Thirty - Jill Emerson [45]
He tucked me into a cab and pressed cab fare into my hand. We were halfway home before I opened my hand to see what he had given me, and it was a twenty. I hadn’t asked for money. I don’t think I gave the impression that money was what I was after. I’m sure I didn’t behave like a whore. Like a whore morally, but not like a whore in attitude, I don’t think. I behaved like someone who just enjoyed balling.
Did he think I was a whore? I would say no. Maybe he just wanted to give me a present, or maybe he felt he had to give me money so that he wouldn’t feel he had received more than he’d given, or something. I don’t know. For all I know he wanted to give me two bucks for the cab but he didn’t have anything smaller than a twenty.
Meanwhile I was wondering how I was going to get the cabdriver to change a twenty.
And then I remembered that I had other bills in my purse.
And then—how did this happen? I don’t know. But I opened my purse and put the twenty inside and closed the purse, and when we got to my place I leaned forward and told the cabbie that I didn’t have any money.
The meter read a dollar thirty-five, a dollar eighty-five, something like that. Under two dollars.
He said, “Oh, Jesus, lady, you’re breaking my back. Now, what kind of shit is it to take a cab and when you get there you tell the cabby you got no money?”
I said, “Can’t we work something out?”
He looked at me, getting the message.
He said, “Look, I don’t know about this.”
“Do you like to be Frenched?”
“Jesus, honey—”
“I’ll French you. How about it?”
“Where? In the fuckin’ cab? Sure, and we all wind up in jail. I don’t need it.”
“Oh.”
“How about your place?”
“My husband’s home.”
“You got a husband?”
“But I’d rather suck your cock than ask him for two dollars. In fact I want to suck your cock.”
“Jesus Christ.”
He drove to the West Side warehouse district below the Village. All the way there I kept getting him hot with words. He parked the car between a couple of huge empty trucks. I got in the front seat and went down on him.
His penis was long and thick, the vein very prominent. He wasn’t circumcised. He had an odd generally unclean smell. I felt odd myself, and generally unclean.
He didn’t take long. Nor did he show tremendous enthusiasm. He sat there, behind the wheel, and he shuddered lightly as he popped, and then he sank back in his seat for a moment or two, getting his breath, and then he tucked himself in and zipped himself up. I would have done that for him if he’d asked.
He said, “You want to open the door so you can spit it out on the street.”
“Never mind.”
“Huh?”
“I swallowed it.”
“You’re some crazy broad.”
“Why, is it fattening?”
“You really got a husband?”
“Yes, and I’m late. Why don’t you drive me back to my place?”
“Oh, sure.” He started the motor. “Maybe you ought to get in back. Oh, the hell with it, I’m leaving the flag up anyway. The hell with it, they won’t stop me around here. The hell with them and you stay right where you are.”
“Thanks.”
And, as we neared the apartment, “You do that to your husband?”
“Do what?”
“You know. Like what you did to me?”
“You mean suck his cock?”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean all right.”
“Oh.”
“Well, do you?”
“No. He had it shot off in the war.”
“No shit.”
“It was a tragedy.”
“You’re just giving me a lot of crap.”
“Why would I do that?”
I think there was even more to this inane conversation, but I see no reason either to remember it or to record it. I got out of the cab and went into my apartment and kept bathing and gargling. Why? Because I was disgusting? Neither soap nor mouthwash would change this.
My first two experiences in prostitution, one for twenty dollars, one for two.
To tell you the truth, with the flipness held in abeyance, and with all the cool cooled down, I am, frankly, a little bit worried about me.
June 27
Three days in a row without balling anybody. I’ve even started to look for a job!
Not that I expect to find one. Or that I’m positive I want one. But it is good play