INTERVIEW WITH A HOOKER

My name is Glen Kingston. I write articles for a magazine, which is actually a smutty rag. Paydays are usually pretty thin; not even enough coins to wear a hole in my pants pocket. I’m not proud of it but I have to somehow earn a living while writing the great Canadian novel—catchy title—might even use it. Continually coming up with good ideas for articles can get a touch difficult and when I get a brain freeze like I’ve been having lately, even sticking my head in a hot oven won’t thaw it out. So, what I occasionally do to get the grey cells working again is take myself out to meet some real live flesh and blood people, like this high-class, top of the line, if you have to ask how much she costs; then you can’t afford to hire this particular prostitute: Talulah Tight-Thighs.

The interview took place in a lounge. I won’t mention the name of the establishment, where I met Talulah Tight-Thighs (sexy online name). Not that anything happened between her and I that night, but sometimes things can be taken the wrong way, and hey, the last thing I need is something that appears incriminating when it’s not the least bit true or even if it is true. I wasn’t worried about Talulah saying anything concerning our relationship because as far as she’s concerned, to use her own words, “Whatever happens in the bedroom honey; stays in the bedroom.”

Before letting Talulah narrate in her own words about her life, let me describe a little bit about this real sweet mama; especially how she looks.

The night we met, Talulah was at the bar half standing and half sitting on a tall bar stool and I couldn’t take my eyes off her well-formed ass, we’re talking buns of steel. She was dressed to the nines, every curve of her mahogany-coloured body enhanced by her yellow low cut, short skirt that was riding up her well-formed long legs. Even from behind, I could tell she had an animal living inside her and it was on the prowl; we’re talking a lioness during mating season, sharp fangs and claws, tawny hair, twitchy tail; ravenous and ready to devour; a real man-eater. Didn’t matter if they were fat, skinny, hairy or bald, had a pimple on their ass or not; she was more than happy to give them the ride of their lives—for a price of course; a big price—after all, Talulah is the Rolls Royce of hookers.

I knew, before my feet even reached the bar, she was just the person I was looking for, a real live hooker for a real live interview. Any woman who looked like that and moved like that just from behind, I knew she had to have some wonderful rich stories tucked away in her double-G bra and tender-tight thong.

Getting an interview with a hooker may not be that difficult if I had some money to spend but the amount of money I had tucked away in my best pair of faded jeans wouldn’t have been enough for two minutes of her time, even if she was dropping a steamin’ sixteen coiler in a toilet while I interviewed her. I’m not a bad looking guy and my personality is fairly decent—only three or four women have ever thrown a glass of beer in my face or slapped it. You might say I’ve got a touch of the Blarney—the gift of gab to a certain degree if you know what I mean. Some macho, handsome, muscled-up dude might saunter up to the bar and casually say to her in a voice that would melt 10 pounds of frozen butter, “Can I buy the lady a drink” and think she’d be thrilled that he’d be coming on to her, but I knew better. I’d have to really impress her, get her tight little stretchy thong in a knot if I was going to get any kind of an interview.

So, sidling up the bar and casually planting my ass on the stool next to hers, I nonchalantly said, “Can I buy the lady a drink?

Now, most men would have fallen off their stools and flicked around on the floor like slippery dead fish, when she replied in a voice smokier than the Smokey Mountains, “Thank you, I believe I will have another.”

Nodding to the bartender who had a face shaped like a weasel’s and a hairdo like a rat; a long skinny tail of tightly braided hair tied with a tiny lavender ribbon hanging down the middle of his back, I smoothly said, “You heard the lady, and make mine the same.”

I could feel the eyes of every male in the dimly lit lounge boring into my back like sharp pointed stilettos and I could smell their testosterone as they desperately yearned to know my secret. I knew what they were thinking. It was pretty obvious—they were wishing they were me. Every man in the place would have given their left nut to be sitting next to Talulah Tight-Thighs.

If I thought she had animal magnetism from behind; Talulah’s frontage was drop dead gorgeous—not only was she built for a good solid bed from behind; she was so well endowed in the front, a mattress wouldn’t have been necessary. Her heat was radiating and encapsulated my body; like a panting dog, I was careful not to step on my tongue when I made myself more comfortable on the stool.

When the drinks arrived, I raised my glass and looking over the sugary brim of a lime margarita into her warm milk-chocolate eyes I said, “Be damned! Here’s to the best-looking woman me or any other man in existence has ever laid eyes on.”

Clinking her glass against mine, she pursed her soft pouty full lips together, making a kissing sound; then, smiling broadly she said, “I don’t give freebees honey.”

Hell, I don’t know whether she knew or not but she’s so freakin’ sexy, she damned near gave me a freebee right then and there. That’s right. As I looked into those dreamy bedroom eyes, hearing her voice as rich as molasses and feasting my eyes on her spectacular body that would have put Helen of Troy to shame, I damn near came in my pants.

However, what the bartender and all the perspiring and drooling men in the lounge didn’t realize, was that I’d already made an appointment to meet Talulah. She’d never given an interview before and thought the idea was quite interesting. Like she had said, “Honey, even I need good publicity.”

While enjoying our drinks and sizing up one another, I set a small tape recorder that was stashed in my jacket pocket on the bar. The black plastic object suddenly seemed like an intruder; an invader of our privacy because whatever we said now would be going directly into this machine. If someone other than Talulah and I got their hands on it, they could delete and edit our conversation, so that whatever we had discussed could be adjusted totally out of context; the meanings misconstrued. I must have been daydreaming because when she suddenly leaned over and pushed the record button, one of her super-sized breasts brushed against my arm sending a tsunami shock wave throughout my entire body, especially my private parts. I stammered, “I guess we should begin the interview.”

Me: I believe a lot of people would like to hear your story, Talulah. You don’t mind if I just call you Talulah, do you? Is that your real name?

Talulah: Good gracious no. (She giggles.) Of course that’s not my real name, and I’m not sure why I picked that name because my thighs are anything but tight. That’s right honey; I like to spread those babies. I love the sound they make; cha-ching, cha-ching; it’s the sound of money. We’re talking real hard cold cash that I can stick between my thighs and make it hotter than a jar of jalapeno peppers.

Me: (Clears throat.) You mentioned earlier that even you “need good publicity. Would you care to elaborate on that?”

Talulah: Many people think women like me are evil, husband-stealers, political bait, drug addicts or just plain trash. It’s true some of us do fit into those categories but me, I may make an obscenely rich living lying on my back, but I can tell you honestly honey, that I put out and when I’m finished with a man, there isn’t a pour, a blood vessel, a tiny hair, or an appendage of any kind that hasn’t been totally satisfied. Like the athletes you see on TV, after they’ve run a marathon, they’re gasping for air and barely able to stand. Honey, I do the same for my customers, not only do I make their toes curl but when I’m done with them, they’re gasping for air and as weak as wet noodles. I’ve even seen the odd client’s eyeballs roll up into their sockets and had to call the paramedics on more than one occasion.

Me: I doubt very much that you’re evil Talulah, but I suspect you may have ruined many a marriage. What I’ve come to understand from talking to other men and my own experiences as well, is that once the heated courtship comes to a close and the happy couples are in a blissful state of marriage, not too long after, the boudoir often becomes more of a room to read a book or watch TV rather than have a sexual romp of delight. Why do you think that is and do you have an answer to keep the bedroom from not becoming like a library or a theatre?

Talulah: A few of my best girlfriends are married honey and they have complained about their husbands not being as attentive; no more opening doors; no more flowers; no more special treatment unless it's a birthday, wedding, anniversary or some other special event. Their husbands seem to take them for granted once that big gold ring slips on their finger, the frilly veil is lifted, and the wedding gown drops to the floor. I believe the reason married couples' sex lives become so ho-hum is because it’s impossible to keep the lustful sexual fires burning as intensely, like when they first fell in love; every night after the marriage ceremony, they go to bed with the same person. That's not a bad thing; it's just that the excitement has worn off; the tantalizing kisses, passionate fondling, the magical foreplay isn't as required as much. You see for me honey; I don’t do a lot of repeat business just for those reasons. I take sex to the highest-level right from the get-go and to maintain that level on a regular basis is almost impossible. I don’t care how many times a man has been laid in his life, when he steps into my bedroom with me, like a black widow spider (except I don’t kill my suitor) I’ve got him in my web and I suck him dry (sometimes literally) and it’s like a once in a lifetime experience for him. As far as keeping “the bedroom from not becoming like a library or a theatre,” I’ve told my friends and some of my clients who love their spouses to spice up their sexual desires; like skip the mayonnaise and bring on the Tabasco sauce baby. It’s time for the missionary to hit the road, if you get my drift honey.

Me: And what do you mean by “spice up their sexual desires?”

Talulah: (Takes a long swallow, then runs her tongue across her lips.) Often the normal routine of a man and wife is to turn off the lights, crawl into bed; the man, needing to get his jollies off on a more regular basis, just because that’s the way nature has programmed him. He will often just spread his honey’s legs, climb aboard and wham, blam, thank you ma’am—he’s done like dinner and what happens after dinner with a man—he’s blissfully snoring away. Whereas the woman, once all the pumping and heavy breathing is over, just rolls her eyes and thinks, is that all there is and often times, even though she’s filled with her husband’s happy juice, she feels empty. I think couples should play out some of their sexual fantasies—even sometimes just sucking on a big toe will do the trick; believe me; some people have peculiar fetishes. Talk is often times just as important as foreplay and when two people are starkers under the covers, this is no time to be shy and hung up on controlling inhibitions. Talk about freedom baby; this is the time for a woman to spread her wings, wings being legs, and do whatever it takes to make her pussy purr, drool and squeal with delight and she should inform her man in any language necessary, what it takes for her to reach those sublime heights, those screaming wild orgasmic pleasures; the ecstasy of coming together and then exploding like the 4th of July. A person doesn’t need fireworks all the time but honey, they are necessary.