Tuesday, June 5, 2012


My top three favorite whores include heavy historical hitters Fantine (Les Miserables), Rahab (The Holy Bible) and Newt Gingrich (Grand Old Party). Each of these hormonally charged harlots have carved out a name for themselves through their illustrious careers with multiple sexual partners. Fantine lost her life to her career, Rahab found wealth and power in her work place, and Newt has an impressive record as a champion lady leapfrogger in his job. But none of these iconic lovers could have prepared me for today's adventure.

The exterior buzzer to my apartment screamed throughout the empty unit, startling my slumbering self. The maid was scheduled to clean the space this morning and with blurry eyes I buzzed her in. As I pulled the door inward into the house, a lurpy character posed awkwardly in the door frame. This lanky limbed lad cruised right past me into the living room, looked my body over with an aggressive appetite and said, "Where are we doing this?"

I stared.

Thinking that this must be the new maid, I said, "I think the kitchen would be a great place to start."

He stared.

With no inkling that this scrawny soul was not our maid, I continued to list off places in the apartment that needed special attention.  "The living room needs your services for sure. The bathroom is a top priority for me, it sees a lot of action. And do you do patios? Because mine is filthy," I innocently chatted. The hungry look in his eye started to ebb as the blood emptied from his face. Confusion replaced lust in his countenance as he slowly surveyed the scene. "How long do you think it will take?" I asked the silent man.

We both stared.

The muted man broke the awkward silence with a shuttered, "You're not Sean, are you...?" Without saying a single word, my eyes became huge and my head slowly began to sway back and forth. It was at this moment that I noticed the lavender fingernail polish adorning the well kept nails of this man, the cut off denim shorty short shorts and the heavy scent of Shalimar dripping from his tight tank top. He gracefully turned himself around, found the door and with a backwards glance that screamed apology, he was gone.

In the stillness I stood; a man befuddled, a man speechless. A male prostitute had just been in my living room. And although it may be your dirty fantasy to have a few extra services around the house, I have no need for a face to face with Fantine, a rowdy romp with Rahab, or for Newt Gingrich to try and make me his fourth wife.