walks out from her shift having pulled down a thousand bucks all in one dollar bills. Same way with a good stripper. The one dollar bill does not discriminat
The conditions would have to be perfect—none of this “near” perfect jazz. PERFECT! No chance of failing or being nabbed by John Law or my wife. Being caught by either would be rough, but my wife would first file divorce me and take custody of my laptop and desktop PCs and half of my retirement check leaving me a few hundred bucks to find a Project Housing Development and tell the people in charge that I am down on my luck, my wife just divorced me, then I start bawling like a big lumber yard foreman named, “Herman,” is beating me silly with a two by four piece of Pine. I mean to get a house or die. That much is certain.
What and how would I approach this prostitute? Do I let her start her shift on a certain corner in my hometown? Questions, a lot of stress accompanies lots of questions that I cannot answer. If this encounter were PERFECT and there were no police officers or wife around . . .and I know that this is THE ONLY time in my future days that I would even approach a woman who really does not love me inside, but is only turned on by my checkbook, I guess that I would just sit for an hour and jot down a good outline so I would not mess up. No man wants a messy scene that involves a prostitute who has just recently moved into his hometown. No, sir.
Her name. What about her name? I know going on that whatever name she says, is not her real name. And the chances of her giving her real name to just be different is not going to happen, so if she says, “Hi. I’m Sharon. What’s your name?” I should at least lie about my name, right? What if this “Sharon” (if that’s her real name) is Bi-Polar and she is with our mayor, God forbid, (I know our mayor), and one night in mid-business, her other personality kicks in or up, and yells . . .”Heyyyy, you poor, stinking piece of road kill, Kenny Avery, if it’s the last thing I do . . .I shall cry your name out to everyone in town all night long and do it while running like a hungry roadrunner in Phoenix seeking a Sidewinder to eat!”
If I am to qualify my commentary, I would have to be straight-up forward and say to you, the online reader, yes, you, that in something like me approaching a prostitute and find out what the experience is really like, and of course, I would give this girl real cash and even tip her if there is a Prostitute Tipping Rule in the State of Alabama. I aim to get, or try to, get on this girl’s best side. Make plenty of points going in. I won’t even be in a hurry. I read in one of Hugh Hefner’s magazines, you know the brand, that a woman, ANY woman who meets a man for the first time, is most-times, refreshed to find out that he thinks of her as a woman and a person to be respected.
I have that covered. I am not going to be like a hungry Pit Bull that some goober named, “J.J.,” a high school drop-out, 22 years of age, who works at that same lumber yard with “Herman,” that big forearm who easily beats me with a 2x4 piece of Pine and act like I know all there is to know about women. What would this prostitute think if I came off doing that? Laugh in my face. That is a clear possibility. And . . .what about the place, and I mean her apartment or mobile home, what? And for her to take me to a Sears camping tent (sleeps eight) sitting on the edge of a lake somewhere because she is into Natural Things—nothing frivolous about her, buddy. She is upfront and I am ready to call it quits for this is just way too much to remember.
I’ll close by telling you something that I witnessed on a Friday night in September 1971, and I was with my drunk-of-a-friend, Donnie, who would just leave me when we got to our football stadium on a Friday night when our team, the Hamilton Aggies would take to the gridiron, and Donnie would be in search of the same type of woman whom I am talking about here.
I remember it well. I was standing with my buddy, Edward Lewis, who had been kept back a few grades and even when he was with us in 10th grade, he looked old enough to be a grown man with a wife and kids. But one thing’s for sure: He knew his way around the drums. He and I were standing just watching our Aggies get their butts handed to them by a rival team, the Vernon Bulldogs, and it didn’t bother the both of us for our heads were in the clouds and looking past the next day’s horizon to where we would land on our feet and settle down with a hot wife who knew how to cook. That was my Life’s Goal.
Suddenly, there walked a hot girl with the most-wicked eye make-up—she looked the part of a prostitute, but Edward swore that she was a whore. Then when he would say “whore,” he’d hit me in the ribs and laugh loudly like a wild Jackass. I am not telling you nothing but the truth.
This girl was walking arm-in-arm, wiggling her little butt to make the guy, some guy Edward knew, but hated, and disappeared. We kept talking and it wasn’t fifteen minutes until this same girl walked back toward the football stadium, but this time, she was alone. No “John” to walk her back to the ballgame. What a way to spend Friday night. We figured between us guys that she had performed such a great job that her “John,” was incapable of standing up on two feet. That girl was GOOD!
But you haven’t heard the best part. Edward and I stood and watched this same ritual go back and forth for about an hour and a half—and each time, the hot girl with wicked eye make-up would be walking arm-in-arm shaking her little butt to make the next “John” happy and we counted eight “John’s” in all. What a trooper. She was really, in my young estimation, great material for a Best-Seller. Yes, sir. I have always remembered that girl’s stamina and endurance—and her hair NEVER looked disheveled. Every hair in place. Edward and I wondered a lot of things about this girl, but the main thing we stopped on was that we figured that she owned a nice, luxurious van equipped with a commercial hairdryer, iron, and was really a “Prostitute on Four Wheels,” to make a long story short.
Neither Edward or myself never had the nerve to go up and volunteer to be one of her “John’s,” and now that I bring back this memory . . .it has just occurred to me over 46 years years ago and right this minute, Dec. 15, 2017. . .why didn’t this hot girl with the wicked eye make-up with the wiggling butt EVER solicit Edward or myself?
And what did that say about US? I’d sure like to know!
© 2017 Kenneth Avery