GIRL 53
ENTERTAINMENT LAWYER GIRL
I was in Philadelphia at a casting agency - it wouldn't surprise me if they did the casting for the film shot there, ANNAPOLIS -- to get a book jacket photo shot. It took all goddamned day. While I was there, the girls who worked for "the man" giggled and flirted, and they were lovely specimens indeed, one Latina, the other black, but way too young for me. We got to chatting during a break, and I told them I was internet dating, and one of them was also. The black girl asked me for my screen name. I wrote it on one of my absurdly arrogant author business cards, which has my name logo between a very phallic black submarine and submariner's dolphins, and below it, it says NATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR. Mr. Humble, that would be me. I looked at it, scratched my head, and made some remark about not being as brashly into myself as the card would suggest, then gave the girl my usual self-deprecating smile.
And that night I got hit on by a woman who said she had been turned on to me by the black lady in the casting office. She was an entertainment lawyer who came by every once in a while, and from her pictures, she was a beautiful, tall, slender black woman with achingly thick lips that make a highly sexed male like me think of one thing - what would those lips feel like on my cock? Now, while I usually can't get into the body chemistry of black chicks for some reason, I decided to make an exception for Entertainment Lawyer Girl.
Unfortunately, Entertainment Lawyer Girl made a few mistakes:
First, the restaurant she picked for lunch was an Ethiopian joint. Okay, show of hands, how many of you, on Friday night, order in Ethiopian? It was right out of a redneck joke. The joint was filled with African sculpture and shields and spears on the wall. The portions were microscopic. You ate them with your hand. They had mushy tortilla things to grab them with. The beef tasted like dog - and I know what that tastes like from a little culinary mishap I suffered in Bangkok some time back. The cheapest wine bottle on the list was $40, which boded ill for the check. When the tab came, it was far north of the outer limit of an A-Girl's dinner check, $200.
Now, I'm no cheapskate. This entire project had been extremely expensive, particularly if you count some of the indirect expenses, like the Viagra prescriptions, teeth whitening and the 425 horsepower red shark car tied up out front.
So a $200 lunch wouldn't kill me. In fact, if it led to a fabulous fucking session, it would be well worth it. At that price, you're still at two thirds of the going rate with tip of a good call girl, but with the added bonus that you got her to spread the girl's legs by convincing her - which is an ego boost, while the call girl makes you feel like a dork when you have to pay for pussy or mouth, and let's face it, call girls enforce the condom rules, you can't cum in their mouths or in their faces, they very rarely take it up the ass, they get frustrated if it takes the boy longer than five minutes to cum, and worst of all, I've never met one with a sense of humor. Now that, gentlemen, would make one hell of a doctoral thesis - why don't upscale call girls laugh? Don't go for the obvious, that they are fucking for money, so they have to be down on their luck. That's bogus, because on the upper end of the whore food chain, you're got girls who bought those goofy little Mercedes convertibles for cash. No, there's a humor-whore interlock in operation here, and no one has figured out why. Come on, all you supposed academics, help me out here. Why is there no hooker humor?
But listen, two hundred clams for a lunch that could be outdone by a sprig of parsley at a place that was many miles from my pad or hers, a lunch that ended on one o'clock on a work day, just didn't get my juices flowing.
I think part of it was the nature of the conversations. If you had transcribed the conversation, you'd realize something interesting. It was the most upright conversation I've ever had with a sexual target. There was no flirtation on either side. I was not my usual slutty self. I wasn't intimidated. I wasn't frightened. I wasn't put off or disgusted.
There was nothing really wrong with the girl. She was really hot. And after the date, when I didn't call her again, she called me. A lot. And at one point, I'm not bragging or kidding here, she actually begged me to come over and fuck her. And what did I do?
Nothing.
So any respect I got from my home boys with Girl 52 is probably lost on this one. Two hundred bucks, the girl begs me to fuck her, and I turn away.
Some player I am.
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