Damn Working Class Lesbian Working Girl Hookers
It was about a year ago, the second time I’d gone out nightclubbing with Aster. It was midweek and we’d just been wandering around the casino – terrorising cougars at the slot machines, asking if they’d be my sugar mama.
Wandering through the city, we ducked into e55. It’s a small basement lounge bar on Elizabeth Street. We grabbed a beer, sat down, and said nothing.
“Spectator mode,” said Aster.
“Yep… Better do something.”
Aster took a sip of beer. I took a sip of beer.
Pause.
I turned to my right and said to the girls in the corner: “Hey, I just got into Melbourne – do you know where I can go for some adventures?”
“Ah… There’s a nice art gallery near Federation Square, and -”
“No no no. I mean adventures – like fighting dragons, rescuing maidens. Do you know where I can do any of that stuff?”
“Ah… … … hahaha. Actually we’re planning some adventures. We’re going to Cambodia in August.”
“Oh really?” said Aster “I just came in from there about a month ago.” And he filled them in on the travel hotspots. There’s some place in Cambodia where you can see ten thousand jars that are about a thousand years old. Not sure what you do when you get there though.
The blonde was Anita, the dark one Celeste. Celeste was full-figured and Anite was slim. I talked to Celeste.
“I need to go to the ladies’ room,” said Celeste.
“Cool,” I said.
When she came back, I twirled her around, and kissed her.
“No…” she said “I don’t kiss boys!”
“You just did,” I said, and kissed her again.
“You can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m very sensitive. And I don’t know you. I don’t trust boys – they’re mean!”
“Ah you’ll get over it. Now what’s your phone number?”
I thought, this girl is totally a lesbian and I’ve converted her. What a player I am. Ego-stroke deluxe.
I called her about a week later. She pressed answer on the phone, but she didn’t answer. She put the phone in her lap.
All I heard was: “So sir, do you use public transport more on weekends or weekdays?”
And then: “And do you use it mainly in the morning or in the evening?” It sounded like it was the last question.
“And do you have a driver’s licence sir?” It really sounded like it was the last question.
“So do you drive all over Melbourne or mostly just in your suburb?” Okay…
I waited on the line for about five minutes, genuinely believing that every question was going to be the last one. I guess that’s how she got her customers to stay on the line so long. I hung up.
The next time I called her, she really answered her phone. I met up with her a few days later. We went for a few drinks on a Sunday afternoon.
“I’ll buy you a drink. What do you want?” I asked her.
“Just get me water with no ice, with a lemon twist – actually it’s easier if I order it.”
“Cool. While you’re up you can get me a pot of Carlton.”
She didn’t drink at all. Said she was a reformed alcoholic.
Twenty minutes later I went to kiss her. “Hey! I told you I don’t kiss boys.” This again. Geez.
Eventually she did kiss a boy, even passionately grabbing me. She even liked it. But we got to the end of my street and I tried to drag her to my place. No dice. She left.
The next time I saw her, I met with her and her friends for drinks. Except she didn’t drink. When Aster joined us he swore she was drunk. But no, she was just crazy.
Her friend Raj was a cool guy, funny motherfucker. He started telling us a story about some guy that he’d picked up. Went back to his place, got it on. But when the guy had blown his load, he told Raj to get out.
“Seriously – who does that? Where is the ettiquette?”
“I do that!” exclaimed Celeste. “I bring guys home and then as soon as I come I’m like ‘Okay – get off. Get your pants on, I’m calling you a taxi!’” and she laughed about it. I didn’t like it. I thought she was two-faced – telling me she didn’t kiss boys, then telling me she fucked them all the time. I didn’t see her again after that.
Then months later I posted a link on Facebook to a story on Trouble. She commented on it, saying how much she liked it. That was unexpected. But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed oddly appropriate.
I logged in tonight and saw her online.
“hey,” I typed.
“hey! wasn’t expecting to hear from you”
“well i saw that comment you left the other day and thought i’d say hi. what have you been up to”
“busy busy. remember anita?”
“of course – your soulmate”
“yes, exactly. we’ve been in a relationship for four months now! it’s our moniversary tomorrow!” It turned out my original estimation was correct… Sort of.
“oh cool. congratulations that’s super gay”
“hah not so gay. she’s the first girl i’ve ever dated. but thanks. so what have you been up to?”
“just got back from america. party party. what have you been doing?”
“working… i work nights”
“working girl huh”
“exactly” ‘Working girl’ means the same thing here as it does in Vegas, doesn’t it? Maybe it was too subtle and slipped under the radar. Most girls would be offended.
“i’ve also been working on my zine” she typed.
“really? you’re a writer? what’s it about.”
“it’s about making the transition from hooker to nine to five. to put it succinctly”
“i thought you were a market researcher”
“i was. i was also a behavioural therapist and still working nights” Does being a hooker really qualify a person for that? “i paid my way through school that way”
“i see,” I typed.
“yep”
“i’m not sure i believe that you were a hooker”
She didn’t like that. “i beg your fucken pardon ? i don’t appreciate being disrespected.” Normally a girl would get offended if you called her a hooker, not if you said she wasn’t a hooker. But that’s girls for you.
“wait wait,” I typed, laughing. “how much”
“more than you could fucking afford”
She blocked me from Facebook after that.
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Comments (3)
Bitches be crazy.
you’re not as cool as arthur kade
KADE OUT
oh man. if only that were a comment from the real arthur kade… i’d be blessed.