I left church early today because I was giving SkaldsGirl (the new girlfriend) a ride to work; she traded shifts with a coworker so that she could have Christmas Eve off, and it’s not practical for her to ride the bus out so far on a Sunday. As we were sitting at a red light on Bellevue Boulevard (a street notorious for its density of hourly rate motels) we saw two damsels clad in suggestive apparel on the street. One was wearing a mini-skirt and a halter top; the other short-shorts and a t-shirt that put her breasts in sharp relief.
“Hey, lookie there!” SG said. “The Indian summer has brought out the whores!”
“You’re so mean,” I replied.
“Well, yeah. Did you just notice?”
“No, I noticed that quite a while ago. Anyway, you’re jumping to conclusions. They could just be waiting for the bus.”
“That might involve actually being at the bus stop, genius,” she said as the light turned green and we drove off. “They’re walking back and forth in front of a motel that charges by the hour.”
“Good point.”
“All my points are good. So you admit they were probably whores?”
“I think you’re supposed to say ‘sex worker,’ ” I told her. “ ‘Whore’ is sexist.”
“I’ll worry about that after I grow a penis. So you admit I was right?”
“Not necessarily. They’re a little too brazen to be real streetwalkers. I bet they’re police on a sting operation. Logic.”
“Sure,” SG said. “ ‘Logic.’ That’s how you know. But I believe you. I believe you because I know you would never ever lie to me and besides you’re far too noble and manly a man to have ever had experience in such a tacky enterprise.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“That’s a stupid question. I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask it because I have a point to make, but rest assured I will mock you later. Anyway, it should be easy enough to check. Look at their teeth. If they’re cops they have a dental plan and thus regular cleanings, et cetera. If they’re whores supporting their crack habits with twenty-dollar blowjobs, their teeth will be rotten, or maybe rotting.”
“How do you know so much the dental habits of cops and prostitutes?” I asked.
“Logic.”
“I see.”
“Anyway,” she said, “you should stop by there on your way home and see whether they’re really whores or not.”
I blinked. “Most girls wouldn’t make such a suggestion to their boyfriends.”
“I’m not telling you to fuck one of them, genius. That would involve your being castrated with a rusty spoon and then left to bleed to death. But you’re supposedly a freelance writer. You could get an article out of this and buy me something with the profits.”
“I think you have a mistaken impression of how much I get paid for writing,” I said. “Besides, I could also get arrested.”
“Only if you do something stupid, which you won’t because you love me so much. Just don’t suggest anything sexual. If she has good teeth, wait for her to ask you if you want a date, and if she does, don’t go into a room if she says she already has one. That would mean it was a police sting. She’d make you pay for the room, otherwise she’d be cutting into her margin. There’d be cops waiting for you in the room, I guarantee it. Or either there’d be somebody in there waiting to rob you and swipe the car. But if she has bad teeth, or if she’s willing to go someplace you choose, then you could interview her and write an insightful article about social anomie and the scourge of ma-rij-yoo-wana and crap like that, and then, course, buy me something with your fee.”
“You know a lot about prostitution and police stings. Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Before you continue this line of thought,” SG said, “let me remind you that, although you control the automotive part of our relationship, I have complete dominion of the pussy.”
“I withdraw the question and beg your forgiveness.”
“I knew you were smart.”
For the rest of the ride we discussed other things. After I dropped her off, I decided that I might as well give SG’s idea a try, so I took the same route (in reverse) back to my hovel.
Soon I was back in front of the den of commercial affection. The scantily-clad girls were still there. Taking a deep breath, I drove up to the one in the halter top and said howdy.
“Hey, you want a date?” she asked.
“Um … that depends,” I replied. “Can you smile for me?”
“What?”
“Can you smile for me?”
She rolled her eyes. “What kind of freak is you?” she asked. “’Cause you ain’t getting nothing but pussy off me. Giving head is nasty and unnatural.”
“I just want to see your teeth.”
Rolling her eyes, she not only smiled but also opened her mouth wide. Her teeth were impeccable. Clearly she not only went to the dentist regularly but also used various expensive cleaning products. Maybe she was a new to the job, I thought, or maybe she was a call girl on the way down — but maybe she was a cop.
“See ya!” I said cravenly (or wisely).
Back down the road I went. A little further down I had occasion to turn onto a side street. There, just far back enough not to be visible from the main thoroughfare, I saw another pair of women clad just as modestly as the first two. One of them made eye contact with me and smiled.
Being a craven dastard, I of course had to work up my nerve before I talked to one. Also I was on the wrong side of the street and I have had enough car wrecks this year, thank you. So I drove to the nearest intersection, turned around, and returned to the company of the purveyors of commercial affection. The one who had made eye contact beckoned me to pull into a small lot. There I saw several small buildings, one of which had several doors in front. Half a dozen cars were there, and several men, all burlier than I, were loitering, chewing tobacco and comparing knife scars.
“You want a date?” the girl said with a bright smile. She hadn’t seen a dentist for a while, I thought, at least not in a professional capacity. Or if she had, the dentist in question was a spectacularly unskilled dental student.
“Maybe,” I said. “Depends on the date.”
“What you want? Head and pussy? Fifty for head and pussy.”
“What if I just want to talk?”
“You can call it talking if you want,” she said. “So I got a room right there, see? Got a lock and everything. Come on and pull in. You got fifty, right?”
I looked to where she was pointing, and saw the room she referred to. I also saw one of the burliest of the fellows nearby, watching us from the corner of his eye, smiling an entirely unpleasant smile. I had visions of going into the room with her, hearing the door unlock behind me just as I was opening up my notebook, and turning around to see Mr. Burly blocking the exit, asking if my pride required that he kick my ass up before I handed over my car keys and wallet.
“Actually,” I said, “I only have forty-nine dollars and seventy-two. Damn me for buying that Bubble Yum. See ya!”
The woman scowled. “Damn,” she said, “you don’t look like a crazy motherfucker.”
And I drove off. SG will, I’m sure, mock me when she hears the tale.
