Monday, February 14, 2011

Almost a Hooker


I once had a Sugar Daddy who I never fucked, and from that little tryst I learned that not having sex is the most powerful thing a woman can do. As a self-proclaimed sexophile it is with great pain that I make this admittance, but whatever. I know, I know you’re judging me and some of you will now find it too appalling to read on, but whatever to you too. Frankly, I was in a tight spot. It was the classic story of a little girl in a big world who desperately needed her rent paid. With no one to turn to, I reached for the phone number of some rich old white dude in the bottom of my thrift store purse. Mind you, this was one of my lowest points.

Before you completely divorce me and my blog, consider that I had exhausted all of my viable options. I thought long and hard about it. I wished there was another way. I even prayed. And if in the back of your mind you’re thinking “ask your parents for money,” I want you to go home and shoot your mother. I considered that this would weigh on my conscience for the rest of my life, or that I’d be going down a slippery slope that lead to prostitution and an addiction to crack and household cleaning products.

Then I thought about sex, competition, and power. Since the beginning of time women have had the opportunity to wield her sexual power for the things she needed. Delilah got over on Sampson, Cleopatra brought the whole world to conflict, and King Henry VIII changed whole religions just so he could bang the women he liked. While men have lorded political power over women, it is our sexual power that has historically made us equals and allowed us to compete. The introduction of a moral code that prohibits the use of this sexual power is man’s way of upping the competition making it more difficult to get ahead. But then I finally decided “fuck it” I really need this money.

Well, the way things transpired, he simply gave me the money and we didn’t end up banging. I was, obviously, relieved as I don’t think I could get it up for a man of his age. Maybe a Black man, because Black don’t crack, but this man had cracked. He had liver spots and a hanging chin. I was uncomfortable about my dealings with the old coot, and I immediately broke contact with him. However, he was so persistent that I let him take me out again. I would go on a date and he’d slide me some hundreds. All I had to do was talk in a sweet little voice, tell him he was the sweetest thing, and get offended whenever he said something even remotely sexual.

I know what you’re thinking. Impossible. You can’t get that kind of return from a guy that you’re not banging. Initially I thought the same thing, but whenever I rejected him he’d just apologize and say, “you’re such a lady”. I thought it incredible that some man would apologize for insinuating that he wanted to have sex with me. Especially when I’m at the age when guys ever insinuate is that they want to have sex with me.

In the back of my mind I knew that if I banged him, I would probably have a summer house on Miami beach or something. I mean he told me stories about his friends who fly their women all around the world and pay their tuition and shit. Dope shit that none of you guys could ever dream of doing for me. In the end I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t about the money or the sex. It was about control. I didn’t like that instead of being with a guy I actually liked, I was with him or that I had to amend my personality in order to appease him. I was always agreeable and docile, which was extremely tiresome, because as you can see I’m very fucking outspoken and my intelligence is about the most valuable thing I have.

We were dining one evening. I was talking about music and I said the word genre, to which he responded, “genre, now that’s a big word,” while giving me this Sean Conrey-esque scowl. He was dead serious. Genre? GENRE?! You fucking kidding me? I thought to myself. Of all the words I know, genre is one you’re gonna patronize me on. And then he thought it was “cute” that I was reading a book. So yeah trading sex for much needed cash is far less insulting than having a man undermine my brilliance.

What can I say? Your morals aren’t real unless they’re tested in the fire. You won’t really know what you are capable of until you are confronted with strong adversity. Like pro-lifers who get knocked up, or men with terminally ill wives who must all of a sudden consider shit like euthanasia. From this experience I learned that you never know when you’ll need a creepy old white man by your side to cover a meal, a bill, or a mortgage. I also learned that I don’t make a very good hooker. A better hooker would have been able to stomach a little patronizing for easy income. I hit the jackpot of all jackpots, the Richard Gere of a pretty woman’s fantasy and I blew it. So if any of you ladies need his number let me know. Perhaps you’ll make better use of it than I did.

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