Before I began my internship at Publicis, I was going to school full-time during the day and working at the Polar Bar in the evenings. I was paying for college with my GI Bill from my time in the Army and didn’t have to live in my mother’s basement drinking alone and reading Harry Potter. I could do that in the confines of my own studio apartment, a fact I was incredibly proud of. Apparently, I shouldn’t be, though? My friend Becky (name changed for purposes of protecting her identity and her shivving me as retribution) came to visit me at the bar and we began catching up on all our most recent news. We went out for a cigarette and she said, “Can I tell you something? I mean, you have to take this to your grave.” (Oops. Fail.) I nodded my head and she proceeded to explain how she is no longer teaching, but is now an escort making serious bank. While in modern pornographic films this is an obvious vocational transition, in the real world this is a bit of a non sequitur.
“So,” I said, “you’re a prostitute?” This, for some reason, offended her. She told me she was not a common hooker. “So, you’re a high-class prostitute?” She began to get frustrated with my apparent ignorance to her new line of work.
“I go on dates with rich, older men. I keep them company and they pay me for my services.” Color me confused, but last I checked, keeping old, rich guys company with your vaginal walls and getting paid for it is prostitution. I guess the rules have changed. She raved about how great it was as if she were trying to pitch it like a salesman. Turns out, she was.
“I can get you started, make some amazing money, you know?” Is this the pyramid scheme of Bonetown? My answer, of course, was no. I was happy where I was, and though I have no clue where my dignity is, I have not fallen to the point where I’m considering sucking dick for a condo in Madison Park. As we were saying our good-byes, she turned to me and said:
“You know, Anna, I come here and I just feel bad about seeing you here, you know? I’m ending my night with a few grand and staying in a huge condo. I really want to help get you out of this bar.” Wait. What the fuck? Did a hooker just down talk to me? Is this fucking Topsy-Turvy Land? Since when has the goal been to get out of a legitimate job and onto your back? I haven’t spoken to Becky in a few months, but I hear she’s enjoying a mind-numbing addiction to cocaine. I’m glad she’s still living the dream.
“So,” I said, “you’re a prostitute?” This, for some reason, offended her. She told me she was not a common hooker. “So, you’re a high-class prostitute?” She began to get frustrated with my apparent ignorance to her new line of work.
“I go on dates with rich, older men. I keep them company and they pay me for my services.” Color me confused, but last I checked, keeping old, rich guys company with your vaginal walls and getting paid for it is prostitution. I guess the rules have changed. She raved about how great it was as if she were trying to pitch it like a salesman. Turns out, she was.
“I can get you started, make some amazing money, you know?” Is this the pyramid scheme of Bonetown? My answer, of course, was no. I was happy where I was, and though I have no clue where my dignity is, I have not fallen to the point where I’m considering sucking dick for a condo in Madison Park. As we were saying our good-byes, she turned to me and said:
“You know, Anna, I come here and I just feel bad about seeing you here, you know? I’m ending my night with a few grand and staying in a huge condo. I really want to help get you out of this bar.” Wait. What the fuck? Did a hooker just down talk to me? Is this fucking Topsy-Turvy Land? Since when has the goal been to get out of a legitimate job and onto your back? I haven’t spoken to Becky in a few months, but I hear she’s enjoying a mind-numbing addiction to cocaine. I’m glad she’s still living the dream.
2 comments:
Tell your intern to keep it up...I am enjoying the hell out of her writing
high class hooker is going to be my new fake job.
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