Tina

Tina is pretty, with a killer, killer smile. When I met her, she was in her mid-twenties, slim and probably 5’6”. Never having borne children meant her body was gorgeous, athletic, with long straight dark-blonde hair. She had beautiful, barely curved A-sized athlete’s breasts and heavenly smooth skin the rest of the way down her long trunk. Slim but curved hips, bright smile, tight butt, shaved.

One evening after work I drove around the usual routes to find “fellatic companionship.” I was looking for a ho. When I turned the corner by the bus stop, as I tried to sort out the pedestrians from the working girls, Tina stood there on the sidewalk and gave me an energetic, pretty-bitch smile with a knowing look on her face; basically a sign saying, “Yes, of course,” in a large, decorative font. She could have been a student, a cashier, or a waitress. Lights and bells fired off in my head like a pinball machine, but I was in traffic and couldn’t stop for her. By the time I drove around the block, she was climbing into another John’s pickup. The next time I came out, she recognized me and stilettoed right to the car when I pulled over.

Tina always wore dresses when she was “out” and took some obvious pride in her appearance– manicured, with highlighted hair, scarves and boots. She could have been a teacher at the nearby private girls school with the champion field hockey team. In the recent past, Tina could have been a student at that girls’ school between Spring and Danforth Streets. It’s also important to note, Tina plied her street trade for less than four months, and then effectively but not atypically, disappeared. It’s not a nurturing employment. Tina likely outgrew the scene and fled.

Our first encounter took place in the Maine Medical Center parking garage, and as I reflect on it, is probably available in the MMC security video archives somewhere. That fifty-dollar date was lovely, as she reached under her jacket to bare her chest before she ministered to my eager appreciation from the perch she held, on her knees in front of the passenger seat. It was a small car; she was so close, I felt the heat from her skin as she unzipped my trousers and released me into her open mouth. I felt the gesture of baring her torso for me was hot and generous, and with my fingertips, I stroked her ribs, her smooth firm tits, and especially those tiny rose nipples which I rolled between my fingers in a kind of thank you for the wash of pleasure she was administering with her lips; with low encouraging sounds and subtle movements, she consented and urged and goaded me to climax ever so easily into her accommodating mouth. Once again, I was engaged in a sex act made much simpler and more fun by the fact my orgasms are dry. Bone dry! Of course, she asked the usual, with a skeptical grin, “You sure you came?” Oh honey, for sixty bucks (bitchez don’t ever break a twenty!) I’m going to climax in your mouth, hold your hair tight, and growl lovely things at you. But I won’t paint your tonsils with semen. Wink.

Tina is very pretty and kind, but every friend she introduced me to (admittedly, while we were trying to cop drugs) was shady and drug-addled. Tina had a significant (they all are, I guess) down habit, and I only saw her a few times. I was able to purchase cocaine with her connections, though never without her.

she rocked and whispered naked in my arms, as she turned in a slow circle, responding to my hands and fingers as I closed my eyes and taught myself her body.

Once, after we had bought some crack from her guy and brought it back to my house to smoke, Tina offered to “take care of me.” I had to demur because at that moment my herpes was presenting, so my guy was off limits. She acted sweetly, hesitantly grateful I had told her that, and as we smoked and chilled she became more affectionate than she’d ever been with me. We went to my bedroom, hit the pipe, and she slowly stripped to nothing for me. I was seated, fully clothed on the side of the bed and she rocked and whispered naked in my arms, as she turned in a slow circle, responding to my hands and fingers as I closed my eyes and taught myself her body. She offered, out of the blue, to fuck me commando, after my herpes went away, of course. This was less about the rules of our engagements and more a way to tell me she trusted me and valued our connection.

It became clear to me that my connections (I’m hesitating to call them relationships) with people, engaged as we all were in the shadowy world where drugs and prostitution meet, have an extremely short shelf life. We had no idea when or whether we’d see each other again. In fact, Tina left me with that promise of commando sex, and typically, in a pattern I hadn’t yet learned to see, I found that hos could disappear off the face of the earth, even when they owed me. It was almost inevitable we’d lose touch with the people we got close to. They don’t pay their phone bills, everyone uses assumed names, many couch surf. I haven’t seen or heard from Tina for more than two years. I worry that she may have joined the sad, sad opiate-OD class roster.

In late-breaking news, Facebook Messenger found Tina in my contact list, and I know now she has a significant other and hasn’t fatally OD’d, and I’m thankful because sometimes good things happen to good people, even if everything goes to shit for a while.