The female of the species represents all that is good and pure about the human race. Unfortunately, some of them never reach this standard.
I love women. They smell nice. They make beautiful music. They look like goddesses while engaged in coitus. (By contrast, men appear to be having a seizure brought on by exposure to banned chemical weapons.) The female of the species rules. Period.
That having been said, as you have no doubt surmised from the preceding declaration, I have a few things to say that will no doubt piss off more than one member of the sex that isn’t afraid to ask for directions – but I don’t feel bad about that in the least. Anyone who is offended by my observations has no doubt recognized themselves and is merely feeling ashamed/remorseful of their actions, but since I am not a priest, I couldn’t care less. One last thing: any and all terms that I utilize throughout this tome are courtesy of the guests and colleagues I have encountered over the years, so blame them. I am but a humble chronicler who bruises easily, so please bear that in mind if we ever meet, folks.
Shall we begin?
Right now I’d like to share some of the lingo of my profession. We’ll begin with the following term: Swamp Donkey. A “Swamp Donkey”, or “Swamper”, if you prefer, is:
A Drunk Bitch: But not your typical stumbling all over the dance floor, as frightened and as confused as a Kardashian in a public library, Drunk Bitch. No, this is a whole other level we’re talking about, kids. A Swamper consumes more alcohol in a single night than the liver can effectively process in a week. In fact, a Swamper will drink so much that her fellow Donkeys will resort to truly desperate measures to avoid having to hold her head up out of the toilet.
How desperate? During one particularly memorable check-out, I happened upon a young lady with a series of towels that were strapped to the towel rack behind the toilet and then tied into her hair. Inevitably, the rack broke loose, her head plunged into the rancid, disgusting bowl water and her friends ran out of the room giggling and screaming at the top of their Donkey lungs. So much for the bonds of sisterhood. That left me to gaze in horror/amusement as the Swamper in question wiped blood from her nose and paused to assess her situation. Apparently she found some humor in the entire mess and began to laugh, a mixture of bodily fluids spewing forth from her face all the while.
An Über Slut: Not content as your typical Playboy Mansion garden variety tart, this chick has stepped up her game. This is the model of floozy what will engage in sexual acts that would make a porn star feel dirty. And thanks to social media, she can share every salacious detail with the world. This vamp will go out clubbing with her posse, ladies, set her sights on your boyfriend, and before you know it, she’s texting all the details of their dalliance to her friends – while he’s bouncing away on her dirty-ass butt.
But don’t feel too bad, ladies; your boyfriend will feel things crawling on him while he’s betraying you, never mind the agony the next few weeks are sure to bring.
A High Maintenance Hussy: This is an Über Slut that has entered a cocoon (in actuality a courting period with an unsuspecting schlub who is way over his head) and emerged a fiancée. I’ve served tens of thousands of these couples over the years and while there are variations, the basic model never really changes: he’s a working-class dog who thinks he’s hit the jackpot and she’s a nymphomaniac who will never be content with one man, but she’s willing to play the Good Wife in public and the Whore in the bedroom; as long as the money keeps flowing in, that is. Nothing about this woman is genuine; colored hair, plastic boobs, plumped lips, they all add to the illusion of perfection personified.
(I’m a cynical devil, aren’t I? Decades in an industry that encourages people to reveal their true selves by providing the illusion of a safe haven will do that to you, guys and gals. Don’t hate the commentator, hate the game.)
We’ve barely made a dent on the tip of the Swamp Donkey iceberg but I think I’ve made my point. By the way, if anyone out there knows what that point was, be sure to let me know, would you?
For now, though, we’re going to leave the Swampers behind and move onto that increasingly rare creature – especially in an age where sexual imagery is used to sell everything – the virgin. Of course, we won’t actually be moving onto any actual virgins. If we did, they wouldn’t be considered canned goods in the first place, would they?
Hold the cellphone, I just realized something; it’s the Twenty-First Century and I work in a hotel. I’ve never actually encountered any virgins.
Oh well, since we’re here, I better leave you with something more substantial than my ramblings, right?
Elevated Interlude: Riding in Elevators With Hookers
Every whore was once a little girl with dreams. To society they are a breed apart, too low to regard as equal. To me, they are just another face in the lobby. And that makes them fair game…
Years of experience coupled with the gift of my heritage have left me with the ability to spot a streetwalker in a hotel lobby in two seconds flat. This may not seem like a valuable, marketable talent, but it helps shatter the monotony of the day during the inevitable slow periods. What’s that? Fine. But only because you asked so nicely.
Four Ways To Spot A Hooker.
1) She’ll be glued to her phone. Yes, I know, every young lady these days is bound by social convention to spend 93% of her waking hours texting, tweeting, etc., but a hooker will scan her screen to double-check a room number and then look around the lobby aimlessly searching for an elevator.
2) They call everyone “sweetie”. Or “pookie”, or some other term of endearment. When you’re about to fulfill some poor, deluded bastard’s sexual fantasy you’re usually in a chipper mood. And so you flirt with every male in your orbit. (Any professional, regardless of their vocation, will tell you it never hurts to network. Everyone is a perspective client.)
3) Their clothing tells the tale. Look for wild extremes. Most harlots will eschew the style Julia Roberts made famous unless a client is a movie buff, but they’ll still stand apart from your average Swamp Donkey. Just look for clothing so restrictive it defies conventional wisdom or logic. Your higher-class lady of the evening will spend a portion of her earnings on brand name clothing but it will be adjusted to reflect a level of promiscuity exclusive to the woman of the streets set. An extra layer of war paint designed to withstand liters of perspiration will complete the look.
4) An unmistakeable swagger. Hookers are curious creatures. Your average pro longs to be accepted by society but she’ll still carry herself with a certain swagger, one that comes from years of being penetrated by strangers and a variety of foreign objects.
As the ultimate “people person”, a hooker will elevate an otherwise humdrum elevator trip to a ride worthy of Six Flags.
November 1, 2013, 3:03 pm: A routine trip was saved from mediocrity thanks to the unsung heroism of a prostitute with the most unoriginal moniker of all time. There were six of us huddled together in a moving metal box: yours truly, a family of four straight out of a Rockwellian masterpiece, and a short redhead with a distinctive sense of style. She had the requisite knee high obsidian boots, vacuum packed ebony, pre-ripped jeans and a black leather jacket that covered a tea towel she claimed was a top. This original ensemble was capped off by the type of hat ladies normally wear to funerals.
The awkward silence was broken by the ringing of a cellphone with a distinctive tune – I’m far too ivory to recognize the urban jungle ditty, but it was definitely something written by someone with an Afro – and a sentence that made the short trip worthwhile.
CRIMSON-HAIRED HOOKER WHO MUST REMAIN NAMELESS FOR A MOMENT: Hi! You’ve reached Candy! What can I do to you?
Mother Rockwell spit out her ten-dollar Starbucks concoction, Father Rockwell’s eyes lit up and their spawn just stood there looking simultaneously perplexed and aroused. Mother quickly selected the next available floor and forcibly moved her family out. That left me in an elevator filled with Candy.
THE CRIMSON-HAIRED HOOKER KNOWN AS CANDY: (Tucking her phone away in her Coach purse.) Did they leave on my account?
I was too busy stifling my laughter to answer.
CANDY: What’s the matter? You can say anything to me, you know. I don’t care!
And so I did.
ME: Candy? Seriously?
CANDY: Yeah! Everyone loves to put Candy in their mouth!
Wow. Say what you like about the world’s oldest profession, but this girl had done her homework. Or maybe she had some clients in the marketing game who helped her “bone up” on her commerce skills in order to get a “head”. We just don’t know. (Incidentally, I offer no apologies for the puns; they come with the territory when discussing the escort biz. See what I did there? Again? Fine, I’ll move on.)
ME: But it’s the most unoriginal hooker name ever!
Candy was not impressed with my amateur assessment of her professional sobriquet but she had a schedule to keep so she had to skedaddle. I guess she couldn’t beat the clock even though she could certainly beat a… well, you know where I’m going with this, right?
Technically, this next conversation did not directly involve a hooker, but the topic at hand was a specific prostitute, hence its inclusion here. Anyone who feels cheated should take a deep cleansing breath – and get over it.
Many of the Johns I meet during elevator rides have no shame (if you’re paying a stranger to tickle your nether regions with her tongue while calling you “Daddy”, you’re pretty much immune to the normal fears associated with sharing details of your private life with strangers), and so the stories flow like wine from a box.
JOHN: (Incidentally, this was his actual name. Good thing he enjoyed paying women for sex, right?) Hey, Boss! I remember you from when I checked in. Did you happen to see the piece of ass I walked in with?
ME: I certainly did, sir. I’m assuming she wasn’t your daughter.
JOHN: (Chuckling, but in a creepy lounge lizard way.) What makes you say that, Boss?
ME: Most fathers don’t refer to their daughters as “pieces of ass”… unless they’re from the South, that is.
JOHN: Yeah, she was an escort.
(NOTE: When hurling sarcasm at a guest always be certain you can survive any form of physical altercation with said guest that may occur as a result.)
JOHN: Hey, don’t get me wrong, Boss! I can score with the ladies for free, but who needs the hassle? (Just off the top of my head: People with self-respect?) Besides, that piece of ass was F-I-N-E! Did you see The Wolf of Wall Street, with my man, Leo D?
I love people who refer to celebrities by their first name or a variation thereof, as though they have a special relationship with these people simply because they’ve spent a few hours viewing their work.
ME: I haven’t had the chance to see your man in that one yet, I’m afraid.
JOHN: Shit, Boss, you gotta get on that! Anyhoo, I made sure I got a girl who looked like the chick who played Leo’s wife in The Wolf of Wall Street. And let me tell you, she was worth every penny!
ME: And I’m sure she earned every penny, right?
JOHN: Hells yeah!
ME: And now she has the cash she needs to pay for everything an escort needs, like make-up, bling, impossibly-tight outfits… and in this case, therapy and a thorough delousing.
Once again, I teetered over the line between humor and insult.
JOHN: Ha! You kill me, Boss! Love the moxie!
And once again, I walked the line separating me from unemployment and bodily injury with Spider-Man-like precision.
See you in the lobby, kids…