Hooking For Dummies
His back got all kinds of broken in
a fall from a tree. He was in a tree cutting service and though usually there
are ample safety measure for this sort of thing, somehow he still fell from way
too many feet and landed on a ground way to solid for the human frame. Mind you
he was strong as a bull for his age but muscles and will have nothing to do
with 200 lbs and gravity from 35 feet. Nada. So with his broken back in
traction and his oldest son busting his balls about “never planned for the
future,” and “should have left the fucking hewing nonsense years ago,” and “what
the hell are you gonna do?” like an angry mother, he dreamed of some hot number
blowing him till he came hard enough to kill him right then and there. Blown to
death via fellatio. That’s how a man dies. Not with some indignant son chiding
you about your career decisions and lack of this financial plan and that bimbo
of the month you spent way too much on.
“Are you even listening to me?”
He did recover but the hewing nonsense was obviously a no-go after a broken back. It didn’t have to be; he could have pulled some macho shit from nowhere like an aged, washed-up quarterback trying to come out of retirement (again) for one last super bowl run. Only the oaks and maples in the burbs didn’t carry that kind of glamour. So as he recuped he tried his damndest to do a little bit of planning for a career change or something like it. But he never was one for an office job; he’d probably been the oldest dude ever to go up a tree like a damn spider monkey for a j-o-b. Jesus was he strong and agile. The recuperating took some off the edges of his muscles but once he was up and moving it was coming back in wave of glorious wave of taut, toned meat just pining for resolution. Name another 55 year old with obliques like this. Sons a bitches got nothing on me.
Muscles: got ‘em. Income: …
Money needed to be made, bills needed to be paid. IOU’s were due and friends sighed when they opened their wallets for the umpteenth time. “Last one oleshevitz. I love ya but it doesn’t grow on trees. Oh sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. You know that.”
None taken. Especially after a few c notes.
So he did what any 55 year old, uneducated, man with oblique muscles and a huge dong would do: he prostituted.
Well, he planned on prostituting. He had no idea how to break into the…business. But what in the hell else was there?
The library was obviously not going to be a resource to help him become a male hooker. Hooking for Dummies? Prolly not. He thought about talking to some strippers he’d “befriended” over the years but as they flipped through the Rolodex of his mind he realized he owed them all money. Wasn’t that an omen of success as a male hooker though? How many dudes borrow money from strippers? Pew research didn’t run such numbers but it had to be rarefied air. He always borrowed after a romp and dammit if they didn’t always pull out a wad and throw him more than a few bones. He’d usually say something like “I could tell from your intro music that you were good people.”
Then get out.
He’d have to find a new club and some new stripper to befriend. He liked this sort of planning. Roth IRA’s, social security checks? No thanks. Gonna see what wisdom Trixie has down at Chikadees Gentlemen’s Club. As night rolled in, he entered the black light tinged, perfume sated, rock and roll infused den of Chikadees. It was early, poles barren, so the Trixies and the Tanyas were floor level with Johns and Johns. With a freshly “loaned” c note he ordered a Dewar’s on the rocks and with his eyes adjusting, scanned the clientele. And there, mixed in among the construction workers, divorced dads, and cops, was his son. His youngest son. He hadn’t seen him since he graduated college and left for grad school to study Theology at Duquesne or Duke or Dubuque. He couldn’t remember. His son caught his glance, Mona-Lisa smiled, and made his way around the bar. He looked damned strong.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said. “You are not becoming a hooker.”
“Are you even listening to me?”
He did recover but the hewing nonsense was obviously a no-go after a broken back. It didn’t have to be; he could have pulled some macho shit from nowhere like an aged, washed-up quarterback trying to come out of retirement (again) for one last super bowl run. Only the oaks and maples in the burbs didn’t carry that kind of glamour. So as he recuped he tried his damndest to do a little bit of planning for a career change or something like it. But he never was one for an office job; he’d probably been the oldest dude ever to go up a tree like a damn spider monkey for a j-o-b. Jesus was he strong and agile. The recuperating took some off the edges of his muscles but once he was up and moving it was coming back in wave of glorious wave of taut, toned meat just pining for resolution. Name another 55 year old with obliques like this. Sons a bitches got nothing on me.
Muscles: got ‘em. Income: …
Money needed to be made, bills needed to be paid. IOU’s were due and friends sighed when they opened their wallets for the umpteenth time. “Last one oleshevitz. I love ya but it doesn’t grow on trees. Oh sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. You know that.”
None taken. Especially after a few c notes.
So he did what any 55 year old, uneducated, man with oblique muscles and a huge dong would do: he prostituted.
Well, he planned on prostituting. He had no idea how to break into the…business. But what in the hell else was there?
The library was obviously not going to be a resource to help him become a male hooker. Hooking for Dummies? Prolly not. He thought about talking to some strippers he’d “befriended” over the years but as they flipped through the Rolodex of his mind he realized he owed them all money. Wasn’t that an omen of success as a male hooker though? How many dudes borrow money from strippers? Pew research didn’t run such numbers but it had to be rarefied air. He always borrowed after a romp and dammit if they didn’t always pull out a wad and throw him more than a few bones. He’d usually say something like “I could tell from your intro music that you were good people.”
Then get out.
He’d have to find a new club and some new stripper to befriend. He liked this sort of planning. Roth IRA’s, social security checks? No thanks. Gonna see what wisdom Trixie has down at Chikadees Gentlemen’s Club. As night rolled in, he entered the black light tinged, perfume sated, rock and roll infused den of Chikadees. It was early, poles barren, so the Trixies and the Tanyas were floor level with Johns and Johns. With a freshly “loaned” c note he ordered a Dewar’s on the rocks and with his eyes adjusting, scanned the clientele. And there, mixed in among the construction workers, divorced dads, and cops, was his son. His youngest son. He hadn’t seen him since he graduated college and left for grad school to study Theology at Duquesne or Duke or Dubuque. He couldn’t remember. His son caught his glance, Mona-Lisa smiled, and made his way around the bar. He looked damned strong.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said. “You are not becoming a hooker.”
No comments:
Post a Comment