Marquisdejolie On Video: callgirls

Showing posts with label callgirls. Show all posts

Friday, January 27, 2012

Reading Gemini

Nothing new here. Same old random brutal violence, stupidity and drunken angst. And then I got out of bed, wiped some magazine cologne across my chest in lieu of a shower, drove out to 1120 Catalina Ave and took an envelope of cash from under number 8's doormat.

Then I drove out to Sherman Oaks, Ca. to pick up my new girl: Tori from Detroit. She and her boyfriend are doing the cheap motel circut, having been homeless three months. When they can't afford a room, they sleep in thier stolen UHaul truck. I parked next to the Uhaul and waited for Tori to curl her hair using telephone cord and the heat setting on the motel air conditioner.

While I was waiting, I decided to check the motel rates to see if I could get a better deal than the one I have at The Patio Inn. I stepped into the motel office and asked the man behind the bullet-proof glass how much the weekly rates were.

"You have to move out after one dollar," was his reply, spoken with a thick Indian or Pakistani accent. I asked again, thinking I had misheard. He replied the same again, thinking I was deaf or stupid. Sigh. Back to my car.

Tori is a skinny 23 year-old blonde, blue eyed wunderkind whose chatterbox personality aligns perfectly with everthing she's ever read about her Pisces attributes: psychic, spiritual and disorganized. Her dad is Navy retired and she was the baby of the family. Her turn ons are...

(just kidding)

I drove her to customer (john) Max the movie producer in secluded, rustic Topanga Canyon, then to a john in a crowded little squeezebox apartment in Santa Monica behind O'Brian's Irish Bar (which reignited my Russian angst as O'Brian's is directly across from a place Tatyana used to drag me to when we weren't chasing customers, a high priced dress shop called the Armani Exchange).

I know how long I am carrying a torch for any girl by how many days, weeks, or months I continue to read her horoscope after reading mine. While Tori was in the squeezebox, I picked up a free copy of the L.A. Reader and read Gemini after Pisces.

Then I drove Tori out to the rich side of Pepperdine University and napped in the driveway the hour Tori was 'servicing' some professor. Back to Tori's Sherman Oaks motel, then a quick run to Westwood to drop off Tori's agency fees.

Same old same old. Same old random brutal violence, stupidity and drunken angst. How about you?

Tags: drunks, callgirls, whores, prostitutes, hookers, sex workers, escort agency, random brutal drunken viloence, Sherman Oaks, Detroit, cheap motel circut, homeless, living in a Uhaul, The Patio Inn, Pisces, Gemini, Topanga Canyon, Santa Monica, O'Brian's Irish Bar, Armani Exchange, L.A. Reader, Pepperdine University, Westwood, funny videos, James Jarvis

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Sore Feet, Sore Heads And It's Still Raining Jobs

Every difficulty slurred over will be a ghost to disturb your repose later on.
---Frédéric Chopin

I did eight hours of Labor Ready warehouse work today for Aaron Art Supplies. Add seven hours of waiting around the labor hall to get the job and I've had a long day. My feet are killing me, but my long dry spell of unemployment is suddenly over for some reason --- it's raining jobs and I don't know why --- so I'd better make hay while the sun shines, sore feet or no.

Yesterday I spent three hours at my parttime job at the Arco scrubbing down the 14 gas pumps there. I'm catching up on all the exercise I never attempted over the last six years. My arms, legs and heart are holding up under all the strain. It's my damned feet that are slowing me down.

It was supposed to be a 4 hour gig today of setting up display racks for a new art supplies store on Rosecrans, but the Aaron's supervisor picked the five hardest working? best? most industrious? least smelly? workers for another 4 hours.

I cursed my small town work ethic and endured the four more hours of intense foot pain. It was a twenty-five man crew that started the day out, but the Labor Ready crack heads and winos walked off the job after two hours or so. We were down to ten or eleven men by lunch time.

I called Mr. Lee at Scaife Protection Services this morning to tell him I had decided not to pursue employment with his (dubiously intrusive and unethical) company. I thought it was the correct thing to do. I tried to fax him an apologetic letter yesterday, but his fax machine wasn't working.

I thought he would at least appreciate me letting him know, but the sonovabitch started lecturing me about proper procedure, telling me I should've said something at the interview, scolding me as if I was already his work slave, berating me as if I had stolen his lunch . . . on and on and on . . . and I just held my temper and thanked him off the phone.

There's something wrong with that company. Everybody there smells of old socks and lost dreams. I was very proud of myself for not telling him to go fuck himself, his mother and his dog. He has too much personal information about me from my job application or I would've.

Danette, the second to the last call girl I ever drove, called this morning out of the blue. She wanted to know if I would be available to drive her if she could get on somewhere again. She'd lost her car to the repo men and her latest driver/boyfriend has run off.

I said 'sure', but I doubt if any escort agency will hire her on. She's already dabbled in the next step for call girls: street walking. It might not be too long before she's standing in front of my crack motel with the other crack hoes. Too bad. She was more honest than most of the girls I drove.

Tags: raining jobs, soreheads, viral video, revenue-sharing, Chopin, Labor Ready, day labor hall, Aaron Art Supplies, Arco, small town work ethic, crackheads, winos, old socks and lost dreams, callgirl, escort agency, streetwalker, sex worker, crack hoes, crack motel, James Jarvis, pimp

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Interview Of A Bad Actor

People eating at a soup kitchen. Montreal, Canada

Image via Wikipedia

by James Jarvis

Dec 6, 2001

Q: What is your name?

A: I use a lot of different names: Sees The Stars, Jolie Blond, A#1, Chollo Jook, White Rhino, Crusty, Ironweed, stuff like that.

Q: What do you do for a living?

A: I am a part-time beer humper at a gas station.

Q: And that pays the bills?

A: Some of them.

Q: How do you eat?

A: I get stuff from various food banks and soup kitchens.

Q: Where do you live?

A: In a crack motel in El Camino Village, south of Los Angeles.

Q: How do you pay rent?

A: I have an insane librarian/movie extra roommate who chips in and then there's the V.A. and the D.O.D.

Q: The Veterans Administration helps you?

A: As little as they can.

Q: Where did you live before the crack motel?

A: In my car and under a bridge.

Q: And before that?

A: In a Russian Dog House. A mastiff paid the rent. His name was Caesar.

Q: And before that?

A: On the floor of a 10x10 office above The Beverly Connection parking lot.

Q: And before that?

A: In various parks and parking lots.

Q: You weren't working?

A: No, I was working as a gypsy cabby. Most interesting job I've had since I moved to California from Texas.

Q: What'd you do in Texas?

A: I was a civil service B-52 aircraft mechanic.

Q: You couldn't find any B-52 work in Los Angeles?

A: No. They stopped making them.

Q: What other work have you done in Los Angeles?

A: I rode the back of a garbage truck once. Squeezed a few bags of Starbucks caramels. Lots of day labor stuff and movie extra work.

Q: What are your future goals? Where do you see yourself five years from now?

A: Riding a boxcar on a freight train to Santa Fe.

Q: Would you be willing to accept menial labor?

A: It's ALL menial to me.

Tags: menial, labor, interview, bum, Chollo Jook, Ironweed, Sees The Stars, Jolie Blond, Crusty The Stockboy, White Rhino, The Fat Man, vagient, valgus, varietist, ventose, verbigerator, vetanda, hobo, tramp, vagrant, vagabond, indigent, transient, mumblecrust, crack motel, soup kitchens, food bank, missions, beer humper, U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, V.A., veterans administration, homeless veteran, The Beverly Connection, gypsy cab, call girl, callgirls, hookers, prostitutes, day labor, Santa Fe

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Working For Chocolate Milk & Coleslaw

There is no education like adversity.---Benjamin Disraeli

In his 1949 Pulitzer Prize acceptance speech, Faulkner said that the job of writers was to write about Love, Honor, Pity, Pride, Compassion and Sacrifice. I don't know where to put stacking, hefting, unstacking, pulling and restacking cases of 40 ounce Magnums at an Arco gas station on that list of six. Apparently Faulkner never stocked beer freezers for a living like I do.

There is a certain Zen meditativeness to it. I like it. I can feel my neck and shoulder muscles rebuilding after years of atrophy. More importantly, I can feel the muscles in my fingers plumping out like ballpark franks. That'll be important when I want to hang on to those iron ladder rungs on the freight cars next year.

Felicia at Elite Escorts called me last night. Said she had a new girl for me. I spent the last of my laundry quarters gassing up the car just in case a call DID come in. I was 'on call' until 4:30 in the morning. No calls. Big surprise. Felicia must be new in the biz. Johns have a harder time sneaking away from their families around the holidays.

After Arco today, I was paid $15, chocolate milk and two cups of KFC coleslaw for picking up Kathy's kid at school. Cool. Now I won't have to smoke those nasty-ass cheap cigarettes for a couple of days. Life is good.

Tags: Zen, Pulitzer, love, honor, pity, pride, compassion, sacrifice, writers, 40 ouncers, magnums, escort agency, zefrank, jarvis, kevin smith, clerks, bush, culture, stockboy, crusty, pimp, pimping, callgirls, gas station, Russian, gypsy, valley girl, Dragon Lady, one-eyed Rob, flesh-pedaling, pandering, gypsy, cab, taxi, escort agency, techno-pop, Ukranian, moonstruck, slacker, amore, Coyote, hookers, prostitutes, trugabelly, zefrank, gundygut, groaker, jarvis, lubbard, macrogaster, loafer, idler, snool, ripesuck, snurt,

Monday, March 14, 2011

You Can't Do Anthing To Me That The City of Los Angeles Hasn't Already Tried

Cover of "Hollywoodland (Combo HD DVD and...

Cover via Amazon
by James Jarvis

from Bring Me Your Love

Driving call girls around Los Angeles every night is not as vulgar or as glamorous as I would have expected. And being holed up in my mid-Wilshire apartment waiting for a 400-pound Samoan hit man from New York to come kick down my door and kill me is not as scary as I thought it would be, either.

I can't quite make up my mind if I should be scared or not. My friends are nervous. They're a little uneasy about dropping by my apartment like they used to before I told them about the 4 a.m. phone calls and the big "Walk Away" meeting at the Nikko Hotel in Beverly Hills.

One friend I was giving a ride to recently (the woman in white, who will be mentioned throughout my book, Bring Me Your Love) had to grin and bear it when we were being chased at high speeds through an otherwise quiet valley neighborhood by one of the Dragon Lady's taxi mafia thugs. If you're into high speed chases, just ask me for a lift somewhere.

My friends have suggested I move somewhere safer, like Arizona maybe or Beirut . But I have lived in Los Angeles over nine years now. I have been mugged. My children have been mugged. We were here for the riots and earthquakes and mudslides and droughts. We were here for the fires and floods, medfly and frog plagues.

Some idiot amateur carjacker tried to separate me from my 20 year-old Buick in a McDonald's parking lot once and a gang of junior high school thugs tried to jack me up in front of the McDonald's on Hollywood Boulevard a few years ago. The only things that scare me these days are my landlord and the L.A.P.D. And maybe fast food parking lots.

I was fired from my job as an escort driver after 18 months of good and faithful, sometimes terror-ridden service. The asian Dragon Lady madam who ran the escort service called me at home one March evening and told me she couldn't work with me anymore because she heard rumors I had unsuccessfully tried to break one of her rules.

That decision would cost her more than she could have imagined. A dog will take a lot of beatings from it's master, but if she tries to starve it, it'll turn on her with a vengeance. Jerry, the 400-pound Samoan, has been retained by my ex-employer to convince me to stay fired, to keep my mouth shut and to just walk away from a lifestyle that both fascinated and repelled me. Come and get some, Jerry.

I feel like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding Mercedes Benz. How did I, a middle-aged, overweight grandfather computer nerd, end up in a $250 a day Manhattan hotel room with two stoned 20 year-old valley girls pouring over 37 pages of New York yellow page escort ads looking for a clue to the whereabouts of a 400 pound Samoan enforcer? I'm coming for you, Jerry.

How did I, a $75 an hour computer prepress service bureau consultant, disabled veteran and college educated marketing manager come to be driving around L.A. in a car full of prophylactics, women's underwear, hotel stationery and a dent on the hood of my car where a disgruntled, naked john landed in the middle of December?

How did I end up in your next door neighbor's driveway at 3 in the morning chain-smoking generic mystery menthols while listening to Stephen King books on tape, trying to drown out the sounds of sex and other debaucheries coming from your neighbor's open bedroom window?

You don't just run down to the nearest employment office to get a job as a call girl delivery boy. There IS a place down in Orange County that will refer your name to those LA XPRESS sex workers, but most of the drivers I met were recruited by friends, the taxicab mafia or the call girls themselves.

I blame my involvement in the sex worker industry on one seemingly harmless association I made at my apartment complex. Little did I know then that organized crime, like everything else in L.A., is networking, networking, networking.

Tags: Jerry, Samoan hitman, Dragon Lady, callgirls, hookers, prostitutes, escorts, factotum, jarvis, viral video, marquisdejolie, Hollywood, Hollywoodland, The Burning Man, New York, taxi mafia, high-speed chase, movieland, The Valley

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Meeting A Lon Chaney Lookalike In The Miracle Mile's Ft. Crookside

Image via Wikipedia

by James Jarvis

from Bring Me Your Love

The apartment complex I lived was is a typical gated, security patrolled monstrosity nestled between crack neighborhoods to the south and west and Koreatown to the east. North of Ft. Crookside are the fancy cheese eaters of Park LaBrea and then the mean streets of Hollywood. On a clear day, I can almost see the Hollywood sign from my bedroom window. The heated swimming pool at Ft. Crookside Country Club Apartments is the center of social activity since the cheap landlord shut down the recreation room ten years ago.

Due to the close proximity to Hollywood, there are a lot of entertainment industry types living at Ft. Crookside. Film editors, producers, screenwriters, agents, location scouts, personal assistants, property grips, pimps, drug dealers, strawberries, call girls, graphic artists, movie extras and all sorts movie industry types live at Crookside.

Spontaneous poolside potluck barbeque parties used to just happen on hot July afternoons at Crookside before management shut them down with eviction threats a few years ago.

It was at one of these tenant organized parties that I met the freewheeling ex-acid-head surfing golfer who sponsored me into the sex worker chauffeur business.

There he was at the poolside barbeque, leaning over one of our hapless bikini-clad neighbors like Lon Chaney sneaking up on the sleeping maiden, barbeque sauce streaked from his chin to his belly button, spittle oozing from the left corner of his mouth. There was a strange mixture of hometown charm and feral lust oozing from his pores and he had the childlike grace of what the Dragon Lady would later call "an innocent soul".

"This guy looks interesting," I thought, so I walked right up and introduced myself. It was the beginning of a long and arduous friendship, one which inducted me into the call girl delivery service and one which would be right there in the thick of it when things turned carnivorous between me and the Dragon Lady.

His name is Lynnie and he stood alongside me at the Nikko summit conference, nervously supporting my stand against the 400-pound Samoan goon like Knucklehead Smith standing behind that other dummy, Jerry Mahoney. I'm proud to call him 'friend.'

Tags: film editors, producers, screenwriters, agents, location scouts, personal assistants, property grips, pimps, drug dealers, strawberries, callgirls, escorts, personal trainers, massage therapists, life coaches, spiritualists, pet psychiatrists, graphic artists, movie extras, waiters, factotum, viral video, jarvis, marquisdejolie, Knucklehead Smith, industry types, bodyguards, Crookside, barbecue parties, acid heads, Lynnie The Leach, evil landlord, crap distributors

Monday, March 07, 2011

Six More Hours in Arconia

by James Jarvis

from My Arcology

Nov 10, 2001

Six hours on my feet for the Arconians tonight. Got a sudden nostalgia for the stone crazy halcyon days of pimping my fast Lumina all night, every night for The Dragon Lady, One-Eyed Rob, The Midget, The Hungarians, the Bulgarians and every other flesh-peddling "arian" of the twisted Los Angeles nights.

I kinda miss Motel Du Jour, Peekaboo Police, Perverts On Parade, Taxicab Mafia Tag, Racecar Randy, Liar's Poker and all the other games of the wicked. I have to admit, I kinda miss young women peeing, puking and passing out in my car. I kinda miss the stalking, gawking and mad midnight missions . . . the wild west outlaw nature of the work . . . the adrenaline rushes. It was like seeing a different car crash every night. Hell, it was like being in a different car crash every night.

I miss bruising my eardrums with blasting-loud techno-pop as me and The Russian blew past traffic on the 101. I miss Ukrainians throwing me around Super Eight Motel rooms and running naked on the 2 a.m. beaches with a whirling, twirling moonstruck gypsy woman.

I miss pulling leopard skin-clad women out of Santa Monica Park trees. I miss chaperoning pothead valley girls to New York City and bouncing around inside my car waiting for the after hours clubs to open at 6 a.m.

Okay, I'll admit it. I miss the international sex, too. French, British, Check, Korean, Russian, Japanese, Filipino, South African, Hungarian, Australian, Haitian, Spanish, Puerto Rican, German, and Italian sex (nobody you know). That was kinda interesting.

Six more hours in Arconia tomorrow.

Tags: arconians, halcyon days of pimping, The Dragon Lady, flesh pedaling, call girls, driving hookers, driving callgirls, mote du jour, perverts on parade, taxicab mafia, liars poker, international sex, marquisdejolie, life in lalaland, hollywood

Monday, February 28, 2011

Crusty Goes To The Movies

by James Jarvis

from My Arcology

Came back from an average day at the Arco tonight, plopped down into my broken crack motel barcolounger, kicked off my shoes and discovered something profound: my feet smell like boiling cabbage.

It's time to burn those socks and buy this year's pair. My Sears sneakers, brand name Winner, are getting kinda ripe and raggedy, too. I'd better put in some overtime so I can afford them.

Date with The Russian last night. We saw "Brotherhood of the Wolf" at the Galaxy Five on the boulevard (Hollywood Blvd). French movie. English subtitles. 1800s French/Indian martial arts movie. I liked half of it. Maybe three quarters. Gave me the wunderlust for bog stompin'. Must be my Caddo Lake back swamp roots.

Last night when The Russian and I were watching "Brotherhood of the Wolf", there was a female character in the movie that kept popping up, attacking men with knives, grabbing men's asses, whirling, twirling and writhing in epileptic seizures. At one point The Russian and I turned to each other and at the same moment we said, "The Gypsy! It's The Gypsy!" (one of the girls I used to drive) The movie character even looks like her, too. Eva, wherever you are, our thoughts are on you.

Every time I'm with The Russian, I hear that old rock song "Refugee" in my head. Only instead of "You don't have to live like a refugee," I hear "You don't have to live like a Russian spy." She does that: lives like a Russian spy. When I went to pick her up at her house at the appointed time, a white Mercedes was just dropping her off. Out of the Mercedes, into the Creepmobile. We see a movie, grab a couple of lattes afterward at The Coffee Bean and a Mexican girl in a 70's gunboat Cadillac picks her up at The Coffee Bean. No telling how many more car switches there will be for The Russian tonight.

The Russian says I'm a mean old bastard. Or rather, she says I am STILL a mean old bastard. I think she means it in a "when are you going to mend your ways?" way. I tell her I may be a mean old bastard, but I'm HER mean old bastard. The manager of the Arco, Kimmee, says I'm a mean old bastard, too. I prefer to think of myself as "crusty".

Tags: Hollywood Boulevard, the boulevard, going out to the movies, Russian spy, living like a refugee, South Central tales

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Departed From Wonderland

(click pic)

The dark today
leads into light tomorrow,
There is no endless joy,
and yet no endless sorrow.
---Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Ranger Mike loaned me a DVD he'd rented last night and me and my homeless attorney sat up in my room watching it before I went to work. The movie was "Wonderland", about what happened to John Holmes after the drugs made him no good for the porn industry anymore.

The movie hinges around events which occurred in the Hollywood Hills on Wonderland Drive. I know Wonderland Drive. It's a short street. I spent a lot of time up on Wonderland Drive when I was a gypsy cabbie, delivering call girls there.

I probably delivered several girls to that Wonderland Drive house depicted in the movie. It looked familiar, but then, I probably delivered girls to just about every other house on Wonderland Drive. If I didn't deliver girls there, I surely parked in front of that house waiting on a girl at a nearby house. Little did I know then that the house I was parked in front of at two or three or four in the morning was infamous.

I probably parked in front of the Sharon Tate Helter Skelter house where Charlie Manson had his dirty work done, too. That house is just a little further up the hills. The coyotes were bad up there.

Many a night I sat in the dark up there in the middle of the night listening to them scream like women being murdered, hoping that no one was actually being murdered in the vacinty, hoping that no police patrol car would come cruising by and see me loitering suspiciously like a burglar or a helter skeltered psycho in a neighborhood in which I obviously didn't belong.

Those were scary times and I'm glad I've come down out of the hills.

Tags: Wonderland, John Holmes, Ranger Mike, my homeless attorney, U.S. Vets, veterans shelter, homeless shelter, Wonderland Drive, Hollywood Hills, gypsy cab, taxicab confessions, factotum, jarvis, marquisdejolie, callgirls, escort agency, hookers, escorts, Sharon Tate, Helter Skelter, Charles Manson, viral video, Hollywoodland, dead hookers

Friday, May 08, 2009

Back To Skinny Days Under Hot Bridges

Just as I start getting attached to my weekly rate motel and it's direct dial phone system suitable for email, it's time to leave. I'm out of motel money. I paid for today (after the "manager" rang and rang and rang my room and pounded on my door), but if I don't get any work tonight, it's back to the Culver City bridges.

In defense of the "manager" here, I have found that the job of cheap motel managers, the MAIN job, is not to check people in. Any whiskey-soaked ex-convict could exchange cash for a key. No, the main skill required here is to be able to kick people out.

Directly across the six lane street (Crenshaw) from the Motel Marquis is a small, steepled church called the "Giving Faith Fellowship" church. Pushed up against that building is Momo's Bar. Attached to Momo's is the "Liquor and Keg" liquor store. On the other side is a Vietnamese dentist and right next to the motel is a large, weedy vacant lot where longhaul truckers park and crackheads dispose of thier homemade crack pipes constructed out of Tampax tubes.

Enough local color.

I'm trying to get work. I took Talia, one of my unemployed callgirl friends, to an escort agency yesterday so she could apply for work. The agency she used to work for was overcharging her, so she quit and went out and bought a car (buying things motivates her--callgirls are notoriously lazy unless they've got big bills to pay).

The fat, snotty Asian kid behind the desk at the agency in Torrance, Ca yesterday only had the Orange County day shift open. Fuck that. Dayshift Orange County customers are notoriously cheap. Mostly because they're usually still sober.

So I called in to Pacific Coast, a run down Westwood agency run by a lackadaisical midget named Duke, who's only claim to fame was his day job is as a stand-in for the short kid in "Married With Children".

Pacific Coast has some of the ugliest bitches in town, but I like the dispatch girl, Sherrie. Talia and I checked in, but there were no (customer) calls last night.

I put an ad in the L.A. Xpress offering my services as a callgirl driver, but the ad won't come out until next week. Fuck me.

I think Talia bought the car so she could drive herself to calls and cut me out of the loop. Fuck me.

I think the reason Pacific Coast didn't have any work for me is because The Russian has been there bad-mouthing me (a common response to rejection... I told that crazy whore I couldn't drive her out-of-control ass no more). Fuck me.

Patricia (the big bosomed medieval jouster) is out on the street and working the clubs and Valley Girl Rita took her cokehead boyfriend back in. He'll drive her. Fuck me.

Jade's been cancelled so often at the door because of her rotten black teeth that the post office should just tattoo her forehead and Tia has run out of men who want to be spanked and humiliated. Fuck me. (Metaphorically speaking).

Looks like I won't find any work schlepping hookers to their appointments this week, so it's back to skinny days under hot bridges.