Crude, Presumptuous And Brutally Vivid; But True

Speed Bump on the Yellowbrick Road

I got a disturbing email from a friend and I immediately climbed on my soap box. I've pasted it in below, deleting her name to protect the innocent. After rereading my last email to her---my answer---I decided that I must have sounded like The Great and Omnipompous Oz in that scene just before Toto pulls the curtain back. Did I go overboard?

(Hers is the red type with my response following):

This past weekend's main event: smoking speed.

Wow! Who is supplying you with this stuff? No, don't answer that. I don't know how secure these email lines are. Is it okay for you to be reading my answers on your employers' computer? There's software that allows employers to secretly receive a copy of all employee email. Well . . . . fuck them if they don't understand the creative process. I tried that crap. Loved it. That's why I hate it.

I had no idea.

I know. It's my drug of choice. Just reading the words "smoking speed" has started me chain-smoking, serious chain smoking and I had to rush out of my motel room to the bar next door for two quick cups of black coffee before I could finish reading your email because the words "smoking speed" have set off a muscle memory in my body that demands to be fed, demands stimulants and stimulation and shit I wish I had some crank or coke or Ritalin or something to jump start me this morning / afternoon and....shit I'm rambling.

Hell, I think I'm high.... five new cigarette butts in the ashtray since I started reading your email and I'm lighting the sixth....

Once at a friends house I had done one line...

One line? I could never stop at one line. Never.

....stayed up for a few hours of living room karate moves...

karate moves?

...but was asleep later that evening...no problems.

And then this past weekend, I discovered I had totally missed what the drug is all about. You mean to tell me that smoking it is better, less painful, and will keep you up for 2 or more days! I had no idea. And then there was the 3 hour love-making session with my hubby... now that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I could become addicted to this stuff...

Yes, it is. Plain and simple. You called it. A vicious circle. Fucking on the drug, then fucking to get the money to get more drug to fuck on the drug.

I can see how prostitutes could get into crank... you keep longer hours, and you might actually enjoy the work... in a matter of speaking...

Not "in a matter of speaking". Actually enjoy the work, period. Crave the work. Seek it. Accost late night street repair crews when nobody else was around. I have seen it.

Oh, and James... you don't have to warn me about this stuff... I know you feel compelled to, and I am hearing you already.

I hope so. Listen, X, I gotta be crude, presumptuous and brutally vivid at this point. I hope you can forgive me:

What makes you think you are smarter, stronger, more morally armed than the millions of other young women who have stumbled over this path? Because you're married?

I've seen a married woman reluctantly agree to give one of her husband's co-workers a blowjob in the restroom stalls of a Denny's restaurant (while her husband was on the way to meet us) in exchange for one hit. She was an assistant district attorney.

I've had a white South African young woman (one who was raised to think of 'negroes' as..... well, you know) crying in my arms because she just fucked "a big nigger" (her words) for drug money and her daddy would never forgive her if he ever found out.

She had an import business. Had. Past tense. Now she's just one of those hooker whores
people laugh about it locker rooms.

Where do you think porn stars come from? Some whore factory in Brazil? Do you realize how many of them are married? I know a housewife who flies in from Florida on the weekends to make "butter and egg money".

You're in The Twilight Zone, X, and the signpost up ahead says "Dick Money". You can have as much as you want. All you want. You've already passed "Pleasures With Pot" and "Great Fuck On Speed".

I know, I know. It was just a lark. Just fun with hubby. One time thing.... maybe. I'm spoiling your adventure. Don't be so negative, James. And here it comes, the lines I've heard sooo many times in the hooker preamble:

"Don't be so judgmental. It's my body. What I do with my body is my business, not my husband / boyfriend's. He should be happy enough that I love him (while I'm sucking some stranger's dick into my mouth.... just business.... nothing emotional). It's just business!!"

X, my friend, I have no doubt now, no reservations at all, that if I had a mind to (and I promise you that I do not!), that I could turn you out if you came to visit me. Think about that a moment. I am a fat, broke, middle-aged homeless toothless old man and I have the key to turning you to prostitution.

You could make $25,000 a month here, full service. $10,000 semi-full service easy. $5000 a month just for lap dancing, no sex, no total nudity. Dick money. Money to travel and see the world first class. Money for school. Money for the future...

Money to burn. And that's what always happens. These hookers on speed always overdose penniless and broke. I hope you hear me.

Prologue: This is an old email. The girl I was writing to died two years ago at the age of 27.

Tags: YouTube, viral video, truth in advertising, crude, presumptuous, brutally vivid, speed bump, yellowbrick road, climbed on my soap box, Oz, smoking speed, muscle memory, stimulants, speed freak, drug fiend, drug addict, crackhead, meth head, crystal momma, prostitutes, crank, sex and drugs, drug whores, porn stars, whore factory, dick money, hooker preamble, what I do with my body is my business, middleaged homeless man, James Jarvis