Angel

Angel is a drop-dead beautiful provider in her late 20’s, 5’ 5”, nice big, tight, squared-off tits, large C-cup, with beautiful curves and clear skin. I met her on Backpage. The first time we met I arranged to go to her hotel room. She had advertised very late, for in or out calls, but when I asked for an out, she said she and her friends had just arrived and spent all their money on the motel, and needed to eat, etc. Her published rate was $200, but I confessed I had only $140. She said that was fine, more than enough for a late night dinner, and we closed the deal. I liked her enough on the phone that I stopped at the ATM on the way to get more cash. I also had at least a ball of cocaine in my pocket, because I had the impression that this lady, and maybe her friends, would smoke with me. I had re-read her Backpage ad before I drove over there, was intrigued by her suggestion to “Ask about me and my friend,” and so I asked. Two-fifty for a half hour, so I said no, I’ll just hang with you, for two hundred for the hour, and I’ll bet you’re way nicer than your friend, and I handed her two hundred, explained how I’d stopped at the ATM so I could pay her full donation, and started removing my shoes and ankle braces.

Well my little Angel had her cellphone and the stack of twenties I’d just handed her held tightly in her fist when we heard a loud knocking on the door. She opened the door just enough to hold the doorframe with her phone and cash visible, and listen to some lady who identified herself as a manager of the motel explain from outside in a loud voice how there had been complaints about banging on the wall and any guests had to vacate the premises immediately and Angel had to be out by 7:00 in the morning. It was already past midnight.

Angel came back into the room and shut the door. This encounter was clearly over, before it had even started. I began to dress and then asked for at least some of my cash back, but my sweet cherub started moving here and there, looking everywhere; had misplaced it somehow, it wasn’t in the suitcase or her bra or the ho bag she carried, or in the bureau drawer in the back corner of her motel room. But wait, I suddenly realized, the manager was a scam. This chick was ripping me off! I felt a rush of adrenaline hit me, causing a blush to rise up my neck and across my cheeks, my voice to raise, and then realized in one huge clank of darkness that if I raised my voice or got crazy with my little seraphim then some hulking pimp would immediately materialize and pummel me into a permanent vegetative state. I finished dressing and left. Then I turned around and drove back, so I could write down the room number. I had no idea what to do. I was so unfamiliar with this section of town that I took the same wrong turn three times in a row. I was angry and confused, and I don’t know how I didn’t get arrested for my crazy drive home, finally turning across a three-lane intersection because I didn’t really know how to get there. I managed to plug my location into Google Maps, and that got me home safe. I was possibly more impaired than I understood.

Even before I finally got home, about 10 minutes later, I had begun to call Angel and to text her—really lit up her phone to the point it wasn’t useful for anything. I don’t even know if the phone I was lighting up was hers, it most likely belonged to her pimp. I reminded her how she’d ripped me off after I had stopped at the ATM specifically to get her more cash than she’d asked for, and that she and her cronies were idiots, because I still had two hundred bucks in my pocket when I got home, and I still had a whole ball of cocaine. I told her every time I smoked some I would send her more texts. Every ten or so messages, she would respond with a short message in reply, and I’d continue to write her mostly outrageous shit. I asked if she studied acting in college because she seemed to be good at it, I hoped she hadn’t wasted a potential career. I analyzed the ripoff she had orchestrated from my point of view, step-by-step, and texted it all to her. I told her the only whores who rip off their johns are stoned heroin junkies, and she protested a bit, but not convincingly. I kept referring to the crack I would have gladly smoked with her, and that kept her attention. Every hour or so, I’d smoke a ridiculous hit, and another fluttering migration of texts would fly out to my Angel.

I asked whether the story she told me about needing to eat was true, and then they sent a couple of photos of their dinner/breakfast, a big one, enough for two or three girls and their pimp. He got sausages. I keep the photo in my Flicker Pro account. I also told her how I had my prostate removed and my orgasms were dry, and she had given up the easiest blowjob in a hundred miles to rip me off for less cash than I was prepared to pay her in the first place, and she didn’t get to smoke with me, and how being stupid and mean was only hurting her and her shitbag friends. I was as mean as I could muster.

I told her in one message to play with her nipples while she read my texts. I got a message back immediately, acknowledging the joke, and saying she liked my sense of humor. I don’t know if that message (or any of them, really) were from her or her pimp, but I knew someone was reading.

After a couple of hours, she even offered to let me come over and she’d take care of me for free since I’d already paid and got nothing and wouldn’t stop complaining. I’d decided in advance on the answer to this not completely unexpected offer, and I tried to really let her have it. “Sweetheart, if I did that, I’d certainly pay cash, because I definitely do not believe in carrying a debt for sexual services, but I couldn’t come over now because I just couldn’t feel safe after you ripped me off already.“ In point of fact, I will admit I would love to have gone to visit this girl again and receive the services I had already paid for. The reason I didn’t, and instead stayed at home and insulted her as best I could, was because I was too tweaked out to go out.

It was by then probably 6:00 am. There was life outside. The tired, ragged night was eager to end, to hand over my attention to today, which had just arrived. I was reminded of my three-year-old daughter, just learning time intervals, who asked me one morning in a very grown up voice, “Dad? Is it tuh-day?” She wanted to know if this was the same slice of time someone had indicated when they said the word today. I assured her it was, in fact, today. And right here, in the immediacy of now, today still asserts her immediate jurisdiction.

I was merciless with this woman. I’d watch for Angel’s advertisements in Backpage and use the opportunity to text her again. Over the next couple of days, we texted half a dozen times, and she never admitted to doing anything bad. She swore the motel manager gambit was real (yeah!) and so forth. She finally admitted she was “forced” to rip me off by “a monster” who was, I suppose, her pimp. Her phone number kept changing. She kept dropping ads in BP.

I did finally end up seeing her again, “biblically” if you will, about a month later, and all her promising positive characteristics turned out to be true and real, and she gave me a lovely, squirmy, and successful BBBJ and GFE show. Two weeks later I blocked her number because she had begun asking me for help—money, drugs, motel bill [I shit you not!]—when she was nearby. Not enough to pay for another engagement, just enough to ask from me without any prospect of ever paying me back. Sorry, Angel. I hope you’re going to the clinic now, and maybe getting your life together. You’re worth it, my pretty, Angelic stoned junkie crack ho. Angel indeed.