By Paul McGuire © 2009
Ryan Mansfield was on a mission.
His girlfriend Mindy went to the Hamptons for the weekend without him. He never liked the scene. He hated the bumper-to-bumper drive on the LIE while Mindy bitched and moaned about the awful traffic.
He came up with a passable excuse -- a work project that required his attention. Sure, he could have put in a few extra hours during the week in order to take the time off on the weekend, but Mindy did not know that. She didn't know about a lot of things.
Mindy took off for the Hamptons at 3pm on a Friday. By 6pm, Ryan was sitting on his couch and eating a sausage pizza while thumbing through the sex ads of The Village Voice. He had already hit up an Asian massage parlor on his way home from work and he was scouting out prospects for the evening. The plan was to get shitfaced with the guys and try to pick up drunk 20-something chicks in hipster bars Murray Hill. If that didn't work, he'd go home and ordered up a Latina hookers via the Voice. It was as easy as ordering up a pizza.
I hung out with Ryan on Saturday afternoon. We watched the Mets game and all he kept talking about was his romp with the hooker from the night before.
"She said her name was Desiree."
"But what was her real name?"
"La'Tonya. She was half-black and half-Puerto Rican. And she let me fuck her twice because I got her stoned. I only paid for one time but I got to hit that twice. I think I'm n love."
Ryan told me about his plan to call her up again, which he attempted fourteen times from the time the Mets game ended and the time he finally gave up around 11pm. I convinced him to meet me at shit hole in the East Village instead of stalking the hooker. He showed up to the bar totally rejected, like his heart had been ripped out of his chest and nailed to his forehead.
"I can't believe she didn't call me back."
"Maybe she was busy."
"That's what I'm afraid of. I'm sick to my stomach thinking about all the guys she's having sex with right now."
"Get it out of your mind. She's a hooker. That's what she does."
"I can't take it. Why won't she call me back?"
"Maybe because you called forty times and sounded like a psycho just like Favreau in the scene from Swingers. She's a pro. She does this for a living. She knows when guys get emotionally attached. If she can milk them for cash -- she'll do it. But if she knows they are borderline serial killer rapist like your sorry ass, she has no incentive to take a risk with a potential schizoid."
"Can you call her?"
"No way. I don't want a hooker."
"No, just call to see if she answers. I know she's avoiding me and screening my call. I just need to know. So pretend that you're a john looking to arrange a date. We'll call from a payphone."
"Why don't you call."
"She'll recognize my voice."
I agreed only if Ryan bought me another beer. We retreated around the corner and found a payphone. I dialed the number and Ryan insisted on listening in. She answered on the first ring. I asked her if it was Desiree. She said that her name was Crystal but Ryan recognized her voice. He grabbed the phone out of my hand. He didn't get out five words before she hung up.
A dejected Ryan started walking and sulking. I had not seen him that upset. And all of that misery over a hooker from the back of the Voice. After about fifteen minutes Ryan snapped out of his sullen march.
"Follow me!" he demanded and took off in a race-walk.
We made a couple of turns and ended up on Lexington Avenue. The street was empty and all of the Indian restaurants were closed. A couple of yellow cabs were double parked in front of a bodega. That's when I spotted someone standing on the adjacent corner. Two other women in short skirts stood about twenty feet down the side street. The both walked over to Ryan. Three hookers and the two of us. None of the hookers were what you would call attractive. Two of them were skinny but the third hooker was thick and possibly pregnant.
One of the thin hookers gave Ryan the hard sell. $50 for a blowjob.
"Yes. Right. There."
She pointed towards the shadows of 29th Street. I squinted a saw a stone staircase leading up to a three-story brownstone.
"You gonna blow me on the stoop?"
She nodded. He grabbed her hand and they walked off. I looked at the other two hookers and shook my head. I quickly crossed the street and entered the bodega. Two Middle Eastern cabbies were shooting the shit with one of the guys behind the counter. I bought a Snapple iced tea and a piece of pound cake, which was stale, but I ate several bites while I waited for Ryan to finish up his blowjob.
"How did it go?"
"It was scary and exciting knowing that you could get caught. I couldn't come at first. But she was rushing and I finally got off."
"You know that she was a trannie, right?"
We walked in silence for a block before Ryan stopped me and said, "I worked out a deal. I only paid $40 instead of $50."
"So you got a discount on the trannie hooker."
"Yep, so who's the sucker now?"
Paul McGuire is a writer from Los Angeles. He's the author of Lost Vegas.