Snailtrax, Male Prostitute
Moments ago, my junk was fondled by a hooker with breasts the size of watermelons at the Geisha Bar at the Imperial Palace. Daddy, Derek, BG, and myself were closing the convention with one final drink(s) to celebrate an amazing weekend of friends and debauchery, as we bullshitted about the weekend over a couple of SoCos. That's when the hooker appeared out of nowhere like a cockroach scurrying across your kitchen floor at 5am.
She looked used and abused and about thirty-five pounds overweight. She walked over and gently touched Daddy's beer gut. I wondered about how many tricks she's done in the last two weeks.
"Listen honey, I'll let you have sex with me for $800," Daddy shouted loud enough that one of the dealers from an adjacent Let It Ride table looked up.
"I have to pay you?" the hooker inquired. "What kind of bullshit is that?"
"Yes you have to pay me. You don't get to see the vanilla gorilla unless you show me eight one $100 bills."
As the two negotiated the price, she occasionally rubbed one hand on my crotch as my brother gave me a look like, "this fuckin' chick is nuts and I hope her pimp doesn't see us in action."
"Be careful," Derek warned as he made eye contact with Daddy. "Don't forget about Rule #20."
"You're a freak," Daddy mentioned to the working girl as she pointed out the multiple stains on his Johnny Unitas replica football jersey.
"Yeah? So what? There are a lot of ridiculous things about this fuckin' world. And I'm one of them."
For some reason that line stood out. Hookers pontificating about philosophy on a Monday morning in Las Vegas was the last thing I was expecting as I sipped on my Corona.
She sat down at a video poker machine and made two phone calls. An intoxicated Daddy leaned over and whispered something in her ear. He asked if she would be interested in letting BG sniff her underwear for $17.
"I'm not that kinda of girl," she said.
"Doc will do it for $4," he counter offered.