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Who Are All These People And What Do They Want?
It's a strange thing to be driving up the winding 110 to Pasadena talking to the girl sitting next to you about how hard it is in L.A. to meet people; good people, real people, people you might want to date, and then realize that this girl , who is complaining about not being able to find a boyfriend capable of committing to the relationship, this girl gets naked in front of deranged strangers all night long, three or four times a week, and pees on some of them.
Hookers don't climb out of coffins every evening at dusk to ply their trade (except for that Redondo Beach girl I drove). They actually have lives, getting frustrated at the DMV just like you and me.
They have boyfriends, husbands and children and are as annoyed by illegal early morning leafblowers as the rest of us. They pay bills, go on shopping sprees, put full-sized pool tables in the spare bedroom and keep a safety deposit box stuffed
with $30,000 in $20 bills just like the rest of us.
I found out that L.A. hookers come in a wide variety of flavors. The girls tell me these men want to be sucked, fucked, jerked off, massaged, spanked, deflowered, humiliated, empowered, seduced, slapped and peed on.
They want to watch. They want to play. They want someone to listen to their fantasies and they're (almost) always willing to pay. They want to take pictures or have banana cream pie smeared into their butts. They want outdoor sex and to have
their friends secretly watch from another room. They want to do it in fast food kitchens, cigar smoking lounges, subterreanean parking garages, on barroom pool tables and in thier living rooms with the curtains wide open.
I saw naked at night men who wouldn't deign to see me by appointment in the daytime. I talked to a few of them on the phone, listened outside bedroom windows to their orgasmic groans, was invited in to a few bachelor parties, drove several of
them to the nearest ATM, gave them fair rates exchanging their foreign currencies and kicked a few of their doors down.
I came skidding into some of their driveways so often that I felt like I knew the customers personally. Even though I didn't get to meet most of them face to face, I knew which ones insisted on girls with red fingernails or good pedicures. I knew which ones prefered blondes and which ones were going to pay the entire fee in $1 bills and rolled-up nickles.
Third hand as it was, I got to know the regular customers well enough to give them pet nicknames.
"Uh oh, we're going to The Midnight Ploughboy," I'd warn my girl, "Did you bring the toys?" or
"Hey! We got Dinner With Andre," I'd tell a new girl about a customer who didn't want sex, just a flashy trophy girl to be seen with at some swanky restaraunt in Santa Monica.
Mountain Man Mark was a good customer. Neil The Squeel was not. Stinky was cheap and Jake-The-Fat-Man was hard work. Steve The Peev was a little weird even for Hollywood and Deadeye Dave was just plain spooky. Rico on Pico thought the whole world was watching him and Tiny Tim in Westwood tried to keep the girls all night for free by telling new girls there were cops in the hallway of his skyrise condo waiting to snatch them.
And I got to meet other interesting characters of the night: leering cops, lecherous gate guards, rabid security patrolmen, greedy hotel valet clerks, admiring convenience store clerks, other call girl drivers, the taxi mafia, recording studio technicians, lots of gas station con men, a bungling burglar and a loan shark collecttion agent.
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