Tags: callgirls, escort agency, callgirl waiting area, hooker, hookers, prostitute, prostitutes, prostitution, pimp, callgirl driver, gypsy cab, whore, whores, sex worker, sex workers, smoking cigarettes on the roof, city lights, booker, booking agent, callgirl dispatcher, chief pimp, Thomas Guide, gang territory, stripper, strippers, sex for money, hoopdee, cancelation fee, cut of the action, chased down the street naked, factotum, urban tales, jarvis
There had been no calls
all night long last night
at the Hungarian escort agency
where I work
as a driver.
Danette,
the callgirl I drive,
sat on a couch
in the escort agency
callgirl-in-waiting area,
working on her toes (sanding and painting)
and on fill-in crossword puzzles.
I smoked cigarettes on the roof
and watched the city lights.
From 8:30 p.m. until 3:30 a.m. there was nothing.
Then the booker comes out of her office
with an ify call she just took,
in desperation,
for only $150.
It sounds like a white guy, she says.
The owner/manager,
chief pimp and bottlewasher
looks up the address in the Thomas Guide
and says, "No way,
this is gang territory the guy lives in.
No white guy lives there," he said.
The booker,
who gets ten percent commission
off completed calls,
says the guy sounded pretty white.
So the owner announces
to the five strippers and their drivers in the foyer
who have been waiting all night
to make money,
and had made none in 7 hours,
that the call was up for grabs.
Everybody took one look
at the address
and turned it down.
I got to thinking,
hmmm, a white guy
in a bad neighborhood.
I'm a white guy
in a bad neighborhood.
Why not?
So I talked Danette into taking the call,
wondering if I was going to have to
shoot my way IN,
OUT
or both.
We pulled up to the address
on the dark, tattered street
in my noisy, sputtering,
caCHUNKA chunk chunking
hoopdeecar.
I turned off the engine.
All was dark and quiet,
the kind of quiet you hear
just before the gunshots.
A man walked right up
to Danette's window
and handed her $60.
An actual white man.
In chollo territory.
Amazing.
"I just can't do this," he said.
The usual cancellation fee is $100,
but Danette was happy enough
not to have been shot
or chased down the street
naked again,
happy enough
to just get the hell outta there
in a hurry,
so I didn't have to do the usual squeeze,
to squeeze him for the other $40
like I've had to do at other places,
in other times,
under meaner circumstances.
So I made $20 last night;
my cut of the action.
From deep, deep in the cotton-pickin' red clay'd piney woods o' east Texas, I bring you the tales of my sister Bethzilla, hideous freakin' white trash welfare-cheatin' pill-popping, bowl-smoking, vodka-swilling redneck swamp thing what done crawled up out of the danged boggy bottoms of Uncertain, Texas and also of Momma, a transplanted, dirt-floored, rice paddy, hand-raised Cajun girl from the south Texas depression era. Take a look see. Go ahead, lookee.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
MY CUT OF THE ACTION
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callgirls
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