Terri
Terri was blond, mid 40-ish, had fine tits, lived in Biddeford. She was quite a serviceable provider—easy to schedule, always in a good mood, a couple times she managed to get me hard enough to penetrate her fine shaved pink pussy, and she always got me off. She didn’t like giving blowjobs and was surprised when I mentioned that I’d noticed her reluctance; charmed but put off that I noticed.
I’d been with her probably 3 times when we discussed using cocaine. She indicated she could get it, so I offered to leave cash with her and pick up the drug next time I came to see her. She immediately said, “No,” and explained she couldn’t possibly be trusted to keep it until I arrived to get it. That may have been the last completely honest thing she said to me. Terri was the first provider I smoked with. It only took two hits for her to forget anything sexual existed. She was not fun to hang with high. Her geek was very annoying, but I was so inexperienced, I didn’t know about this geek thing. I didn’t know enough to understand how she was taking me, ‘cause as soon as a puff of crack crossed this floozie’s lips there was no more sex, not even just to look.
To illustrate how much I have changed, the first time I asked her to get me some cocaine, she drove to Portland with me and copped a very respectable ball. She ran over across the street, Steven’s Avenue, and dropped the package into the passenger side window of my car, then went back to Biddeford with her guy friend who made the connection for her, and I drove home. I got back in touch with her a week later, to see if she still wanted to smoke it with me. I hadn’t used more than a couple of flakes of it. I don’t think she believed me when I first told her. We got together, smoked about half of it, hung out for a couple of hours, cooked some in a spoon with seemingly no effect, and she froze me out from even looking at her tits. I eventually went home with the rest of my crack and dry heaved for an hour before I finally went to sleep. Nowadays, that ball would never last through the week. It wouldn’t last one run. That ball is today, defines today, is the only reason there is a today.
Harmony (Melody’s identical twin sister)
Harmony came to Portland when her identical twin sister Melody, whom I’d known for years, was living in West Palm Beach. Harmony drove to Portland and gave me a first-class blowjob at the motel where we met before I went in to work. She supposedly wired half the money to Melody. It was a very nice, relaxed and affectionate engagement, that seemed to make us both happy. I told her afterward, I imagined it was Melody’s mouth on me, because it was so easy to imagine she was her identical twin sister. Harmony seemed charmed and told her sister Melody about it, who was also, in her turn, charmed. My pillow talk is like that: charming and repeatable… Ha!
Vanessa
I picked up Vanessa very late in Parkside, on the last street before Park Ave. She waved and called out, emerging from shadows behind a small hedge, came to the car window and asked if her “pretty friend?” could come with us. I obliged, “Of course,” and we drove to a spot way in the back of the parking lot of La Quinta, just down the street, parked then turned off the engine and lights. I’d never met Vanessa, but she was easy, cheerful company. Took charge when necessary. Vanessa was in her mid-20’s, medium height, but she seemed taller because she was a skinny, irrepressible wreck. Her belly was muscular and her smile was sparkling white.
In the front seat Vanessa (who had just now called herself ‘the undressa,’ eliciting a spirited giggle from pretty friend) wearing only her hacked Daisy Dukes, fellated me while I flirted with her friend in the back seat until the last minute, when I leaned in very close to the laughing Vanessa girl herself. I admit, I faked it. I couldn’t climax into this chick’s mouth while her pretty friend’s head was cocked toward me from the back seat. I shuddered, panted, and sweated profusely to show my satisfaction with the whole deal, and then offered to take the girls wherever they needed. I also told them, if they were buying drugs, I would be interested in going in on the deal. I ended up giving Vanessa $300 total, for the BJ and the crack. The white kind of crack.
She took the cash and went into a house, either on Oak Street or the next street over, and left her friend with me in the car, parked on Cumberland at about 3:00 am, kind of a guarantee she’d return. Her friend was a hot fox, wanted to be in on any partying I was embarking on. I asked myself, wryly, what would I do with her, if Vanessa decided to run with the cash? I could have been a pirate, pretty friend could have been my booty. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum. Arrrrgh!
Vanessa came back and gave me four nice bags. She didn’t have to, and I would not have known had she decided to rip me off, or given me three rocks, or two. I gave her back one bag. A gratuity. I had no idea how cocaine buying worked, but I knew how to tip. The rock turned out to be good, though it would be two weeks or more before I had the opportunity to use it.
I had to disappoint the pretty friend, party-wise, but back in the car, before Vanessa came back, the friend did lean in, modestly flipped up the hoodie on the back of her shirt for a bit of privacy, then opened her shirt and unencumbered by lingerie, urged me to hold and caress her lovely, perky, and surprisingly heavy breasts. I took this at first to be a gift of pity-titty, and I reluctantly stopped that behavior when I realized I had no more cash to give her, and she was probably getting low on pity. Twenty-two year old chicks do not press their flawless elastic breasts into the inquisitive hands of some random elderly crack dude as a compliment to the old perv’s charming conversation. They want cash or drugs. Of course they do, bless their tender little crack-addled hearts. And if you smoke it with them, it no longer counts as far as any investment you may be counting toward the evenings depredations; we just smoked it up. I never got to smoke up the pretty friend, or Vanessa for that matter. At the time she got it for me, I truly had zero idea how to smoke it, didn’t own a pipe, didn’t know where to get one.
Confusingly, the only fact I was given about Pretty Friend was that she had to be at the methadone clinic in the morning with clean pee. I had no idea what that meant, though in retrospect, I don’t think the chick wanted to party, but she needed a sofa to sleep on. I had four bucks in my wallet, and folded it up and handed it to her with deep apology on my face. I asked about seeing her again, and she told me the best time to pick her up was early, early in the morning, like 6:00 am. Sometimes 5:00 am. Whenever I was in town for some reason at that unreasonable hour, I’d try to remember to keep an eye out for my pinky blonde friend, pretty and strung out, young, seemingly wise. Cursed.
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 and 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. Neon 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. 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 breasts, 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.
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, then 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.
Shona
Shona is a vile, stinking 50-something homeless street person with no teeth and a bad down habit. I picked her up off Congress Street late one night when she sat on a doorstep that was a common pickup spot for prostitutes. When I realized how old and yucky she was (no top teeth, among other infirmities), trying to avoid the awkwardness of just ordering her out of the car for being ugly, I told her I only wanted to buy drugs. She said sure, so I handed her a couple hundred bucks and she had me park in a driveway off Cumberland Ave and wait for her. She never came back. I did this again a few nights later, with an identical result. I was completely and effervescently stupid.
Shona used an expression, “I swear on my children,” which she enunciated in a low and ominous vocal timbre, gesturing with her mittens toward her “heart”; and both times she said it, she afterward knowingly and baldly ripped me off. Shona was a junkie crack ho of the lowest order. She had a place on Cumberland Ave, and also hung out near the homeless shelter. She did have children, but I know not whom nor where nor how numerous they are, nor how they fared after their mother’s repeated maledictive oaths. When bitchez swear on their children, you’re about to get fucked over. Fact.
Julie
Julie was a homeless woman who resembled Shona on the outside, but under the boots, hats, hoodies, scarves, and overcoat, wasn’t. One night I picked her up, thinking she was Shona, to confront her about ripping me off the previous night. She explained she wasn’t the same woman, and with some conversation we were able to figure out who the actual woman was who did rip me off.
Julie and I did procure some cocaine, and I took her to my house to enjoy some. Julie was smart, honest, and kind. She smoked with me and then gave me a very competent topless blowjob, which I paid her for. I didn’t cum, and she didn’t care. She introduced me to her connection, who took care of us that one time, but then he ripped me off twice after that before I stopped doing business with him. He went to jail, and I believe he may be out by now. I can’t help hoping he does OK, even though over time he fucked me out of almost $600. I learned a valuable lesson.
I later got the information from a reliable source that Julie died from an OD less than a month after the last time I saw her. Julie was a good person.
Cecile
I found Cecile on Backpage, and she was willing to make an outcall to me. Tall and in her late-thirties, I was charmed and slightly intrigued to find out she was a grandmother (the first of many times I would enjoy this particular enchantment—some might say fetish). Cecile loved to smoke cocaine and taught me many, many things about how to do it, and in general how things were done, specifically here at the intersection of sex work and the drug trade. She lived in Gorham with her “driver,” but that didn’t work out and she moved back to Lewiston with her son. Cecile is tall, slender, and curvy, with long straight raven-black hair, nice ass, and big sausage tits. When I drove to Lewiston to hook up at her new apartment, her son and his GF and baby were sometimes there. One night at my house, when we were both tweaked and I had fallen asleep, Cecile cleaned my bathroom, scoured the whole shower, sink, and toilet, mopped the tile floor and all the rest of it. It was quite thoughtful and generous of her.
Cecile was a very good provider, experienced and playfully perverted, a real pro. This was both good and off-putting. I liked her because she was, frankly, older. I was trying to stay away from younger providers, because the older babes were so satisfying, and God knows they needed the business. Cecile could turn very low rent on me, depending I think on vicissitudes of her down habit, which got worse over the time we hung out. And by older, I mean she was only 25 years younger than me. Good golly, I wonder if I have to think about this more deeply. Could I be missing something?
I remember one evening, during one of our earliest encounters, when Cecile reclined against the footboard, one leg up so I could watch her stroke herself while she skillfully fellated me, and I pulled her tits into the air by the nipples. Cecile assured me she loved just this attention. I climbed up and gently but willfully, with my enthusiastic love sabre invaded her mouth full of good-humored smirk, and by now I was growling and barking, in a quiet whisper, like a wolf who didn’t want to wake the puppies. Now, as this scene unfolded, I came to the dawning awareness my neighbors were admiring our wanton display through the translucent sheer gray silk drapes over the sliding glass doors. I turned Ceci over onto her knees and devoured her upturned ass from behind. I didn’t care if they could see. The next day I would cover the window with an antique quilt, that would protect my activities in the bedroom from the prying curiosity of the young people who lived upstairs, for the rest of the time I lived there. We puffed up and munched one another. Sometimes I thought perhaps Cecile’s equipment could be fresher, that it wasn’t so fun to suck her inside out unless we had just stepped out of the shower, which we did regularly. Lucky for us the shower was just through the door from the bedroom. I smelled Cecile in the floral shampoo and body wash, and the dryer sheet smell in the towels. Good god, I loved my life.
Cecile’s blonde friend
I had begun to travel to Lewiston quite often to hang out with dear Cecile. On one trip, her friend (let’s call her Jeannie) was there too. We all smoked some cocaine, it was a hot summer evening, clothing was loosened, shirts removed. Jeannie was very attractive, in her mid-30’s, with long straight light-brown hair. She was tall, slender and broad-shouldered, with perky B-size tits. She now sat on the floor right in front of me, puffing drug with me and her friend Cecile, and both had their beautiful bared bosoms displayed, swinging free. We sat there, high as shit, eyeing one another with goofy grins.
I stretched out my legs, leaned back and slid a hand into the waistband of my pants, made motions to unfasten them, and announced that I really wanted to get my dick sucked. This was, after all, the reason for my visit. Jeannie looked at Cecile, there was some momentary hesitation with glances between the two women, and then Jeannie slid over to oblige. I unzipped and freed my myself through the front of my boxers. I must admit, I don’t remember what Cecile was doing at that point; maybe she just held her big ol’ breasts draped over her crossed forearms and watched. We were all sitting on the floor and Jeannie slid toward me until our hips almost touched, then leaned over and took me in her hand to feed me into her smiling wet lips. My hands reached over to cup her tight breasts, with their tiny, almost transparent pink nipples. Her lips and mouth had now changed to pure massaging suction; I sighed contentedly.
I was so grateful for this beautiful girl’s attentions, I forgot to climax. Two or three minutes in I stopped her so we could all have another hit, and after that I moved over to mess with Cecile while she messed with her pipe. I sort of climbed over to settle myself behind Cecile, with her back against my chest. I nibbled her neck and reached around to grasp her right breast with my left hand and stroked her sex with long slippery presses of my index finger, over, around, and into her wet muffin. Cecile pulled in a big hit, pressed herself into my caress, and growled as she exhaled a brilliant white cloud.
Jeannie watched this intro, smiled and winked, wriggled back into her tank top, and discreetly left the room so Cecile and I could finish what we were starting just now. I never saw Jeannie again, and a little while later, I stopped seeing Cecile. For now, my fingers were thoroughly exploring Cecile, and with a small change of position, I was able to open my mouth to lay siege to Cecile’s relaxed and tangy sex. Moments later, in full sixty-nine, her busy mouth and encouraging murmurs urged me to a deep, satisfying orgasm, as I hummed my own anthem, with my mouth wide open, lip-locked and tongue flipping over her tart, steaming love canal.
I lost touch with Cecile for almost two years, but I just found her on my Messenger list. There are survivors. I’m glad to have left a good wake.
Victoria
Victoria was medium height, with curly dark hair, and a ravishing beauty. She was “friends” with Melody from Biddeford (you remember, she’s Harmony’s identical twin sister who was introduced in an earlier vignette, above), and they sometimes offered two-girl encounters on Backpage. Melody told me Victoria was hard to work with because she drank too much and wasn’t reliable. My experience is Victoria loved to drink and loved to snort cocaine.
I had been with her two times previously, a couple years earlier and at least a year apart. Both encounters had taken place early in the day, way before she would start drinking. She didn’t remember me. She was a very good provider. Beautiful tits. Tasteful tats, easy on the makeup. Quiet, attentive, hands-free BJ.
Once, we had tried to hook up, but something came up while I was driving to her which made it impossible to see me, so she said she owed me, because she fucked up the date. I called her from my car a few minutes later and asked for her cocaine connection. She gave me a name and number, and a guy with that name called me before I’d even hung up with Victoria. I had a big-ass ball of up delivered to my home 45 minutes later. That’s how I met her guy. I mean her connection, not her guy.
One night thereafter I ordered some product from this new connection and then thought to call Victoria for some T&A fun. She was with her friends, waiting for her guy, and some quick dialog made me realize she was waiting for the same guy I was. I drove over to Scarborough and met them all at the same time, then drove back home with Victoria, who sat quite drunk and talkative in my passenger seat.
It was awkward at first for us to be at my house, because in truth we didn’t know one another well. She had come to Portland with me, but she lived a half-hour away in Saco and didn’t have a car. Commitments were made, that I would bring her back to her place by the morning, in time for her to change, pack, and catch the train. We had between us considerably more than an eight-ball of excellent crack, I shit you not, it was probably five grams, and it was only about 10:00 pm. She carried a large soft-drink cup with a straw, full of white wine. I put the cup into the refrigerator, and there it stayed (until the next day when I found it after I’d already taken her home). She was quite drunk but funny and non-offensive, and ridiculously hot.
Back at my house, we messed around for the first half-hour, in bed, with relaxed oral sex involved, both giving and receiving, and we smoked with absolute minimum clothing for an hour or more, then talked and smoked and cleaned the bathroom, and re-ordered from our connex (who delivered at the time). Tried sex again and Victoria informed me that while 100% of men get horny smoking crack, only about 1% of women do. That was a round-about rejection, I guess. I didn’t know it at the time, but I would test this piece of information hundreds of times over the next couple of years. She did, I remember, after a couple of hours, allow me to eat her out and allowed herself to enjoy it and help me with her needs. This was, in fact, a rare experience with a provider, called, I believe, GFE. Most providers weren’t as classy and generous as my beautiful Victoria, or as expensive.
We were both completely geeking by dawn, and I drove her back home to Saco, from where she would take the train to some city to the south, I don’t remember which one. I headed back to Portland into an early spring sunrise, arrived home and slept until the next day. I’ve not seen Victoria since then, though we’ve spoken a couple of times.
Audrey
Audrey is a tall blonde with fine, in-your-face athletic tits, probably in her mid-to-late thirties (turns out she was in her late-twenties, but time rarely flatters the appearance of crack cocaine users). I met her through Backpage, where she offered out calls. She was fun for the first couple of hours, and then started geeking, and I had to learn about that part of the cocaine smoking experience. I was terribly inexperienced at smoking cocaine, all the rituals and stuff, as well as the simple engineering concepts involved, some of them important. Even chore, the crushed-up copper scouring pad that’s used as a filter in crack pipes, was beyond my understanding or power to control at the time. I didn’t know to plan to have supplies when I needed them.
Naïve, misinformed, inexperienced, high as fuck, I was a challenge for poor Audrey, who was in a strange situation, since the drug was mine, and we were at my place, and I had paid well for her provider services, but she knew how it should be done and that I was doing shit all wrong, and when she pointed out my errors all I did was push back and ask for explanations. I really, really didn’t know much, and it was very easy to do everything wrong, especially as high as I was. I was being a total dick with her about everything.
This was all more than poor Audrey could process. When high and tweaked, she delivered the worst BJ I had ever experienced up to that moment. She kissed, then sucked the side of my penis, almost as if she wanted to give me a hickey. Then she turned her head, went in for the kill, and proceeded to suck just the head of my cock, all enthusiasm and nose-breathing. Horrible! It hurt. I pulled away. Audrey delivered something I’d previously considered to be impossible! It would be 18 months before this signal accomplishment would be eclipsed by an even worse BJ from some SoPo chick who interestingly happened to be friends with Audrey, but that’s a long story. Stay tuned and keep reading.
I didn’t know that a crack ho didn’t want to just turn off the lights, turn off the stereo, slide under the covers with a partially dressed stranger, and go to sleep while they were high as shit and unlikely to sleep for hours. I kept talking like I was possessed by a demon. My guy had already driven over to resupply us, and she treated him like shit. Audrey wanted to go into town to buy more up, and when I wouldn’t drive her to town, because I still held the quaint belief, soon to be smashed to bits, that one shouldn’t get ridiculously high and then drive to the only place where one is likely to run into police and bad guys, and so with no other ride, Audrey called her friend Renée, who came to pick her up, drove her to town to get her (and me) more drugs and brought her back to me so I could drive her crazy some more. I did sleep while she was out, because I needed the sleep and I still trusted people. I’ll give her credit for bringing home most of the drugs I’d paid for.
Who knew there was such a thing as a bad blow job? I delivered Audrey to her work detail of recovering drug addicts bright-and-early the next morning at Dunkin Donuts in SoPo. I believe I bought a re-supply of cocaine on my way home, so I wouldn’t have to sleep away the beautiful, warm, sunny spring day.
Alicia
Alicia has curly red-blonde hair, stands just barely five feet one, weighs about a hundred pounds, is universally called “pretty.” I saw her around town quite often, and had always assumed she was street walking, so I’d been aware of her for at least a whole year. I always found her very attractive, and thought about her several times, even before I ever picked her up.
I had tried to pick her up one night after work, but it was the night after a snowstorm, and I lost her behind a snowbank and slush puddle. I couldn’t stop the car, it was the middle of winter, after work, frigidly windy and cold but still wet, and I may have left Alicia with a bad impression. Christmas decorations flashed and blinked everywhere without relief.
The first real encounter I enjoyed with her was in late June or early July, and I was driving through town early on a weekday morning, about 6:45 am. I stopped for her, and she skipped right over and got in the car. We ended up parking in the outdoor lot next to Maine Medical Center, facing the Brackett Street Market, in the golden rising summer sunshine and she proffered an excellent, fun and energetic blowjob, complete with earnest humming moaning grunts like an Olympian, indicating how hard she’s working, which I could enjoy while simultaneously rubber-necking, slowly turning 360 degrees around to make sure no one was nearby or observing us. I spoke quietly with her the whole time, letting her know how much I’d anticipated this moment, and savoring the shuddering rush as I climaxed in her lovely mouth. She looked up after a moment, grinning skeptically to inquire whether I was finished. “Did you come?”
Making small talk afterward, driving her to her down connection’s house, I tried to establish the best time to pick her up, and I said, flirtatiously, “I think you’re a “morning person.'” Silly me. I learned later that 7:00 am was the end of Alicia’s day, not the beginning. Every day time stretched like this, released, boomeranged. Early in the progress of every day, I learned, the end of the previous day must come to pass.
Alicia is a stoned junkie crack ho and does not always look as attractive as she did when I first met her. Her partner beats her up quite regularly, at least once he received months of jail time for Domestic Abuse, and so over the years, her face has been changed by the broken eye sockets (both), and the broken nose (also twice). Her few tattoos seemed spontaneous and skanky. And yet, she is still beautiful. Alicia is quiet and thoughtful and lives in her head, loves anything “pretty” and “artistic.”
The first time we smoked together, we puffed and then messed around, then smoked some more. Her BJ was pleasant but unsuccessful because that’s what rock does to me. After a couple minutes with her head bobbing up and down in my lap, of her sighing, moaning purposefully, and nose breathing, with a seemingly genuine enthusiasm if not quite passion, I suggested she stop, pulled her kneeling figure upright and pressed her bare body against my mostly bare one. She had a way of playing the martyr, setting me up to relieve her of the obligation we’d already sealed with cash, to lift the burden from her shoulders of being a slut whore– no wait, I mean provider– who, though she had been legitimately engaged to perform oral sex, didn’t really like sucking dick, was known to stop outright mid-act to renegotiate.
I suggested another “bump,” gesturing toward the drugs on the nightstand. [I had actually begun calling it a “bite” because I was beginning to understand how toxic and damaging crack cocaine could be, but the expression never became more than an in joke.] She acceded. Puff, puff. Then she asked if she could take the stem. Like, take it home. I gave it to her. The tip was broken but it was otherwise serviceable. And she asked for “a forty rock” in lieu of the cash for the BJ (“I’ll just use it for that.”) but I said no, not because I wasn’t inclined to give her some, but because I didn’t have any to spare. I did legitimately pay her forty bucks in cash. She knew my rock was better than what she would get in a forty bag in town. I had no idea how much a forty-rock weighed, what it looked like, and I didn’t think Alicia was the right person to ask. So I said no that time, but I did say yes to her requests to take some rock home since then. Not in lieu of cash, but because I knew her boyfriend/pimp sent her out to get them some rock and didn’t care how she got it. I also came to the realization I was interested in getting it out of my house, because lately when I had it, I smoked it. I wouldn’t sell it, but I’d give it away.
This is a fair portrait of Alicia. She asks for what she wants. She remembers the flavors of soda I keep in my refrigerator. She suggests I take her to the beach, and she wants to go to the drive-in sometime, because she’s never been. She asks and asks, not forcefully, nor pleadingly, but just the bald request, as if she knows if she doesn’t ask she’ll never receive, and there’s exactly no downside to asking. We stop at Dunkin Donuts for a free Coolatta, because she has a coupon in her handbag. Redeeming it requires the purchase of a donut. I put the donut on my card; found it later in the bedside wastebasket, uneaten. Our conversations are mostly about what she wants.
I found her beautiful, almost achingly so, despite that she’s 30 and has had four children. She doesn’t have custody of them, but she posted their pictures on her Facebook. Alicia is a ginger, fair, curly-haired, red-headed and tiny. She could have been one of Henry VIII’s wives—Mary Queen of Scots, one who was beheaded. Her kids are tall, round, and milk chocolate, like their father I suppose. Women who have babies when they’re very young and eat a reasonable diet when they’re pregnant seem to recover their bodies better than women who wait until they’re older to have kids. Alicia is a strawberry blonde, curly-haired, blue-eyed symbol of American female beauty, who sucked dick like a champ when she could be bothered. I never stopped loving Alicia’s attentions.
Amy
Amy is young, pretty, and blonde. She posted an ad very late at night on Backpage. I followed the postings there like a hawk and could tell who was partying and who might be trustworthy and fun. The late posters were usually partiers. She came over on an out call very late, maybe 11:30 on a Friday night.
Her body was a splendid blonde trainwreck. She’d lost a lot of weight quickly, and some of her belly felt like cottage cheese. She believed she was selling only her company and oral sex, and only at her constantly evolving discretion. I allowed her to do that: pull me to her, then push me away. I don’t think she’ll find a lot of other Johns who will treat the successful completion of agreed sexual services as optional.
She was charming and articulate, and gave a competent if distracted blowjob. I felt her rate, $180/hr was fair and entitled me to GFE, but I think she was perhaps mis-informed. When I went down on her, she started to enjoy herself, but then just let out an escalating series of cries and yelps, and finally two shrieks the neighbors surely heard. (Once, soon after my night with Amy, the nosy neighbor chicky mentioned something like, “Let me tell you one thing—fake orgasms,” with no other explanation.) It’s important to keep in mind, I was doing nothing rough, strange, or unannounced, but persuaded by her loud screeches, I ended my quest to French kiss her tasty tunnel. I remember almost nothing about her physically besides her pinkness. Her chest was essentially flat, just the suggestion of A-sized curve with precise small dark nipples. I believe she was trimmed but not shaved, and frankly gave every indication she wasn’t expecting visitors to her underground love playground. I believe she was about 25.
I found her friendly, and full of odd surprises. She had no top teeth and instead wore a good-looking set of dentures. I would never have known if she hadn’t pointed them out—I may have complimented her teeth, because I am a complete and utter dork. When I offered to share my cocaine with her, she took timid puffs, as if she didn’t want to get high. I was new at this whole crack ho thing; it never occurred to me this was something to be concerned about, a red flag. I was perhaps the worst possible influence on dear Amy, though I never acted in any way but polite and generous. I urged her to set her limits and expectations. She was altogether charming with me.
Amy may have been the only ho I engaged who was being formally exploited. She was in a constant state of high alertness, jumpiness, and her driver needed to know where she was every fifteen minutes. I expect the guy was probably a real shitbag, as most of the guys living off crack hos are. A couple of times over the short few days I knew her, she seemed to be pressing me to learn or remember the name, “Amy” from Falmouth or Cumberland, she told me nicknames using that sound, like Amielie, and Ami.
Amy had a special needs daughter (Aspberger’s spectrum, I believe), wide eyed with ADHD, maybe PTSD, and who knows what other ominous acronyms applied, and her Mom was fighting the doctor’s recommendation to medicate her. She stopped at my house the day after our first encounter, at my urging, with her daughter in tow—talkative and inquisitive and out of control, who found and pressed the lever on my refrigerator door to grind out ice cubes onto the kitchen floor and would sit entertained in front of the TV if someone was in the room with her. I had simultaneous but conflicting designs which involved getting my hands all over her Mom’s tits and ass. The little girl won, of course. This lovely, talkative, damaged, and precocious girl would be a difficult addition to any family, but a disaster really, for my poor Amy from Falmouth or Yarmouth or Cumberland, with no money, no job, no place to live, and no teeth. She would never make a living being a provider. No chance. And I wish her nothing but good luck and blessings.
Lynette
Lynette is tall and rail thin, in her mid-twenties, from the Lewiston area. I met her on Backpage when her pimp of the month shot a series of very classy photos for ads and posted them. She has a huge mop of dark hair. She is tall, thin, and nearly, but not quite flat-chested and appears athletic. Her breasts growing over her narrow rib cage seemed not to be able to fit across evenly, so one grew a little lower than the other—making room for both. All my memories of Lynette feature her breasts, so easy to reach down and hold, one squeezed in each hand, or my hands stroking her almost cylindrical rib cage, holding her ponytail while we 69’ed and her throat, stuffed with me, hummed short catchy melodies of assent. Lynette seems to get pleasure from our encounters, and her company is always great. She told me once I was her only “regular” and her favorite client, even though we were only together maybe four times. I was very attracted to this gorgeous Gypsy raven of a girl.
Lynette is young, and with her, I was consciously starting an experiment with younger women, breaking a rule I’d held more or less silently for years, not to abandon women my age for younger women. I was seriously attracted to women my age, but never thought they were anything but unattainable. The older ones were smarter and much less likely to put up with bullshit; I was strongly physically attracted, older chicks dig that. I even joked about how as I got older I had found myself delightedly attracted to women in an ever-widening range of ages and sizes and temperaments. At eighteen, I thought 18-year-old chicks were sexy as hell. At 20, I still found the 18 y/o’s sexy, but now I hungered for those hot 20-year-olds too. For every year older I got, a geometrically increasing number of desirable and age-appropriate possible partners yawned before me. Older women feel disappointed and inadequate when the sex doesn’t work, younger women feel relieved. Old guys are not hard to take care of.
Seriously though, back in the always present now, the sixty-year-old crack ho’s (even the ones still in their forties!) were almost always used up and discarded way before I met them, and while perfectly sexy and adequate providers, they tended to be quite bitter and dishonest, and hence mistrustful. Imagine that! A stoned junkie crack ho who opportunistically lives off and rips off friends, family, acquaintances, anyone she can, for a decade or more, finds herself mistrusting everyone around her. I learned, partly in the company of this elegant companion Lynette, that the young providers were more likely to be upbeat and fun, to enjoy themselves and help me to enjoy myself as well, and I never felt I had to watch them every minute. For the same prices, who would choose any different? And maybe they were all headed the same way–the young hos just hadn’t accrued as much bitterness and debt. Regardless, in general the young ones were more relaxed, easier company.
When I’m with her, Lynette seems marvelously young and upbeat. She’s also a stoned junkie crack ho. When we met, she’d shown me photos of her two kids, daughter and son, both under five at the time. The kids’ Dad is in jail I believe, or he was. Lyn was headed to rehab soon after we first met, once told me the next time I saw her she’d be “fat and sober.” I even went up to Lewiston once to “see her off,” meaning she got me off with her mouth for a hundred bucks (she only asked for sixty, but I often set my own prices) and a couple puffs of cocaine; a couple for me and a couple for Lynette, and a couple more for Lynette’s snaggle-toothed crack-ho ex-stepmother, who let Lyn use her spare room (and inflatable mattress) to entertain me, whom I would gladly have paid to suck me off herself (maybe she’d have only charged me forty) but I never had the opportunity to do so, since her ex-step daughter had already stepped up and taken care of my libidinal needs for the moment. Her son was there too, which could have proven quite awkward indeed. God knows, hooking up with Ma would doubtless mean breaking some unknown taboo I hadn’t already broken. Truthfully, I’d love to feel that one visible tooth Stepmom grinned with, scraping electrically against my erection, firing off orgasmic fireworks the entire length, which she’d have already sucked tightly and deeply, into her accommodating mouth. Her lips were thin and intriguing, I wanted to feel the Zen-sation of her one tooth chomping. Mmmm. Sorry, just a fantasy. Didn’t happen. I guess it could happen. It’s astonishing how bad an influence fifty bucks and a bag of crack cocaine can be.
Lynette never went to rehab. First her admission date got moved two weeks into the future, and then apparently the option just disappeared. Lynette called me late the night she was supposed to go, completely drunk and incoherent, and likely skagged-out, hysterical, to let me know she had been parked with her friends at the supermarket down the street from my house, but she was too drunk to talk, and didn’t want to be ditched at my house. Good God, I didn’t want that either. We didn’t connect. I saw her one more time after that, when she walked, in violated fishnets and untied high top sneakers, across the empty club parking lot at 9:30 on a Sunday morning, to meet me and bring me upstairs while she held the skirt of her black party dress rolled up in one hand, looking for all the world like a whore who just woke up in the backseat of a car in the back of the lot. I could easily pass for her (tall and comparatively well-dressed) grandfather. Maybe her lawyer. My behavior was unlikely to be mistaken for avuncular. I slid my hand around her back and down to the top of her leg, just below the curve of the cheek of her ass. I adore that girl, and I hope she has moved on. She advertised on Backpage for at least a year, but then seems to have disappeared. I hope she’s well.
Phyllis
Phyllis is a tall, barely plus-sized woman, with awesome tight tits and butt, carefully shaved pudendum and a beautifully relaxed demeanor. I met her through Backpage and paid her a couple hundred bucks for the out call. She got me off twice in the encounter and smoked up with me. She’s in her very early forties, mostly straight-laced, recovering from any number of ailments and issues.
Her most interesting trait is the major surgical scars across her torso from treatments for something or another. The scars threatened to be off-putting, but the lighting was good, and the impression she made was of a large, smooth, and attractive woman, educated and experienced with a pleasant, relaxing voice. She was not above acting the bit of a horny perv, a babe who could keep her client’s attention. Lying side-by-side but head to foot, she lifted her knee to her chest to allow me to finger her hot muffin at arm’s length. She was very relaxed, easy to talk to. She’s a pro.
My favorite memory of her is how, soon after we first met, as we pretended to be breathless lovers and after I’d gotten her out of her top and bra, she let me roll her onto her back and perform intercourse with her mouth, as I pulled her hair to bring that suction up onto my surprisingly hard love sabre, and then let her head drop back down. She gave me her mouth for intercourse. With my knees astride her shoulders, my fingers dug into her uncharacteristically short hair, practically sitting on her big rack, I reached down and pulled her head up and down and slowly fucked her lips, and Phyllis breathed and sighed and found the exact same rhythm I breathed and sighed, and with her helpful encouragement I bucked and climaxed right, right, right there, holding her hair, and she held that perfect wet suction and I realized she didn’t know beforehand that my orgasm was dry, and I savored that gift, that she gave me a magnificent suck and swallow, and didn’t know she’d avoid the uncomfortable stuff. This was a fine sexual treasure she had given me, had urged me to enjoy.
When she realized there would be no semen, she became very relaxed and affectionate, rubbed her cheek against my cock and grinned, made me reassure her I’d truly orgasmed. We puffed, and played around, I nibbled her nipples, and we talked and talked for way over the hour I’d paid for and she got me off again before she left. I only saw Phyllis that one time, though I called her once quite late; she asked me straight out whether I wanted her or just a blowjob, because if it was the latter, then I would save time and money paying a local girl, and she implied she wasn’t puffing. She still advertises, and her ads imply she doesn’t use drugs anymore. I believe her and wish her well.
Reese
I originally found Reese on Backpage. She almost always advertised in “massage,” but very occasionally in escorts. Normally, massage means minimal contact, but “escort” means more. The cross-posting indicated to me she would not be too offended by my requests, even if I asked for more than just a massage. [Actually, the prissiness I’m implying could very well be overstated, since more than one of her massage ads offered optional, obviously up-charged, prostate massage. ~~~!!]. Reese brought gloves to her encounters.
I was searching massage because the escort section had gotten too familiar to me—same unreliable chicks, same song and dance. I called Reese, who was using another name on BP. We made some small talk, and I asked her to make an outcall. I thought that’s what her ad offered, but this is apparently almost always a no-no in her book. For some reason she agreed to come over, she explained later it was because of my innocent and trustworthy voice, because I didn’t squawk about her price, and because I offered to pick her up and bring her back. I met her in town twenty minutes later.
One interesting twist obtained with our first encounter, that Reese did not post her photo. This first time I picked her up, I had no idea what she looked like. I was pleasantly surprised to say the least, when Reese got into the car and turned out to be tall, slender, broad-shouldered, with elegant posture and quite beautiful features. Glorious ass. I thought she was a dancer, or a dance teacher. She had long straight brown hair she took care of. Pulled it back into a ponytail in the car more than once, and when she did, her hair wafted a subtle aroma of cleanliness.
Reese was easy to talk to, with a quick and slightly dark sense of humor. She used that annoying but almost universal expression, “Riiighttt?” to indicate assent, like the rest of the people of her generation, roughly twenty years my junior. “Riiighhtt?” indicates agreement with the premise of the conversation while simultaneously rejecting any further interest in the details.
As much as my eyes love holding her in their gaze, Reese is not perfect, with a pointed nose, overbite, slightly sunken cheeks, tracks from shooting dope (which were revealed from under her sleeves when she plied this trade) but with a clear complexion, and features pretty from almost every angle. She seemed both slim and comfortably substantial, graceful and balanced, with a lovely vibe that felt calming. When we got to my house, and into my bedroom, I offered her some weed, which she turned down. Then I offered her some cocaine to smoke. She immediately relaxed, got interested and attentive, and our conversation turned easy-going and silly. She had brought her own stem. Of course she had brought her own stem, and rig, and some heroin, gloves and wipes. This is how Reese rolls.
We puffed and talked and looked one another over, and I proceeded to explain to her, in what was for me now a normal provider opening information session, about my infirmities and what I expected. “I can’t have penetrative sex because my prostate was removed and I rarely get hard enough. I only reliably get off with oral, it feels great if I’m not hard, even better if I am, my orgasms are dry. I like touching,” I told her, as she smiled and slid closer to me on the side of the bed. Reese reached over to grasp my belt, leaned in and growled in a silly, cartoonish whisper, “Well, I think we can take care of that!”
We got mostly undressed, kept talking, began to touch, calm, exploring, but not dawdling, each of us murmuring serial approvals. I laid on my back atop the blankets, with Reese on hands and knees, nearly perpendicular to me, where she could fellate me while my hands explored the fine geography of her body. This was a warm night in early summer, and the bedroom air was perfectly close; it felt like no temperature at all. I believe by then Reese wore nothing but a maroon thong, and in our throes, I slipped my fingers under its tiny lace protection to modestly press fingertips and palm against her pretty trimmed posterior.
Her blowjob was superb, unhurried, with her finally on her knees on the floor in front of me, while I sat, legs spread and dangling over the side of the bed, one or the other leg alternately wrapping around her torso, her head briskly nose-breathing up and down in my lap, all business now. I slid in and out of her mouth, as she orchestrated lips, tongue, and the rhythm of her breathing into a truly pleasurable suction, gripping my thighs with her hands, taking control and taking my dick, passively open-mouthed to start, every full stroke just like the last but better, slightly louder, or faster, with more cymbal or oboe or harp glissando, like a Phillip Glass sonata, each handful of measures repeating the last handful, and at the same time rising and deepening in texture, allegro mà non tróppò, frequency and amplitude, fast, quick breaths, and pulling her tits, up and down, everywhere.
Reese listened for my rhythm, found it, never paused, and this first time, she even offered her pony tail for me to hold and direct her movements, though there was no way I could improve on what she was already giving me. I thrilled to hear her breathing vivace con brio, through her nose, exhaling encouraging murmurs, brilliantly accelerating with me until I felt my climax organizing itself, climbing through my body from the tips of my fingers and toes back, toward my center, my core, my groin, and I felt that electric surge that bends gravity itself. I stiffened, gripped her ponytail, implored her. to. do. yes. exactly. that, and I climaxed deeply, held tight and immobile in her mouth, both of us panting like horses, smiling, shivering, twitching electrically, with little spontaneous giggles. We slowed, stopped, then barely separated, with her face in my hands. As we calmed down, she laughed in her liquid alto, looked up at me, smiling and still panting, said, “Well, that was a workout! You sure you came?”
This was lovely! A warm, early-summer night, with this beautiful girl who was someone new and fun and relaxing to get high with. There is much more to the story of Reese. So much more! I never again got my hands on Reese’s lovely but sacred sex. Her angle is, “Some shit you just don’t get to have.” I take this as a challenge. Please keep reading.
Ronnie
I found Ronnie on Backpage. She usually advertised in Biddeford, but this time she was working out of Portland. We arranged a pickup spot, and a half hour later she was basically naked in my bed. She was medium height, maybe 5’5”, slender, dark-haired, attractive, tried to act the dirty girl. I wasn’t buying that. She was open-minded. Fair enough.
For this first meeting, Ronnie was very friendly, polite, and sweet. She named her price (I think it was $120), somewhat high, but I paid it without complaint. At that point, after slipping the cash into Ronnie’s eager fist, and seemingly out of the blue, I offered her some cocaine to smoke. Of course she’d smoke with me! She never got offers like this. Her mood clicked up a half-dozen notches. We got very high, talked and laughed. When we got down to the work she’d come to perform, we were unsuccessful because of that side-effect of the drug, which lets me get horny, and even get hard, but not to orgasm. We messed around for a half-hour or so, she proffered a perfectly adequate blowjob, but I gave up in a good-hearted way, pulled out of her mouth with a flop, grinned, and lavishly French-kissed her. “Honey, it’s not you, it’s me. Look up prostatectomy on Wikipedia.” I got up and dressed, implied we’d hook up again, took another puff with her, and drove her back to town.
Ronnie is young (under 25, I think), and has some serious issues, not least the fact she’s a stoned junkie crack ho, whose boyfriend regularly sent her out on the street to get money for their drugs, and once knocked out or broke off all her top teeth. This cannot be good for business. I didn’t realize this when we first met—she had a way of holding her lips over her mouth, so it wasn’t obvious. Also, she had at least a couple of children (not in her custody, apparently), one somewhat recently, and her body was a pink white wreckage from the ordeal. She was also what I would describe as “casually clean,” and everything about her—clothes, lingerie, her skin—seemed slept-in.
The next day I learned one downside of connecting with a crack ho who’s a junkie, which is that they try and stay very close to any john who treats them decently. She called and asked me to see her again. I didn’t have time, or really much desire to see her again, but she persisted because she “really, really needed” money to cop down. I drove to town and picked her up (she’d dropped her price to $70, which is, not coincidentally, the standard price for a half-gram of heroin), brought her to my house where this time I was able to orgasm while she enthusiastically fellated me, kneeling topless on the floor of my bedroom, as I twisted and tried to gently torture her nipples, but I couldn’t distract her single-minded lips, and I was frankly afraid my titty attention would occasion lactation, which thank God didn’t happen, and I ended up dropping her off near where she was to meet her connection, and was perfunctory when I dropped her off. I didn’t want to see her again. She’d earned her seventy bucks.
A couple of days later she texted me again, and when I wouldn’t see her, she begged me to please, Please, PLEASE bring her another seventy bucks, which I could bank as an IOU and the next time I saw her I’d get her full service erotic attention for as long as I wanted, for free. She promised to “love me long time.” I drove into town, gave her forty, and then drove home feeling used. I never collected that debt of course; IOU’s for sexual services are never collectible. Over the ensuing weeks and months, Ronnie persisted in calling, asking for favors in return for some implied impassioned sexual services she would gladly supply in some mysterious and uncertain future; I persisted in saying no.
She continued to call, and the phone stories got more and more outlandish. Ronnie and her boyfriend moved back to Biddeford, and I felt relieved she was finally out of my life. Then I started getting texts from someone who was using Ronnie’s phone, claiming she was in jail and they were trying to raise money to bail her out. I texted my concern and support but couldn’t help with the bail. The other party persisted, I continued to refuse. I came to realize soon afterward that Ronnie wasn’t really in jail and the bail thing is a hustle.
Heroin addiction does not bring out the best in people. Ronnie apparently got very grimy, and she’s either in jail or has left the area because she was hot, like feloniously hot. I wish nothing but good luck and blessings to her. She will need all that and more. I met her sister Stacy about eight months later. Read on.
Anne
I found Anne on Backpage. Interestingly, she first caught my attention when she and Ronnie (with whom she had been best friends since childhood) advertised two-girl encounters. By the time I had determined I’d like to see this girl, she was working on her own out of Sanford. One evening I texted her and arranged a meeting.
Anne is amazingly cute and down-to-earth. She’s probably 5’3” or less and weighs maybe 120, probably less. Anne is also impossibly young– twenty-three when I met her, almost 40 years younger than me. She could be a camp counselor, maybe from band camp. Everything about her delighted me. She has two daughters, but they don’t live with her. Her body is slim, pretty, and perfect, with only the slightest hint of stretch marks. Tanned and muscular in a natural, unforced way from spending a lot of time outdoors. She loves to laugh, has a wonderful, warm sense of humor, and a bubbly enthusiasm. Her only possible downside is her voice, which can get surprisingly shrill, nasal, and screechy when she starts talking fast, or gets annoyed, which she often does because she lives an impossibly stressful life.
For this first meeting, she rarely raised her voice. I had brought cocaine, so we smoked some to start. She was relaxed, entertaining, and silly as she removed her clothing and started helping me take off mine, not forgetting for a moment why I was there. Her naked torso, with perfectly proportioned tits, made the breath catch in my throat. I expressed with growling murmurs and inquisitive fingertips my interest in the rest of her body, and she finished undressing and curled up next to me on the sofa, to assist my unbelting, unbuttoning, unzipping myself.
She had already grasped and now held me in her hand, as I asked if it was OK to give her oral pleasure, and she said she’d recently changed her birth control method and had been spotting ever since and didn’t know if it had stopped. We were by now splayed, mostly naked on the couch. She let go of my cock, took my hand and brought it to her mouth, sucked the length of my index finger into her pursed lips to wet it, and with tugs and gestures invited me to slide my now slippery finger up into her pretty (mostly) shaved slippery lambchop to find out for myself. I was charmed beyond belief by this simple gesture because I’d never been invited to examine the merchandise in such a relaxed, unembarrassed way.
My finger burrowed all the way in, then slid out with some small evidence of spotty bleeding, so we both shrugged, I wiped my finger on a proffered tissue and proceeded to burrow myself closer to this smiling angel. With my fingertips, I traced and pressed every inch of her (except, well you know I didn’t go back into her slippery little sex), I held her sweet perky breasts tightly in each hand, then laid back on the sofa while my little naked cherub knelt on the floor in front of me to give me an enthusiastic and deeply fulfilling blowjob. She liked it when I laid her down and climbed over to feign intercourse with her mouth. She hummed and moaned her assent, and her eyes twinkled when I looked down at her mouth full of me. When I slowed above her, she stretched her neck up to take more of me into her mouth. She slid her lips and tongue up and down, sucking hungrily, hiccuping encouragements, and even made a little choking sound when she took me too deeply into her throat. Never for a second did my precious Annie let go her lovely suction and churning rhythm, which joined my slow pumping oscillations and allowed me to climax deeply and very satisfyingly. [And dry, bone dry, that happy, silly side-effect of my cancer treatment.] “You sure you came?” she asked, out of breath, with a coquettish grin, quizzical as if she’d missed the punchline, but there she got it. No punchline. We giggled our mutual small delight.
Sadly, Anne, my pretty-pretty Annie, with the fingernails on a chalkboard voice, turned out to be a stoned junkie crack ho like so many others. One of the last times we spoke, more than a year after I first met her, I sat in my car, window down in front of an ATM in Biddeford, trying to figure out how much cash I needed to withdraw for the weekend, while arguing with her on the phone when she called from York County Jail (where she’d been sent after being picked up on a warrant for non-payment of a fine). We argued and I called her a cunt and hung up. [I fucking hung up on my sweet Annie’s “only” phone call from jail!] Instantly remorseful, I called back the jail phone number moments later, and got through to the clerk, but there was nothing I could do that didn’t require me to pay off her $240 fine and another couple hundred in fees and penalties and I was fucking furious because that’s what Anne insisted I should do. The worst part is I think I had already paid off that fine, or I had paid her to pay it off. That obviously didn’t happen, and it still makes me furious. Tech tip: You can hit callback and get rung right back through to the clerk at the York County Jail. Who knew?
Oh, pretty Anne, icky Anne, grimy Anne. I still love her. I hope she finds the help she needs. Her kids are amazing, smart, talented, close to her, and they will surely have a good life together if Anne can stay away from heroin and whoring and being homeless. She’s young and strong and holds few illusions about life, and she manages to stay upbeat. I believe her life will be a good one. I know for a fact, she’s still working on it. We are in touch.
Janessa
Janessa is the reason this document exists. I found her through an ad in Backpage, “beautiful, green-eyed, down to earth,” with several modest but attractive photos which obscured her face but resonated with me. For various reasons I couldn’t arrange a meeting that night. I screen-shotted the ad so I’d remember the phone number. A couple of nights later her ad appeared again, and I called immediately and arranged for her to come to my house that night.
Eventually Janessa would prove to be delightful company. She arrived quite a bit later than arranged, then had been dropped off at the driveway next door, and had to walk across the side lawn in her high-heeled sandals, while I watched her from the deck under the nearly full moon. When she first arrived, we talked for awhile, quietly outside on the deck, shared a cigarette. I learned she thought she was obliged as a good provider to wear heels to her engagements, as well as nice clothes. I was pleased she didn’t injure herself, walking across the lawn in those heels, patting herself on the back with all this self-congratulation.
I brought her in from the deck and showed her around a bit, so she’d know how the house was laid out, to show her we were alone. She asked if I was a cop, and I said, “No, are you?” I remember we stopped at the big side-by-side refrigerator in the kitchen, peered in to find drinks. Due mainly to recent shopping expeditions, I had a broad selection of refreshments, juice, sodas, water: bottled or filtered, fizzy or flat. Coffee, tea, milk, San Pellegrino soda, ice cubes. She said if I had Pinot then all her dreams had come true. I didn’t have Pinot, though I asked her for clarification later. I think this doll drank Pepsi, non-diet, and for some reason I had that. The Pinot she referenced was actually some plonk she used to decant into pitchers at the restaurant job she’d held twelve years ago, and we were never able to find the exact label again. Oh, the places we would go.
Janessa was very easy to look at—at the time, I felt she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, or at least one I might ever hope to touch and interact with physically, one who might find me interesting, a woman I could possibly afford. She had straight, slightly frizzed hair (it had been ironed I learned later), cut just long enough to tie back securely with an elastic hair tie into a thick ponytail, which she pulled out and retied multiple times every hour, depending on how restless she felt.
Janessa spoke in a breathy feminine, slightly rough, whisper. Her conversations could sound like songs. I had to tip my head to hear sometimes, had to lean in, but the effect of her voice was sultry and oh-la-la sexy. Her breathy whispered speaking voice is how some people remember her, how they’d reference her, “you know, the chick with that whisper voice?”
Her ad mentioned she was 420 friendly, so I offered her weed. She perfunctorily declined, proving the statement in her ad meant she was ‘stoner friendly’ but not a stoner herself. I then asked if she wanted to smoke anything else. “Like what?” she asked, a little aggressively, with a questioning half-smile, and I said, “Like this cocaine?” and her eyes lit up and she got wiggly and skeptical. “Wait, show me you’re not a cop again?” she asked, knowing that involved me grabbing her tits down the front of her shirt, and her reaching down my pants, a ritual we had accomplished 10 minutes before, after which I’d announced I very much liked that test. I laughed and reached over to the desk drawer to pull out the drugs. She excitedly announced she had a stem, a horrible trumpet shaped thing that was broken at the tip and needed chore, but she wanted to prove she was prepared, nonplussed, up to the task. I had my own stem, just the tip broken off, and smooth enough to hit from either end. We made do.
I paid her $200 in cash immediately–I dropped ten twenties onto the nightstand, beside where she’d placed her purse. We got high, we conversed, and after some procrastination (she was known later on to call it “procrackination” and all of us were victims of the malaise) Janessa finally started her “show.” She blessed me with one fine BBBJ (bare-backed blowjob, and yes I know), relaxed, skillful, and quietly fulfilling with graceful movements and perfect suction, the quiet sound of her breathing through her nose, small murmurs of assent and encouragement, attuned precisely to my level of attention and intensity, I leaned back flat on the mattress with my legs hanging over the side as she grasped my knees, one in each hand, and her lips held me with the advanced precision of her deep pneumatic grip. Janessa showed me exactly what I wanted, taught me new things to dare to desire.
That first night may have been the best first-engagement ever for me. It was among the most enjoyable [spoiler: of many] engagements I had with Janessa, certainly in the top 5. Good God, this marvelous crack courtesan had gotten high with me, sucked me off (“You sure you came?” she queried, grinning) with most of her clothes off, and we had spent two and a half hours engaged in one non-stop conversation, gentle, quiet, inquisitive, probing, almost unbearably empathetic. We could have talked much later. I puffed a bunch with her just before I sent her off with her ride. I told her I’d like to see her again, she said she usually charged $250/hour for services, I said I usually paid $200. We looked at each other like we’d just laid down a challenge and come to a half-grinning stalemate, and then she left.
I felt the universe begin to rumble and hum, joyously acknowledging my having met and spent time with this lovely, intriguing, and charismatic woman. How could I have missed the hints, that the sound I heard was my space-shot life re-entering the atmosphere, just beginning to burn up in a glorious fireball? Wait! Don’t lose that babe’s phone number. Whooosh.
I called her again two nights later and arranged for her to come over, only earlier this time. She was pleased to hear from me, agreed to my time, then showed up hours late, even later than before, at maybe 2:30 am. We would explore this trait in her, her penchant for being ridiculously late, many times over the next year. For now, I had a new friend, for me a dazzling beauty, born in 1980, who is a junkie (I had little understanding of that term at the time, though I was a quick-study) crack ho, who seemed to know all the dealers of all the drugs. And she liked me! She arrived, and we puffed and began talking like crazy. She told me how the night of our previous meeting, she was impressed, and touched really, by the fact I didn’t try and use the drugs to change the terms of the provider agreement. I didn’t try and get her to drop her price (for dropping her knickers, right?), and I told her my experience is if there’s rock to smoke, the price doesn’t change but the time limits get looser. Two hundred bucks an hour, but the second hour, spent geeking and puffing and flirting, was free. Sometimes, with Janessa, the provision of services that motivated the meeting were forgotten in our bullet-train-momentum. She still wanted to charge me the full $250/hour. I toughed it out, held my price.
Janessa moved in with me the afternoon following our second meeting. Whooosh.
Delilah
The night I met Delilah, I was just driving around town, looking for a whore. I found her on a side street near the center of town, between Congress and Cumberland Ave. This was an odd place to find a streetwalker, because they were usually a half-mile further down Congress St., past the 7-11. Delilah turned and looked at me the second time I cruised by her, and when I stopped, she walked right over to the passenger side, to see what I wanted, then got in.
Delilah is, at first glance, a beautiful blonde. She’s just about forty but usually looks younger. The first time Janessa saw her, she remarked that our Del looked like Kim Basinger (as Eminem’s Mom in 8 Mile), and that’s fair. Delilah is a gorgeous wreck.
As soon as I picked her up, we started talking and I got to experience her high-strung tweak. Del was a concentrated ball of electrical energy. She knew instantly that I was high and asked if I was planning to get her high. I said yes. “On cocaine?” she asked. Good God, who is this woman? I indicated assent, and she grinned somewhat skeptically. She may have asked me if I was OK to drive.
We got to my house, I paid her, we began to smoke, and Delilah, with little instigation, stripped completely and commenced fellating me. She did her work quickly, efficiently, and successfully; then she seemed to curl up into herself, and remained naked on the floor beside the bed. We continued to smoke and talk as I handed her back pieces of her clothing, and she made some calls to arrange to use the cash I had paid her, with some more cash I happened to have to spare, and buy more cocaine from her friend. We dressed and drove to South Portland to meet him, purchased the drug, and then drove back to my house with the friend, named, appropriately, John.
We smoked at my house. John set himself up (with vinegar, to convert the crack back to injectable form) to shoot some in my bathroom, and Delilah stripped, again. She began to suck me off, but didn’t make me cum, and eventually gave up and got dressed when John came back into the room. I drove them back to his motel room in SoPo, and over my mild protestations and offer of a ride home, Delilah stayed with him. John fucked her over, in the end, didn’t want to be with her, or pay her, or share any more drugs, and she finally had to walk home, through the ass end of the night, broke, crashing, and pissed off, the five miles back to Portland in the winter at dawn.
Delilah was simultaneously splendid company and a royal pain in the ass. The first night I met her, I stopped at a convenience store and gave her money to buy herself some cigarettes (so she wouldn’t keep bumming mine, but it was still a generous gesture). She would not leave the car, even after I gave her my reassurance I wouldn’t ditch her as soon as she got out. I ended up going into the store and buying her cigs myself, while she waited, safely, in the car. I somewhat ostentatiously left the keys in the car, engine idling, heater blowing, radio playing, when I walked into the store–she didn’t trust me, but I trusted her. I felt great afterward, reassuring her I wasn’t an asshole like the guys who had ditched her before, and it made me feel bad to think she’s been so poorly treated. But OMFG, my Delilah could be catastrophically annoying.
Delilah can also be a hot sex kitten. She was reliably down for whatever came up. Her current BF shares photos of her tied up and completely submissive, getting fucked, front and back, by anonymous cocks. She subscribed to the zeitgeist, that smoking cocaine involved heated encounters, guys give bitchez cocaine, and bitchez give guys sex. I spent nights with Delilah when we both knew we probably wouldn’t climax, and yet she sucked me anyway, we messed around endlessly, with a kind of ebb-and-flow enthusiasm. All I wanted in the world was to press our shuddering bodies together, my dick deep in her accommodating mouth; she was such a comely companion, I felt like I could mess around with her all night and keep going until she stopped being interested, stopped opening her mouth, and that would only happen if I ran out of rock.
She divulged to me she preferred to give oral service while wearing a blindfold, because she didn’t like distractions to the task at hand. I caressed the top of her head, wriggled my fingers into her dense blonde hair, and pulled her scalp to position her head. I didn’t need to pull her mouth down to me, she did it herself, blindfolded, using her hand at first to orient herself. I adored fucking the lips and face of this crazy, high-as-fuck love doll. I even shot videos of some of our fellatic ballet with my phone. She clearly loved the hits I was giving her. She sucked and sucked and hummed and mumbled as if there were no tomorrow. I let her delete the videos she didn’t like. She told me not to show them to Janessa. I did try to show Janessa, but she wasn’t interested.
Angel
Angel is a drop-dead beautiful provider in her late 20’s, 5’ 5”, nice big, tight, squared-off sculpted tits, large C-cups, 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 didn’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 (that was supposed to be her’s) 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, 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, raggedy 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 eventually admitted she was “forced” to rip me off by “a monster” who was, I suppose, her pimp. Her phone number kept changing. She kept posting new 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. In retrospect, I’m glad I never had her at my house. 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.
Holly
I hired Holly from Backpage one night, for 9:00 pm for an hour. She arrived 2 1/2 hours late. She couldn’t drive into my driveway for some reason, and so had to walk up the neighbor’s driveway and around the back of the house. She was perfectly friendly, quite beautiful, but a cool customer. I offered her weed which she dismissed outright, almost humorously. I then offered rock, which she, like most of the young women I offer it to, found amusing and slightly incredible, but she let me know she had brought her own up, and her own stem, she just had to change the chore she had also brought, and she wanted to share her up with me. I tried to accommodate and impress her by handing her specialized tools I pulled from the drawer in the night stand as required, to burn her chore and tamp it into the stem. She gave me two or three nice hits of her rock which seemed dry, hard, flavorless, powerful, and a lot like what we get from SoPo. Trés bién, mérci, et vous? It made me nauseous, though I didn’t throw up. I don’t think she smoked any of mine. No problems, right?
After our short puffing interlude (clothed), lights were turned mostly dim and then dimmer; we stripped, and the provider part began, which consisted of a very competent BBBJ in my bed by an animated and mostly naked woman, who crouched on hands and knees on the bed, less a position of submission than a feline ready to pounce and incapacitate her prey. She hopped here and there to mount new assaults, though she didn’t want me to touch her, and only grudgingly let me cup her quite large, elastic, pleasantly dangling tits as she appeared to do pushups, her head sliding lips-first, up and down on my groin, the service rendered most pleasantly hands-free. I specifically asked if I could stroke her pussy and backside, she quietly whispered back “I don’t like it!” And that was that, it wouldn’t occur to me to disagree. BBBJ with some sober tit-cupping and nipple stroking, as well as a couple of vaporous puffs, for $200/hr. I didn’t climax (almost never do on rock), but I let her work a tantalizingly long time, and she came very close—twice— to bringing me deliciously off. I never hired her again, though I tried once. The scheduling didn’t work.
Astrid
The first time I met her, from an ad in Backpage, Astrid was sort of roundly and assertively fat, enthusiastic with fetching eyes, and carried big round half melon tits high on her chest. She loved smoking the crack I offered. I would learn later that she had been released from prison just three days before, was almost surely on probation. She looked very butch. The sides of her head were close shaved, sporting a faux-hawk, and I swore she was lesbian, but she protested, pressed her round body and firm tits against me, and gave me a seemingly hungry, very upbeat, and skillful blowjob.
My simultaneous digital explorations of her body were appreciated, or at least not turned away, but Astrid would not settle into a groove that would allow her to enjoy herself, because we were both too fucking high; and yet this giggling impairment presented no real problem because she was great fun to be with.
I was able to enjoy more quality time with Astrid a year later, after we’d both been around the block once or twice, when interestingly she seemed 10 years younger. She’d gotten skinny and spooky (with a rainbow dyed mohawk), and lived with a whore I hated, and I’d gotten skinny and spooky (grew my hair out into a stringy white medusa) and lived with a whore she hated, but I never felt a moment spent with Astrid was wasted. Astrid was a pro or at least wanted to be and she was willing to put in the work, to keep commitments. She was also a stoned junkie crack ho. I believe she will survive. I hope she does.
Desireé
Desireé arrived with one of our drug dealers. She was his current assistant, and very quiet and attractive. There were several people at my house at the time, and when they were busy or engaged in conversation, I spoke with Desiree. We may or may not have been smoking together, we were both already quite high, and we hit it off, were relaxed, hit the pipe. Of course we would hit it off, we were high as lunatics and I was always, always horny. I showed her my stem, and she told me quietly and with some conviction, if it was hers, she’d scrape the resin out of it. Ten minutes later she had left with her drug dealer boss.
Less than an hour later, I texted the drug dealer a couple of photos of the now thoroughly scraped stem and the big pile of resin that was freed in the process and asked him to show them to Desireé, and tell her I had taken her advice. Twenty minutes later I was driving to Old Orchard Beach to pick her up (along with a ball) and bring both back to my house, where we puffed and chilled by ourselves for two or three hours, watched yesterday become today.
At about 9:30 am, after we’d both showered, separately but quite obviously grooming in the attached bathroom as if we’re in a hotel room, my Desi in fresh foundation garments (from where?), fellated me, cheerfully and enjoyably but eventually unsuccessfully, and a half hour later I drove her back to the scab of a motel room she and my dealer friend were staying at in off-season Old Orchard Beach.
I wasn’t exactly happy, but my life felt enjoyably full. Desi had been a choice, I picked her out and made a gesture. When I reached out, she was mine. Desi is a delightful, classy, and successful woman. She doesn’t work for the dealer anymore.
Terri Lynn
My encounter with Terri Lynn was literally a (pleasant and well-deserved) gift. A dealer had been staying at my house, and had incurred something of an obligation to me, so when he and our “friend” Chris decided to party one Friday night, they brought over their girls Terri Lynn and Jeanne. First stop was my bedroom, where I got Chris and the girls high, and when everyone wandered off, Terri Lynn stayed and explained in a laughing, high-spirited, and humorous way the arrangement, that she was there to take care of me first, had already been remunerated for said services, and having already puffed, we began to make the deal work.
This was a happy first for me, and like a birthday party with new friends, I didn’t quite know how to act. Terri Lynn was a red head, slightly on the round side, with a relaxed and contagious grin, sparkling pretty gray eyes. She had a great sense of humor and loved to laugh, which is a relief, because this could have turned awkward at any time. She had lovely, sensitive breasts she enjoyed sharing with me after I’d helped her wriggle out of a couple of her shirts. She was delightful to hold in my hands and arms, and delivered an attentive, affectionate blowjob which didn’t get me off, but which I protested was more than good enough, and after several luxuriously extended minutes of her mind-blowing pneumatic attention I stopped her, got her back into most of her clothing, gave her a puff, and sent her on her way to the other party unfolding upstairs.
The night careened and ricocheted. Three hours later, Terri Lynn and I, friends now and thick as thieves, leaned shoulder to shoulder on my bed, realizing we were out of up, and together we cooked up a scheme. I would pay her a hundred bucks to finish the job she’d started earlier, she would hold onto twenty for gas and spend the rest going in with me one third on a ball we’d buy from our dealer guy for two-forty, who it turned out was an ex-boyfriend of Terri Lynn and we both knew him by different names, and who finally brought us the ball [and never matched that price again, asshole!], and my sweet, red-headed, tweaked out grinning girl who I had to undress again blessed me with a slow, relaxed, exquisite, and this time effective GFE BBBJ, we treated ourselves to our own private sunrise.
The morning had indeed arrived—the pink and rosy-fingered dawn, with its promise of renewal, the rising winter sun punctuating the end of the night, this sun had brought this new day as well, still dripping, thawing off the eaves, today this new run, this new woman, this new drug dealer, this completely new story. Everything was waking up and looking up.
Jeanne
I believe I had met Jeanne before the party with Terri Lynn, but I can’t muster a single memory. All I know is Jeanne (pronounced JEE-nee) (like the genie who gets his lamp rubbed, only Jeanne won’t rub the lamp) arrived with Benji and Chris and Terri Lynn, ready to party. Jeanne will sit beside you and fellate you as if she’s doing housework, silently mopping the bathroom, dusting the bookcase, or sucking the dick in the bed. Only that’s me sliding in and out of this ladies’ thin tightly-wrapped lips, silent as a submarine. She could be asleep, or I could. Jeanne was Terri Lynn’s friend, and Chris’s friend, because she had a car, and a more-or-less legal license. She sucked dick too, but was no more interested in it than if she was pouring a beer or emptying an ashtray. Jeanne’s tweek was to puff huge amounts of rock and suck dick, both silently, always intaking a breath of air as if about to say something, but nothing came out. She loved to do one as much as she hated to do the other, so they effectively cancelled one another out.
Jeanne proffered her oral services to me several times, on several occasions, but I never climaxed from her ministrations. Jeanne and I were painfully honest. I hated sharing my cocaine with her, and she hated sucking my dick. We were even that way. Jeanne’s life was miserable, and she spread that misery around. She sucked my dick on at least six occasions. She never made me climax. I never felt an ounce of affection for Jeanne, nor did she for me. Sometimes I gave her rock to smoke when she didn’t need it at all. I knew she’d smoke it, because that’s what crack ho’s do, and smoking it made her less aware, less conscious, more tweaked. Sometimes it felt like I gave it to her to hurt her, like slapping her. Not to hurt her permanently, just for the night; I wanted to slap her for not sucking my dick the way I wanted, so I gave her so much crack to smoke she couldn’t possibly have sucked any dick. Jeanne was a victim, and a lot of people exploited her. One supreme cunt stole thousands from Jeanne, which is easily enough to ruin her financial future. A lot of people can and do hurt Jeanne who only see a tough customer, cold fish, ice queen. I wish her nothing but blessings.
Rhonda
Rhonda was one of the women I considered “real pros” who advertise on Backpage. She had an elaborate mechanism to make appointments, required exchanging emails, and more than 24 hours advance notice. I was motivated to engage her (I almost said “attracted to her”) because so many of the regular hos on BP were unreliable and sleazy. We did the email exchange thing, and she agreed to come over to see me in an outcall two nights later. I had to confirm the engagement the morning of our date. I had emailed the night before, but the next day I completely forgot Rhonda. This was a time when I was smoking a lot of crack and was incapacitated a lot of the time. Mornings were often rough, and frankly optional. That evening, when I figured out I’d missed the confirmation step and so screwed up our meeting, I emailed my abject apology, begged her to re-schedule with me, and promised I’d pay her extra for the inconvenience of standing her up, to which she agreed, and thanked me, because that showed I understood it was a money loser when a client missed an appointment. I liked her, respected her, empathized with her, and she understood that. We re-scheduled, and then the winter turned into a series of blizzards, every few days, and whenever we made a date, we got snowed out. We had to reschedule three times before we finally met.
I got a good feeling when she drove into the driveway and parked rationally (something beyond the abilities of many providers who drove) entered the door I had opened for her when she arrived. Rhonda is the only woman I met on Backpage who did not smoke cocaine. I even offered, and she demurred. I had already, in accordance with her rules, sealed my “donation” of $300 in crisp twenties into an envelope left on my nightstand with Rhonda’s name scrawled on it.
Rhonda was very easy to be with, apparently liked being naked and didn’t mind being explored, didn’t mind if I said the word slut as she fellated me, and let me climb up and perform intercourse with her mouth, while her momentum built parallel with mine, and she hummed a murmuring assent when I asked if she wanted me to cum. I let her lovely energetic suction get me off quickly, wasn’t wasting time because we had arranged a ‘double cup,’ where she’d get me off again later, before she left. Also, I didn’t waste time, because I wasn’t puffing. I finished in her mouth, Rhonda already knew I would be dry, and I got up completely nude, walked to the kitchen and poured Rhonda a glass of wine. I played music from a playlist I’d hand-chosen over the previous nights when we hadn’t hooked up because we’d been snowed in, feminine R&B and soft country, and we talked naked, reclining in my bed mostly, letting my knuckles and fingertips slide over the mounds and crevices in her substantial and intriguing body. She had big firm tits, perky and bouncy for a forty-two-year-old, which I believe is her age. She didn’t hesitate to express her own pleasure when relevant, and her company was aù point and well worth the cash I’d spent. I felt happy, buoyant, and optimistic– enjoying the fruit of some earlier investment– as if I’d earned this happiness, and now I was cashing it in.
Before she left she granted me a second patient, affectionate, and good faith attempt at bringing me once again to oral satisfaction, but by now I felt I’d used up all the services I’d paid for. I was ridiculously happy, relaxed, and contented, turned my head and pulled her up to kiss her, boldly, told her it was so I could taste the cock on her lips, at which Rhonda murmured a little hiccupped sniffle of appreciation and pleasure as we grin-kissed, just before I got up, we dressed, and then she left. Rhonda was a consummate pro in the best way. I only met with her that one time, though I tried once or twice to hook up again. No matter. Rhonda was lovely.
Sage
I believe the reason I know Sage is because Chris brought her to my house. Apparently she had been there a couple of times previously, but I had gotten no sense of her personally, and hardly noticed yet another attractive high-strung drug-seeking chick hanging around the house to see someone or another.
One day I had engaged plumbers to work on the bathrooms, a woman arrived with them. She was the plumber’s helper GF of the actual licensed plumber, and she had the spookiest, craziest, most expressive eyes I had ever seen. Arresting is how I think of her gaze, as if she was laughing and wired and crazy all at once! I couldn’t look away when she looked at me, and she didn’t look away. She stared at me and followed my gaze, exactly like a cat.
I don’t remember the exact sequence of events, but a couple of days later I was climbing naked all over the bed with this plumbers helper stoned junkie crack ho, puffing with her and flirting and finagling for her to get high, take care of me, and make the world a better place. Sage came through, though I don’t remember most of the details. Because she wasn’t from Backpage, I never made an actual engagement ahead of time with her, settling instead for the simultaneous accidents of her presence and mood, along with the secondary issues of who else was in the house and how much cocaine was there to smoke? Anyone have any cash? What’s in the fridge to drink? Is anyone hungry? Do I have an Android charger?
When the time was right a deal was inevitably struck. I remember not especially enjoying the flavor and scent of her intimate areas, but kept in mind she’s a homeless plumber’s helper junkie crack ho, and we were mostly working on staging a topless blowjob while puffing, and Sage was as good as any other girl right then, talkative, happy, high, tweaking. She wrote in sharpie on my mirror, “Sage was here, {heart}.” This was the first kitty who had pissed on the bushes in such a way, left a message, laid a claim. I remember the inscription because two nights later another girl, Dení inscribed the opposite upper corner of the mirror, “Dení, who will always be here! {Heart, heart…}” Two chicks, physically and demographically close, laying claims.
Eighteen hours later, those same two chicks, Dení and Sage, were physically fighting, fists up; fast, poorly aimed punches were thrown and dodged, and I shit you not, these two barefooted cartoon character chickies, dressed in their Day-Glo thongs, one pink and one green, with one roughly torn tank top between them (that’s three artfully and hotly exposed nipples, if you’re counting (I’m picturing an Edgar Degas scenario, just a blush of Dejuner sur le Deck, amirite?), in this early Spring 10:00 am morning sunshine, fist-fighting on my deck, while loud words were screeched about a syringe on the deck, asking whether Janessa had OD’d [she was unconscious, mouth open, lying on her side on the floor in the laundry room with her pocketbook open with a some small currency bills clearly visible when Sage arrived], and who was trying to steal money from whom (which was the immediate cause for this scuffle). All the while my paranoid upstairs neighbor chicky used her phone to shoot live video through her bedroom window overlooking the deck, and broadcast the entire hubbub WWF-style live on Snapchat for my landlord to see. I don’t believe there were direct repercussions from that event, but I’ll admit I might not remember. I’d be gone from that apartment within a few months.
Sage was a wild woman, especially under the influence of drugs. I believe she was always impaired when I was in her presence. She did heroin as well as up. She was another junkie crack ho who seemed to smoke cocaine to give her the energy to seek out and acquire her down. The head from heroin allowed her to be a whore and suck dick and fuck random-ass guys to make ends meet.
It’s worthwhile to note here, that the head from heroin also makes people unable to handle their affairs, their lives. Whenever drugs, cash, and prostitution intersect, you’ll find people, especially hos, who can’t make their money work. Fellatio is an expensive habit, and servicing that habit brings cash, but it’s nothing compared to the price of heroin. A true junkie crack ho can’t support herself on one dick (certainly risks killing the host!). And her heroin habit is a malevolent visitor who robs her whenever she’s ahead by a nickel. It’s robbed me. Maybe I’ll say her habit taught me something, allowed me to learn. A gift can become a robbery, and vice versa. This will mean something completely different in the morning. Heroin addiction repeatedly cuts the beating heart out of any loved ones, out of any bystanders, out of its own bleeding host.
The last time I saw Sage, my roommate wanted nothing to do with her and did not want her in the house. I had brought her into my bedroom through the glass door on the deck to smoke some puffs, and then we stepped back out, so I could tell her not to come over any more. At the time she had just gotten out of the hospital after a serious car wreck, which among other comorbidities required her spleen be removed. I got an immediate ice-cold chill when she lifted her hoodie and tank top to show me; it looked like something out of Frankenstein, or Frida Kahlo. The poor girl was held together in front by an angry metal zipper of staples, mechanically chattered along an alarming foot-long-plus incision, that snaked diagonally up her belly and across under her ribcage, barely held together by those angry metal teeth. I found myself looking into her body, where the skin wasn’t yet sealed under the staples, and the viscid pink tissue underneath shown through. To see this girl so wounded and violently traumatized tore my heart and soul apart—she’d embodied my metaphor for her. I realized with a heavy shuddering chill this over-the-top physical violence had only just happened a day and a half ago.
But look here, at the same time she was so piteously torn apart and injured, she was also hustling and scheming; making a play. I’d already gotten her high as fuck. Maybe she would call me later, when my roommate was asleep, if her phone was still on, she had to pay the bill, and she needed a ride up north to get her boyfriend’s truck where everything she owned was stored, including my 3 iPods. She had become an altogether unpleasant person to be around. I’ve not seen her since, though I heard she had been sent back to jail. I hope she gets help. It won’t be from me. She stole those three iPods and an iPhone (which she gave back, but just the phone), earbuds and various headphones from me over the short time I knew her, as well as crack pipes, chore, pot grinders, doo-dads, a vape pipe, a pair of Nike slippers, change from the store.
Sage cuts the skin on her arms, which scars over and heals; she hustles, abuses drugs, she’s an on-again off-again sex worker, and seems to be living out a death wish. Her characteristic presentation is staring and quaking, with Beelzebub’s twisted grin, like a deer in headlights, giving no indication of her actual thoughts, feelings, or plans, just wild ass eyes saying yes to anything that will get her through the next four hours or four days of her life. That was her signature geek. [I’ve learned she spent some time in county jail since this action I’m describing took place. I believe she might be out by now, I don’t think the charges were serious.]
Sage was also another of the stoned junkie crack hos who resorted to benzos when they couldn’t get their preferred medication. Every one of those hos would go loopy insane after a couple Zanibars, or those vicious light green Klonapin 3’s, especially if they also drank some Frank’s Extra Hard Cider, or a couple of Natty Daddy’s. Good God, the mayhem they would unleash. And add Neurontin by the handful, good gawwwwd!
My last memory of Sage is her pulling her shirts down, picking up her bags, getting up from my deck and walking away from the house. Her ride had parked in the lot at Shaw’s down the street; she had to get over there. Just before that, I told her she couldn’t come to my house anymore. We both knew I was lying. If she asked, I would let her back in. In a minute, if I was alone. She knew that. She wouldn’t be back, because I was moving away, and with that I would conveniently never be forced to say no to my dear and damaged Sage. Pray for Sage.
Dení
I love Dení and probably always will. Dení listened to me talk. Listened for content, which was refreshing. Over 2017, convenience stores had been stocking larger and larger bags of candy. They were common enough in the stores I shopped at that I kept bags of Sour Patch Kids and Gummy Bears in my cupboard. I explained at great length to Dení how I usually don’t notice separate flavors in mixed-color candies, but I love, Love, LOVE the orange-flavored Sour Patch Kids, precisely because they taste different. That afternoon I had bought a 3-pound bag of Sour Patch Kids, and while I was otherwise occupied (buying cocaine for the two of us from a friend of my roommate), Dení quietly and expertly separated out a whole candy bowl full of orange Sour Patch Kids candies, just for the two of us. I was touched, as was Dení.
Dení is smooth and pretty, thin and thirty, though she resembles someone younger. I first met her when my “friend” Chris brought her over to my house. Ostensibly the two were on a date but he ditched her at my house—in my bedroom! —for a couple of hours so he could go and run errands. He asked me pointedly, in private, to “not touch her,” and I still don’t know if it was a setup he, she, or they’d cooked up. “She’s not like that.” He said it. She said it. It’s true. She’s not like that. We all say it.
Everyone was gone from the house, so Dení and I were alone together in the bedroom with snacks and lots of cocaine. We played music, chatted, and joked, and puffed, and after about 45 minutes, I asked her pleasantly, and more-or-less directly, if I could pay her a hundred bucks to take care of me, and she blushingly agreed.
In fact, and in more detail than you probably want to know, she had first expressed her hope I wasn’t annoyed by her presence, that Chris had somewhat awkwardly ditched her and we obviously didn’t really know each other, and she hoped I wasn’t put out. I told her the truth, that I was enchanted that she was there, she was fun and intriguing company, and I had been thinking of hiring someone from Backpage to come over and take care of me, and wouldn’t it be a win-win if she wanted to do the work herself, we didn’t have to go anywhere, and I would pay her up front? That is how it transpired, and how strange but friction-free it felt. I have to admit, it was a reach for me, and perhaps the hardest request I’d ever made, because it was so politically challenging– I had never asked someone visiting me, a guest in my home, my friend’s “girlfriend”, to proffer paid sexual services. At the same time, I’d convinced myself I was on a radical truthfulness kick, and it seemed obvious to ask. I really liked this woman, and I was going to get my dick sucked anyway, right? And note how, hovering there was the silent, unchallenged assumption that smoking cocaine and sexual activity were connected in a way that made them inseparable. No one should ever try and separate them– their inviolate connectedness supports the male angle, on crack-and-sex-O. The bond is molecular. No doubt, I am the H2 to her O.
Despite my hesitancy and over-thinking, the answer from Dení was yes, and in a short while she became even more affectionate and talkative, dressed in leggings, she accommodatingly stripped off her top to give me access to her small sensitive tits, and she energetically tied her hair back into a thick pony tail I was tacitly invited to grab. She loved the hundred bucks I folded up and slid under the elastic of her aggressively abbreviated underthings, just like she loved the drug I kept passing her. Puff, puff, shiver and giggle. Sweating to cleanse. Brushing our lips together, we murmured assent after assent.
Her blowjob was energetic, and on the theatrical side; initiated on the bed, completed on the floor, and more than adequate to the task. I enjoyed her lively attention thoroughly, and afterward she became soft, silly, opinionated, and affectionate. She oozed “value”—spared no opportunity to make sure I knew her work was worth every dollar of the (relatively) handsome price I’d paid her. I was already completely convinced.
One piquant facet of our encounter was how we’d done this delicious deed in such a way that she appeared not to be a provider. Instead of a provider hookup, Dení had turned our encounter into a peccadillo. She made me promise not to tell Chris, and she called later to find out if I’d kept the promise. I admitted I hadn’t (of course I told Chris, because shameless womanizing was the only “positive” area of our relationship, braggin’ about shaggin’). It was all good. I got to play a soap opera character, the wise but corrupt old man, reluctant lover of this high-strung ingenue who needed saving.
Chris finally returned to get Dení and brought her to another party. According to one story I heard (she texted me as it was going on) she didn’t want to fuck, and Chris ended up driving her home early, like before 5:00 am. She called later to let me know she would rather have stayed at my house. She was warm and thoughtful. I pulled and yanked at the bait, but I couldn’t free myself from the hook, and Dení reeled in the line, reeled and reeled.
Here’s what’s interesting about Dení: the money exchanged was never specifically brought up in conversation. Dení became a professional girlfriend of sorts for me. She was, technically, a provider like all the others, but after our first encounter, we never haggled price, or fee for services, or anything directly. Instead, after we’d puffed and rutted and slurped with one another, for ten minutes or all afternoon, she’d have me stop at the grocery store on the way home and buy groceries for her household. We didn’t really have to puff or rut, and I’d still pay her. It wasn’t all about provider services. Sometimes she did housework, and she packed a lot of books and pictures for me when I moved. I may have paid her more for housework than for provider services. Once, she even joined me in an encounter with another woman (Keep reading, perv!). Once I paid her storage unit bill, once I bought a bag of crack and dropped it off for her and her chick friend, that I didn’t get to share. I let her charge about $75 bucks on my credit card one night at Walgreens, for presents and party-related expenses for her son Dylan’s 8th birthday. He is a very cool, smart, sophisticated kid, and his Mom is a very cool babe. He knows it.
When I met her, she was addicted to Suboxone. She went to rehab for that, and I believe she’s past it. I think she may still have problems with crack. That’s a hard one to kick. I have tried not to enable her in that regard, which is difficult because she’s a ridiculously fun person to smoke cocaine with. Dení is also mentally ill, with a legit disability, and is stuck in the dual diagnosis system of hell. Her ex-husband, who came out as flamboyantly gay and a devilish drug abuser after they divorced, is living in Dení’s Mom’s one-bedroom subsidized apartment, along with Dení and Dylan. I never quite understood how that worked, but never could shake the feeling they (Brad (the Dad) and maybe even Dení’s Mom) were pimping Dení out to me. They depended on her financially, but she didn’t have a job. And I shook my head violently, from one side to the other, but her hook was set. She reeled hard as I plunged through the water as fast as I could swim. But there was no use fighting.
I loved Dení, and I believe she loved me. I was forever buying her cosmetics and soaps and toothpaste and shampoos and scrunchies. I loved shopping with this springy, spectacular young beauty because it was a way to spend time with her. I hated that she needed money and I had money. We were only ever able to affect one side of that equation. I can tell you, to keep things with Dení in perspective, that since my prostate was removed, I’ve had my penis fully inside only four women—the woman who was my fiancé at the time of my surgery (bless her patient and disappointed heart), Terri, Janessa, and Dení. I have nothing but gratitude for these patient and generous women, and for my delicious pink Dení most of all.
Kaleigh
I met Kaleigh when Kevin brought her over one night with Sam. Kevin always arrived with women in tow, because they were his sole means of transportation. Kaleigh was a cute little curly brown-haired chick, lamp tanned to a lovely hazelnut shade, with a killer dancers’ bod, and a pixie smile lighting up her stunning, stunning rack. I walked by Kevin and Kaleigh who were sitting in my dining room, and he stopped me, introduced me to her by name, nodded in her direction, then reached over and pulled her tube top open to show me her tits. Enhanced, and glorious. I tried to look away, pretend to be blasé, but good Lord, the brilliant combination of her Crest Strips smile, spring-steel athleticism, and her altogether superlative tits was too compelling. I smiled, having to make up a response on the fly, said, “Oh, that’s lovely, ” nodding in polite homage, “I hope you make your living with those?” hoping that was a cool thing to say. She beamed a hot grin.
Socially, I was in a quite new territory here, no woman visiting me ever had her rack displayed in quite so baldly commercial a way, like a billboard. I guess what I said was cool because within a half hour I was licking apart her expertly shaved labia, which she deliberately slow-twerked over my own oh-so-hungry lips on the sofa in the living room, which had been declared off limits (we were open to the kitchen, but everyone had been banished from the kitchen). Kaleigh was no more than 4’10” tall, with a dancer’s perfect proportions, smooth golden tanning-bed skin, and fake tits TO-DIE-FOR! Fake tits have their own downsides, but Kaleigh, standing upright in front of me, hip cocked to the right like an artist’s model and wearing only a red-white-and-blue thong and a brilliant grin of yes, oh fuck yes damn it, right then, brought rising feelings that for me far surpassed any silly patriotism.
Kaleigh was unfortunately not especially articulate and we couldn’t talk engagingly about much of any importance. We gossiped about people who were there with us. It finally became important that I keep an eye on my drugs when she was near. Sadly grimy, but oh, so appealing Kaleigh. We’d smoked ourselves into tweaked oblivion, and she stood up nearly naked on the sofa, and bent over with her hands grasping the sofa’s arms, and from behind I stabbed her tiny delicious pussy lips apart with my tongue, again and again, licking top to bottom, front to back, and look down past her magical dangling tits to see her silly grinning face, nodding yes, yes. I closed my whole mouth airtight over her tangy gash and slithered my tongue up into her, the way a starfish digests a clam. Kaleigh was a dream. I never actually orgasmed with her, but I liked rutting with her enough to fake it, more than once. Her memory is a treasure for me. I am a truly blessed man.
And then I ponder that I actually faked it for my delicious, strip club tiny-dancer, junkie crack ho Kaleigh. A part of me wanted the formal, stagey encounter to stop. She had the only car in her group of friends, a clapped-out Saturn, I think, and that’s why Kevin came with her, and why she came over with Sam. All her friends ditched her later, when she got quite strung out on down and grimy enough to steal drugs, and especially after her car wouldn’t pass inspection, but all that could always change. Probably has. When she bent over naked, so her breasts dangled straight down, large ridges in her skin, up and down, and possibly quite beautiful in their own way, encircled both of her 5-star tits, indicating, I think, where the enhancements were surgically braced into her chest meat. She continues to work at the strip club. I think she was pushing her forties hard, and I don’t know how much longer she can rely on her tight little vixen’s body, curly mop of hair (long enough to tie back, a seeming requirement of all crack hos), and brilliant Crest-Strips white smile to support her. I don’t know if she ever got her car going again. She totally tweaks after a couple hits of cocaine. Some nice friend of hers, possibly named John (Good God, am I this cynical?), took her to the Caribbean, and I think they got stuck in one or another of the hurricanes last summer and fall. I hope she’s OK. She is an enchantingly beautiful junkie crack ho.
Sam
Sam came over with Kevin and Kaleigh. For various reasons, she started coming over often, and I always made sure to say hi. We would puff together, often my treat, occasionally hers. Sam worked hard. She had a fine muscular but slim body, and a half-hour of makeup and costume change always made her look spectacular. She would often drop by to buff herself up on her way to the strip club where she worked on weeknights. She sometimes stopped again at my house after her shift, always in the wee small hours, because I was easier to engage than the johns at the strip club, and because my roommate had connections who sold both up and down. Sam was a delicious sneering Brockton foster kid junkie crack ho chick. She was great company, kept conversations going, could organize any kind of adventure in no time flat, our interchange was fun and easy. I engaged her services on several occasions, when she was at her preferred careful balance—high on cocaine and low on down. A lot of providers prefer this balance to proffer their best services.
Sam wielded a glorious, deeply personal encounter, after a half hour or more of sitting practically atop one another, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, feeling deliciously comfortable, relaxed, playing cards, reading shit one of us Googled, scrolling through lists on our phones, Sam would check out the music, whatever was playing was fine, we both understood that. We talked, she’d ask questions, all kinds of questions, sexy questions. Our voices found a relaxed and balanced pitch, whispering and sing song, pitched just over the music coming out of the Bose. I called her Sam I Am, and she assured me she’d heard that before [of course, because Sam is a consummate bitch] and I had to be more original than that, so later on I repeated, in time with the ministrations of her lips against the rocking of my hips, my made-up chant, singing á capélla, and allegro, ma non troppo “Sam I am… I am… I am… I am…,” and my little fairy tale princess murmured from her position kneeling naked in the middle of my bed, eyes sparkling when her head tipped to look up at me, and she grinned and chuckled around her happy mouthful and worked a little harder to acknowledge my made up chant of pleasure and nonsense, and good God, I still feel a deep gratitude, to have enjoyed such exquisite connection with another person, to have shared such joy and fun.
Sam liked connecting with most of the lights out, so I don’t remember a lot about how she looked while we frolicked, except for her lanky muscularity. Her boyfriend ran a machinery contracting operation, and my dear Sam sometimes wore steel toed boots, zip-front jump suit, drove a log skidder, wielded her mean chainsaw against deciduous foes while dressed in her proto-Mad Max log clearing costume—heavy leather gauntlets, goggles, bandannas, and swinging a greasy orange beast of a Husqvarna with a two-foot tang. I got to check out these images while watching the photos and videos she shared from her phone, but I was able to enjoy watching her use her muscles up close and personal in broad daylight. She and my roommate moved everything (I mean it! Furniture, boxes, appliances, everything) from my house out and into a UHaul, then off the UHaul into my storage unit.
Sam was strong, helpful, thought things through, and was a stoned junkie crack ho of the highest order, especially because she was so low key. She once borrowed my car, a rental, ostensibly for an hour, and kept it all day—seventeen hours (a long day), never got in touch. I never made a good deal with her, because she was always jockeying for the advantage, the profit; to take a markup on drugs she bought for me, then smoked with me, share a hit of down with my girlfriend, and take all her rigs and cottons. Sam could be a cunt of ginormous proportion, though to be fair, she was always good company, and could be a lovable, munchable, enthusiastic crack ho, a true princess of livid deliciousness. Open-mouthed, tongue tip twiddling, French kissing, tongue-sucking, good humored Sam. Pause, with that slow hissing nose breath, in and out slowly; catch your breath and suck me hard and tight, because I am coming, Sam, I am… I am… I am.
Lexi
Lexi is tall, with long bleached blonde hair. She invariably arrived at my house in a good mood, and when there was crack to smoke, she immediately dispensed with most of her clothing. I don’t remember the first time we met, but I knew her already when I spied her walking out of a door off Congress Street near the Bodega, and I could tell by her look that I wanted to pick her up. I had just dropped off Reese, who was in a bad mood, likely in withdrawal. She was trapped in yesterday, and so was I. But a lucky accident had made Lexi hit the street, walk up the staircase out of hell, I suppose, and through the light-blue door on the corner of Weymouth and Congress, right at that minute. I drove once around a short block, then pulled over in front of the doorway she occupied. She smiled, walked up and opened the car door, and slid into the passenger’s seat as if I was her Uber. The seat was hers. This engagement with Lexi would take all day. We drove to a far end of South Portland to cop down. Then we returned to North Portland, my lair, where things led to things.
Pretty Friend Bren
I picked up Bren one night around this time on Congress Street, or nearby. She was pretty, compact, dark-haired, and young, under thirty. She smiled and laughed when I said something funny and cynical, seemed relaxed. It was night time. I parked in the back corner of the lot behind the Big Apple on Park Avenue, and she crouched and sucked me into a lovely, all-business vortex of pleasure, enhanced by her agreeably squirming around, allowing my hands entry into and under her clothing. My arms were elbows-deep in her hoodie, and I dragged my fingers over her tits while she sucked me, slow and unstoppable. I freed one arm, then slid my hand right down inside the waistband of her jeans, over her ass and down from there, so the ball of my hand chastely pressed her slippery lambchop, so with my fingertips coaxing her with this delicious leverage, I pulled her butt toward me, pushing myself deeper into her mouth, and she hummed and mumbled agreement and assent. “Mmmm…” she grinned, sucking me in and out of her tight oral cylinder. I stroked her cheek and came easily into this doll’s skillful, murmuring mouth. I shuddered and stopped, and she looked up, catching her breath, grinning quizzically, “You sure you came?”
The next day Lexi called and asked me to pick her up in Standish or Gorham or Yarmouth somewhere. She asked if her friend could come too. No problem at all. I drove where the GPS told me, the other girl was Bren from the night before. She recognized me first because of my car. Hahaha. I had left a good impression, because she was very happy to see me. Sometimes I swear the moon affects us. The three of us puffed and laughed and drove into the yawning spread-eagled promise of this two-girl hot summer full moon night.
Callista
Callista had been to my house several times, and I’d been to hers. In fact, I visited several places she lived over the year I knew her. When we met, Callista (she was originally introduced to me as Cal) was an eighteen-year-old, mixed race girl, tall with sparkling eyes, pretty cheekbones, braces on her teeth, a wide confident grin and heavy rack. She and I were acquainted because her Mom was my on-again, off-again lover, my stoned junkie crack ho part-time nemesis Janessa. Jan went through a horrible 3-day break-down involving a high school lover and a bunch of meth, and the whole flare-up dropped the poor woman into county lock-up. Though she was profoundly addicted to opiates, she would not be bailed out and had to detox behind bars. Less than a week later, Callista ended up hanging out at my house. Only nineteen, she had lost custody of her twin boys, their baby daddy was in prison in another state, and Cal had to give up her apartment in Rumford, which was functionally free for a year, because she could never get it together to make it to the grocery store, or to keep her utilities hooked up. She was slow learning that stuff about life, how to make things happen at the right time with the right paperwork and the correct amount of cash. Her Mom, Janessa, could never get that stuff right either.
One dreadful day in the middle of the winter I ditched Cal’s mother at Cal’s house, because after we drove all the way to Rumford, and despite complex and elaborate denials, her Mom had gone upstairs to shoot heroin while I sat in my car in the driveway in the middle of winter with one of Cal’s fussy two-year-old sons in the car seat. (The other had gone upstairs with his Mom on her first trip). Various afflictions preclude me from attempting to walk over the snowbanks, across the puddles, the ice, the partially shoveled steps, and up the three flights of stairs required to get to Cal’s apartment, so I waited in the car. After 20 minutes or so of yacking and joking around with the kid, singing a song, and letting him sit in front and turn the steering wheel, I finally got the kid back in his seat, then laid on the horn, toot toot tooting in a way sure to raise highly negative awareness, parked as I was among giant snowbanks in the large parking area in front of three four-story tenements, as faces appeared in windows in all of them. Cal came down and rescued the kid, and after another full 20 minutes waiting for Janessa to come back to the car so we could drive home, I unbuckled the car seat, laid Jan’s cellphone and purse into it, and left it perched in the snowbank. I drove away, enraged, texting dark and furious oaths.
Now, 5 or 6 months later, Cal’s Mom was in jail, and Cal and I sat up all night talking and puffing, smoking weed and cigarettes and cocaine and maybe drinking a beer too. She sat in what I laughingly describe as the interrogation chair, beside the bed next to the nightstand. I reclined on my bed, and when it was very late, when we were barely whispering our stories to one another, my vision came un-focused for a moment, and I saw in the diffused light how Callista’s face was a perfect draft of her mother’s face, a carbon copy. They shared a jawline, the corner of their eyes and their mouths, a genetic symmetry, redrawn for me to see up close in this warm lamplight. Now, of course I see the resemblance all the time, the way once you’ve seen the old lady’s face hiding in the German psychology drawing you can’t imagine not always seeing her. Cal was Janessa, and vice versa, with an arresting but not always obvious resemblance. But Cal is a zaftig, black teenage chick, with a flattish nose, fat round lips, African hair. Cal’s mom is a porcelain-pretty freckled brunette Irish girl approaching middle age, with a pointed nose and thin lips. I loved and desired them both. Good God, what is happening to me?
By the end of the first night, daylight had come but hardly broken the night’s magical spell. Callista had gone to bed upstairs when the sun came up. I felt a warm non-urgent desire for her, along with a kind of reluctance as well, about the possibilities of our hooking up. The thought of connecting with this sweet café au lait señorita in her prime was a delicious fantasy. She may have even dropped a broad hint earlier, before she went to bed. On the other hand, I couldn’t help thinking I was contemplating a sin of Biblical proportions. I couldn’t help thinking Janessa would quite literally kill me. I was blissfully happy, and high as fuck. I decided not to pursue it.
Apparently at the same instant I summoned the good sense to avoid Cal, she and my friend Dení, who was visiting, had cooked up an alternative outcome. Dení traipsed into my room, hesitantly offered a two-girl encounter with her and Cal, if it was OK, if nobody else was at the house, if I was interested, if we had time, and if I paid them three hundred each. Dení felt awkward, but at the same time, was breathless and curious. “Do you like Callista? “ she wanted to know, “Is she hotter than me?” None of us had done anything like this before. None of us would admit it.
At that moment, I knew my roommate wanted Cal to move out, and providing her cash was a way to effect this outcome; I was helping Cal get on her feet. This turned into a reasonably good way to give them both some cash, and to solve the predicament of wanting to be fellated while tracing the regal jawline of my Jan, err um, I mean Cal, I mean um, yes Cal. And Dení. Good lord.
While it was supposed to be an easy solution to many problems, this was among the most awkward and tentative encounters I’d embarked upon. I knew and adored Dení, we were very comfortable together, and clearly, she was interested in my reaction to Callista, while I think Cal was possibly horny and genuinely motivated to move right along. It was still daytime. All three of us were stupid and silly with puffing. Dení assumed her preferred crouch on one knee beside my bed, fellating me a bit theatrically, expertly holding my attention while writhing in receptive slow motion at my feet in tank top and thong, while I fussed with Cal’s top, straining to free her heavy bosom. My memories of the geography and geometry of the encounter have become decidedly non-Euclidean, as I was somehow French-kissing Cal’s shaved, herb-scented, and freshly showered pudendum, while Dení nose-breathed loudly and with some annoyance at my unbalanced attention to Cal while her busy mouth cycled from massaging my stiffened pleasure to making pretty-girl-kisses with Cal’s exquisite grinning rubber black-girl lips. We all murmured yes, yes, yes.
Still feeling a little awkward, we disengaged a bit and the three of us slid under the sheets where we puffed and tickled, luxuriated, relaxed and talked as if the fate of the world were in play. I didn’t get off, but we maundered playfully, climbing up onto one another, falling over with the sheets and covers wrapped over one pair of shoulders or another. We shared warmth and silliness; tits, times two, asses, bras, thongs, leggings. A different girl’s breast in each hand, as it was meant to be.
The day spun away wildly. I eventually drove Dení home. Cal and I cooked mystery meat out of the freezer together, and later did Drive-thru from the dollar menu at McDonald’s at 2:00 am. We finished the encounter we’d started earlier. Cal’s generous patience and careful fellatic attentions and my cunning explorations of her lush body combined to get me hard enough to fully penetrate her and to gloriously and joyously orgasm inside her. I believe she climaxed as well but will confess to not knowing for sure. We were high, we were beautiful, we were… oh wait, I didn’t care what we were, only what we pretended to be. Our encounter was lovely, and I felt ridiculously and impossibly happy.
Everything was completely new to me, I found myself having to learn about my life as it happened all around me. In my best states of mind, I knew this life I’d built was a sham and counterfeit. The drug controls everything, and the sex controls the drugs, and there isn’t any one ring to rule them all, just endless nights, eliding one into the next in the forever unreeling present.
I had made Callista my lover, or more precisely, my provider of fantasies, of fantastic love. My Plastic Fantastic Lover, who would never get the reference to the Jefferson Airplane song which her grandparents probably listened to, but didn’t pass down to the younger generation, but that’s OK because I have heard the song, I know the reference, and I’ll tell Cal about it, the same way I told her Mom about it. I am Professor Henry Higgins. That is the narrative, one I embraced easily and blindly, was easy to support. In this production of My Fair Lady, Eliza Doolittle’s mixed-race daughter is fellating Professor Henry Higgins. The audience races for the exits.
At the same time, another narrative held. It became clear every crack-fueled encounter involved conscious exploitation of a partner’s vulnerability. Supplying the drug to someone who craved it was a marvelous, almost unbelievable gift and at the same time the worst thing I could possibly do. By making the current encounter possible, supplying the drug precluded future connections without the drug. We could support any narrative we wanted, so long as everyone involved was on board. We all said, “I love you,” to one another. This was supportable precisely until one or another of our putative lovers didn’t respond back in kind. I desperately grasped and held to my narrative. Our world depended on it. I love you. Oh yes, and you.
I had by now committed some resources to ensuring Cal found a situation she could live in. I kept saying “You have to leave,” and she’d say, “Anytime,” she could leave right then if that would work, but I’d protest, “You can’t leave without a plan. It’s not really leaving unless you’ve got a plan. Let’s make a plan.” Eventually she ended up hanging out with my friend Theresa, driving around with her, taking care of her dogs, doing housework, tending gardens, and likely dealing drugs, and I was happy, because Cal was occupied with something besides my home, my kitchen, my weed, and my cocaine.
One morning, very early by my internal clock, but perhaps 8:45 am Eastern Daylight Savings Time by the Greenwich Observatory, on a bright sunny morning in July, Theresa and Callista arrived at my house and rapped on the glass door outside my bedroom. I shambled out of bed to roll open the door, and Theresa and Cal happily jostled in, announcing they planned to smoke this bag of cocaine Theresa now dangled in front of me, with me or not, because they’d had no drugs at all since the last time I saw them, two or three days earlier. How lovely! Wake-and-bake with two of my favorite people right then, feeling so gratified they had found one another and hooked up; Theresa—who I hardly knew, but I knew was a close and perennial friend of Callista’s Mom, almost family and by association, was certainly family with Cal. Smart, big-hearted, big-bosomed, big-eyed and big-red-haired Theresa was taking care of Callista. Theresa told me, reassuringly, “I took her under my wing.” We fist bumped as she walked out to the car, before they drove away.
Sadly, tragically, ridiculously, only two days later Theresa was murdered, shot in the back of the head with a 45-caliber bullet and left beside the road in East Millinocket, ME. Two days after that, two black people were arrested in the Bronx for the murder; one of them was Callista. Can you hear my scream? Has this story become Greek tragedy yet?
A week or two later, my phone lit up one night while I sat at a bar and waited for two cheeseburgers-to-go from the Red Robin in Scarborough; it was Cal, calling from Riker’s Island. I spoke with her while I drank my IPA. Her Mom was already in jail. My life had become a tedious Lifetime Movie, heavy and slow with object lessons, plodding orchestral score, and advertising that sounded just like a Greek chorus. This script was written by Aeschylus, who revealed a curse on my protagonists like that on the House of Atreus. A month after her Mom went to jail, Callista went to jail. Except Callista was innocent; it could be argued she was a victim.
After the burgers and beer, I looked forward to an affectionate encounter, later in the evening, with Electra. I mean Erica. I no longer felt a whit of control of my life, I no longer felt any agency. There was a leak in the hull of Now, and the plot poured in. I could only bail. The deitic Olympians slam their beakers of mead down on the table, look on with florid laughter as the Fates of mortals unwind in their dizzying sprint.
Ollie
Ollie was Callista’s hot, mixed-race girlfriend from high-school (only eighteen months before, but hey). Ollie had big black-chicks’ thighs, glorious shelf of an R. Crumb/Serena Williams spectacular ass, and a big miraculous rack. She wore glasses and earbuds, and always seemed quiet, nerdy, and smart.
After Cal left, Ollie stopped to visit a couple times, and I usually puffed with her. One time she opened my trousers and muckled right onto me, quite dazzlingly, with her perfect fat black-girl lips. I had to quiz her about her plans while she was functionally muzzled by my quickly fattening joystick, but it turns out she wanted cash and I uncharacteristically didn’t have any, and I had to stop her just as she had somewhat seismically freed her miraculous tits, to propose some other slippery fucking plan and I never got to finish our project, with sweet Ollie’s lips, and she ended up getting grimy and unreliable quickly.
She disappeared from my life just about the time Callista was indicted in the Bronx. Rumors circulated that Ollie was seventeen when she was at my house, but I’ve confirmed that’s a fabrication, made up by people who have an interest in spreading bad information—haterz who just gonna hate. Ollie is, I believe, in the county jail detoxing now. I wish her the very best.
Kendra
Kendra is a pretty, round, smiling red-headed ho Delilah once brought to my house to convince me to get them both high. That worked. They proceeded to give me upbeat and enthusiastic two-girl head, [a paradoxical geometric concept, whereby doubling the number of participants somehow nets out to half the contact– two heads nets out to half the total head received while also tripling the price or in this case the price of the drugs to get them high], messing around a little awkwardly, because we had literally just met seven minutes before, had puffed two hits before the chicks started stripping. Kendra was quite delightful company, in a lovely mood, shucked her clothing with no hesitation, knew she was there to have fun. She was definitely a crack ho, puffed and sucked dick and Del’s nipples, and passed around her own big freckled tits with large, round sensitive nipples, to get nibbled, tooth-scraped, and manhandled.
Meanwhile, the drunk and tweaking Delilah managed to make any serious connection with Kendra impossible at that moment but motivated me to get her number. Three nights later Kendra sucked me to a magnificent GFE climax without the distraction and competition for crack supply of another stone-cold ho’s presence. One crack ho is always and precisely enough. Kendra is a good-humored, happy-go-lucky prize.
Peaches
Peaches is tall and slender, with a pile of long reddish-gray-blonde hair, has lovely tits and an open mind. She’s quite old, mid-fifties really, or older; she’s mature, realistic, and easy company. Ten years younger than me. She loves to puff. Enjoys sex. One night we’d finished the rock, it was early, and Peaches undressed and leaned over me to suck me off. I tipped over on my side to sniff her hip and watch her mouth slide up and down. I pulled up my smooth sack [I’ve been pruning the hedges] to let her teabag the whole apparatus. “Mmmm,” she throat-growled, roughly. “Put your finger in me Jay,” she insisted, mouthing me, as I stroked her open, pressing my fingertip right up inside her slippery mystery. “Oh, yes, yessss baby,” she tightened and growled, “put two in,” pulling herself onto my probing fingers, enveloping them in the lips and muscles of her steaming vagina.
My fingers probed and spread Peaches open. As instructed, I pressed into and through the slow rocking of her hips, caressing her open, probing deeply inside this lady, over and behind her uterus, where my fingers felt something “not pussy,” right there at my fingertips, in Peaches’ pussy, like a label, or a candy wrapper, definitely not an IUD. I’m not kidding, I first thought it was a tag! Do not remove under penalty of law. I paused, breathless, asked close to her ear, “What’s this in your pussy Peaches? What is it?” and proceeded awkwardly and without the assistance of an opposable thumb to slide the little knotted plastic package with a fifty rock of crack, right out of her wet, fragrant labia.
I reached over and dropped the package onto the nightstand, pulling on my reading glasses to look closer. Peaches leaned in. Still squinting, but giving way to a smile, I grabbed the scissors out of the drawer and cut the knot off the wrapper of our magic pussy-rock; we smoked it, right there without dressing or even getting up off the bed, passing Peaches the stem with my fingers still smelling like her tangy stash. Any nod toward who was turning on whom, which bitch of us was getting the other bitch high would have been nakedly awkward.
The rock tasted exactly like the crack we’d bought earlier in the day, and just like what we’d bought from her son the previous day, and this “pussy bag” of crack was either stolen from me and hidden, or maybe a commission she earned for buying it for us. Her son didn’t stash the crack in her gash, if you follow me. It became clear something shady had happened, and the mood changed a bit, but we immediately smoked our pussy rock and felt much better. Peaches got me off twice that night, which, with the one time earlier, in the morning when she mouthed me to a reclining and relaxed orgasm after we’d eaten an early brunch, made Peaches the new one-day record holder for successfully sucking me off. Three times in one day with the same chick. I had now officially turned into an ape, wafting sweat, traces of God-knows-what hormones, and cocaine vapor.
Peaches is a treasure. She’s almost 6 feet tall, keeps her weight around 150. She’s a pervert deep down, has seen a lot of shit— some good, some bad— and isn’t easily offended. She spent several years in federal prison. She knows what guys like. Lies all day long. Casually clean. She is often accompanied by a small dog. She knows now my orgasms are easy to accommodate; since my surgeon took my prostate, my orgasms are blessedly both frequent and dry. Peaches forgets, and I pose as if I’m about to hurl an epic cum eruption all over her glottal dangler, but then nothing but bucking, laughter, burrowing hugs, and flushed and sweaty skin. She laughs too, when she remembers. It doesn’t have to suck to be a provider. I don’t mind that she tried to steal my cocaine, because she put it in her cooze where I could find it. I don’t know if that was the desired outcome or not. She kind of orchestrated it, when she insisted I push my fingers inside her. Crack hos lie always, Always, ALWAYS! They can’t help it, sometimes don’t even know they’re lying, nor why.
Adrienne
I met Adrienne on Backpage, when she posted very late, which is almost always an indicator of partying. I saw her ad while I was staying at the Extended Stay Motel out in Scarborough, during a time I was trying my best to maximize my exposure to providers. I called the number in the ad and requested an outcall, then argued back and forth about whether she should come to me or I should go to her place in SoPo. I finally told her I didn’t want to drive through South Portland in the middle of the night, with my barely legal car, carrying a ball of cocaine. That basically persuaded her, though I still ended up driving to pick her up. I was very thoughtful and melted a big hit into the chore of my stem to give her when I picked her up in her driveway, but first I had to wait for her (her pocketbook stashed safely in my front seat to guarantee her return) while she took the cash I’d brought for her into the house. This was a strange and awkward move I’d never experienced. Adrienne was apparently on a short leash. She puffed her hit as I drove us back to the motel, frowning intently as she hit it and tried to assess whether she got anything, then blew out a huge white cloud of success. Our night together began to gently explode.
Back at the motel room, Adrienne turned out to be a pretty, annoyingly skinny, young Mom, in her early 30s, with long, thick dark hair with highlights. She referred to herself as Italian and might be called high-strung. Resting bitch face. Her face was thin, but she had adorable round waif’s eyes, a big open smile, and lips as pretty as any I’ve ever seen. Her body was a study in eating disorder. Her shoulders and elbows and hips were bony and off-putting. We adjusted the lighting. She more-or-less stripped naked for me, and then put pieces of clothing back on, self-consciously adjusting her look to my interest and her comfort level.
I never really stopped feeding this girl the pipe, and we puffed and talked and rubbed shoulders and drank sodas out of my mini-fridge. I had showered a couple of hours before, just before I called her the first time. She sat beside me on the bed and regaled me with the absolute worst blowjob I’d ever experienced, proffering her lovely high-strung lips for no more than 45 seconds (and that’s generous). She made some rolling kissing motions near the side of the shaft, took in the whole (soft, pitiful) length once, and then she sucked just the head specifically, thinking for some unknown reason that was stimulating. I stayed disastrously soft.
This BJ eclipsed in failure even the notably bad one from Audrey about a year before, and it turns out (“my girl”) Audrey is friends with Adrienne and in fact Adrienne had been to my house once or twice (so had her husband!) before I ever met her, once to drop Audrey off the night she stayed with me(!!!), though Adrienne and Chris—the husband—had never come closer than the driveway. The universe of crack hos which seemed to me to be growing at a geometric rate, was in fact betraying itself to be a small, incestuous community, in danger of collapsing into itself like a black hole. But I digress.
Adrienne recounted to me a couple minutes later, as we puffed and dressed, attempting to reinforce her provider bona fides, that she’d always done young guys, who got hard immediately if their cock was in any proximity to her mouth, and they never lasted more than a minute. She just was not accustomed to being with a connoisseur like myself, who liked to take his time. I knew immediately this was complete bullshit she was making up on the fly, but it kept us talking. I got us both dressed and brought her back to her house at about 6:30 am, both of us high as fuck, and I was feeling a bit annoyed about paying a hundo for that atrocious BJ, sharing at least a hundred more worth of up, and this chick was beginning to act prickly and bitchy, as if she’d been wronged somehow. I dropped her off at her house and drove back to Scarborough, blinking my sensitive eyes in the unaccustomed bright daylight rising into this gratuitous new morning.
Back in my room, I was beginning to fade when my text went off. Adrienne wanted to buy some more up, with the cash I had given her. I only had a hundred-bag left, told her to bring fifty (exactly, I couldn’t make change), and I’d split my last bag with her. Can she bring a friend? Yes, I guess so. “Male or female?” I asked. Male. Can I come get them? No, out of the question. An hour later they arrived. He gave me fifty bucks, and we basically smoked up the hundred bag. I believe they came in a cab. The observant among my readers will note, we were now out of cocaine. I hated selling cocaine, only did it for bitchez, and it always meant there was less to enjoy.
The guy didn’t talk and felt like a wet towel on my party, so I made noises about going out and they decided they’d like me to drive them back to Adrienne’s house, and I, reluctantly, did so. Home for her was about a four-mile drive through the suburbs where I was barely familiar, having only just driven there for the first time eight hours before, and then in the pitch dark, but two round-trips since then. It looked different every time I drove there. Now it was daytime, with lots of morning drive traffic, and looked completely different than 2 hours earlier, when it was dark and there was no traffic. All the way back Adrienne (the witch) peered at her phone and managed to miss reminding me of every turn. I kind of reamed her out for being tuned out and not appreciative of the favor I was doing her with this ride in the first place while she geeked on her phone, and then, half a minute later, while her pouty face was buried in the phone, we missed the last turn to their house. I lost my temper, geeked out of control, and they volunteered to get out right there. I didn’t let them out and instead slowly, patiently, and safely turned the car around then fumed and muttered and parked in their driveway to drop them off. By then I couldn’t stand either of them. We did eventually make up, which allowed me to hang out with the two of them (they were a couple, despite protestations to the contrary when Adrienne first introduced me to her “guy friend”) several more times. Every interaction I had with them would eventually, over a day or two or three, turn out worse than the last. Adrienne owes me, and so does her man Chris.
Stacy
Stacy is pretty, with a broad, round, saucer-shaped face, genuine smile, a healthy mop of pony-tail length brunette hair, with heavy breasts, just barely short stature and slightly round. A junkie’s bad complexion. Thick thighs and very workable ass. Stacy never took outcalls, but when I called her, she put me on hold, called elsewhere, then connected back to say she’d do the outcall to Sleepy Hollow Motel, my current “den of iniquity.” Someone in her family had vouched for me, and I drove into town to pick up my bouncy, hot, stoned junkie crack ho.
It turns out Stacy is Ronnie’s sister, Anne’s sister-in-law. Anne’s baby daddy Fred is Stacy’s brother, and he’s the one who vouched for me, so I could fuck his sister for money, the same way he vouched for me fuck his girlfriend for money. Stacy shoots heroin, smokes cocaine, and sucks dick cheerfully and accommodatingly, lets me play with her tits and her pussy, gets into it with me. Has fun doing all of those. I pay her, and we get high. We got to spend most of three days together.
I value the memories, even though mostly she was using the room wifi, and smoking my up, usually quite naked for the cocaine. But she only had eyes for her phone– society’s motivator, stare slab, the place our fingers gesture and poke, always there, lighting the face of its user with a bluish glow, lit from below like scary flashlight faces around a preadolescent campfire. If only we could have imagined those luminous blue globes, groping for the appropriate word for cleavage when the brilliant spheres of her tits are free and hanging, with vivacious nipples swinging toward every major compass-point, bouncing from the east all the way back around to west, following the sun’s path, looking up to grin, nay sneer, at the in-vain labors of gravity itself.
I hear the short half of incomprehensible phone conversations, follow a Messenger thread that breaks off at the last minute. Stacy gets dressed so she can Facetime. Or she’ll text. Or call. I could not compete with the phone. Communication gets too complicated, because what the youngsters do, they watch their phones, read them, steer their lives with their phone and its never-ending present. It’s our Now, now. Stacy didn’t watch me, didn’t see me. There was no need.
Sadly, and similarly to her sister, Stacy became clingy and needy very quickly. The relatively extended length of our first encounter was facilitated partly by her being quite traumatically thrown out of her Dad’s apartment downtown. I was only slightly dismayed to find out she got thrown out for supposedly stealing the old guy’s drugs, you know, like a stoned junkie crack ho might do to an old man she stayed with. It took a couple of days for a new situation to present itself to long-suffering Stacy. We did our level best to accommodate one another. We still consider each other friends. I have reason to believe she’s fine.
Cassie Mae
The way I met Cassie Mae was a goddamn wonder, a miracle almost. I was driving into the heart of the late-August summer afternoon, taking secondary roads back to my friend Ernest’s house in Standish, where I planned to stay for the next week, coming back from checking my storage unit in Westbrook. It was a gorgeous summer day, and I happened to drive by the jail in Windham. Make no mistake, I was driving in the boonies, the pucker-brush, off the beaten path.
I looked and felt every one of my 64 years; mostly old, but feeling a guarded enthusiasm for what felt like a positive new direction for my life. I slowed to make the turn onto the main road, and saw walking there on the side of the road a good-looking woman in her early 20’s with an unruly blonde mop of hair. She was almost miraculously pretty, and her eyes and her smile seemed to sparkle. I slowed the car, cocked my head around to see her through my side window (she was across the road). She had turned around to face me full on, and with one look at her animated grin and her wild eyes—the way she was dressed and carried herself— I knew she would be my sexual partner that day.
This was a first for me, finding a stoned junkie crack ho out here on route 112 in the middle of the day in the middle of nowhere, with nothing on her face but yes. I pulled over a short way down the road, turned around, and drove back to pick her up. She was all inquisitive smiles, it occurred to me she could be high. I told her I was headed to Gorham and then Standish, but I’d take her anywhere she wanted, and she hopped right in. She seemed genuinely charmed.
She saw my pack of cigarettes on the console, asked if she could smoke. I said no, because the car’s a rental and they’re strict about not smoking cigarettes, but would she like to smoke some cocaine instead? I pulled my stem out of the ashtray for her, and she beamed a grinning yes, turned to face me, pulled back her hair, and laughed out loud. “What’s your name again?” she asked. We both laughed. I didn’t remember her name either. Woo hoo! I felt like the magician at this girl’s party. We pulled over and puffed and laughed, drove some more, puffed more, then drove to Ernest’s. Within an hour, my dick was enjoying a brisk, exquisite lip massage from Cassie Mae, and we spent every minute of the next three days together.
Cassie was as surprised and delighted by our encounter as I was and she expressed some enthusiasm that our story be written down. I humbly hope this vignette captures some of the magic and mojo that went down when Cassie Mae and I crossed paths.
Over three days I managed to get to know much more about Cassie Mae and the ways her life worked. Her Dad’s a stoned junkie, and he’s younger than me. Through his daughter, I fronted him for down, and he fucked her (and hence me) over, so because I am an unevolved proto-human domestic abuser, I went off on Cassie Mae, called her a “cunt” which is as likely as the “N” word to initiate raised voices and an unwinnable argument, and I ended up dropping her off at some house off Forest Avenue. The last time I saw her, about a week later, I had dropped her off and was driving back and forth over her stolen clothes, makeup, and glass stems I’d strewn across Spring Street in front of the trap house she’d decided to be dropped off at. Twenty minutes earlier, after I refused to smoke the rest of my rock with her, she’d actually walked around my car, opened the driver’s side door (where I sat) and grabbed my stash and the new stems I’d just bought us, out of the door compartment, standing right in front of me, while we were parked at the Super Walmart in Scarborough. Then she got back into the car and basically dared me to do anything about it. She knew she was taking a chance and she was showing her “hard bitch” and I fucking hated her. I considered how it’s a good thing I don’t own a weapon. It’s a grave risk to steal someone’s rock cocaine in front of them. Shit with this bitch got really complicated. I was close to homicidal. She could be a death obsessed freak. I was a trembling, 150 pound six foot tall Ichabod Crane type old man. I wasn’t in a safe situation.
I’d still love to see her. I know for certain, if she’s still hitting heroin, she’s still too freaking complicated. And dangerous. Love the woman, hate the addict.
And once again I find Facebook documents once again, the woman is back and clean.
Kat
I met Kat through a late-night ad in Backpage, “Gorham late night car fun,” was the offer, and it took me three phone calls and a dozen or more texts to set up the meeting, 50 or 80, depending. Unlike most late ads on Backpage, this didn’t sound like a party, it sounded like desperation, and I was down for that. It took until 9:30 am the next day to make the arrangements, drive to pick her up, and finally get my cock into the mouth of this quirky, talkative older woman. She was maybe in her early 50’s, slim and reasonably attractive, sandpaper voiced, comfortable to be with, only 12 years younger than me. I backed my car into the far back corner spot in the Park-N-Ride lot, handed Kat 80 bucks, and she skillfully, speedily, and successfully sucked me off. Afterward, when we were more relaxed, and I was driving her home with stops to buy the cigarettes and soda and sandwiches she needed to bring home—and the reason she was out at 9:45 in the morning, sucking a stranger’s dick—we talked some and figured out we had a lot in common, including several friends, one dealer, and our cocaine habits.
I befriended Kat, and we had many adventures together, though I rarely used her provider services after that first time. We still speak on the phone and through texts. She got into some trouble for writing bad checks but seems to have worked it out. I think she may have spent a month or so in jail before getting bailed out. The last two times we met I paid her, and she agreeably got me off both times. The last time we had an understanding I’d leave a rock for her to puff when she got back into her house, but I didn’t leave her much. I’m a bad man. I adore my Kat. She wants me to come in her mouth. I asked her, and she shook her head yes, said “Mmmph…”
Trudy
Trudy was the oldest woman I was involved with during this period, only two years younger than me. The one crazy-ass thing about Trudy—I was head-over-heels in love with her. I thought we would be romantically involved, commit to one another, make plans for the future, and live it. Trudy thought so too. She’d be my old lady, I’d be her old man. We had the “old” part down, we’d mastered it. We just had to get the lady part, and the man.
I had met Trudy a year before this, so I “knew” Trudy but I’d never “been with” Trudy, she was a friend of a friend. About a year after I first met her, I’d gone to a party at Ernest’s, where Trudy was, who was constantly being shaken down for a BJ or other sexual favors by Ernest. When Trudy and I got some privacy to speak, I told her how pretty her face looked in profile. With the tip of my finger I drew the lovely line of her jaw. She sighed, smiled, and shifted position slightly. I knew she was listening, knew what made this ho respond. It would take a couple more days before Trudy would get to finish what I was quietly starting. Eventually Trudy provided the finest blow job I experienced in my 18 months of courting blowjobs. What can I say? It was revelatory, the kind of thing you convert to a new religion for. She insisted on the ranking and I’ll attest that my amazing Trudy gave the BJ that won the Platinum Metalhead Medal Award for Head. Trudy was a superstar of providers. My breath catches when I intone this. My achingly pretty, 62-year-old angel Trudy.
For over a year her home was one of the sacred respites to which my girlfriend Janessa could retire when her life turned to shit, which it did with disturbing frequency. Trudy was a safe harbor, a big sister; family, period.
Trudy was also the horribly damaged victim of a heaping double-bushel of shit her life handed to her; two days after a double-mastectomy for breast cancer she was run over in a driveway by her own car, driven by a friend who had tweeked out on cocaine and turned on her when my Trudy attacked her for something or another. Most scarily, Trudy never spent near enough time recuperating in the hospital after her brushes with death, and hence came at the world in a disheartening broken up, unsewn Frankenstein-like shamble, dangling ad hoc injuries, barely healed, a near-literal trainwreck of a body. Now add to that discouraging list of co-morbidities the fact the poor, dear woman also takes concerning doses of medications to manage some profound physical and mental health issues she faces, from as far back as her early adolescence, Valium, Soma, and that nutso sleep medication Ambien. Trudy spends lengthy periods of her life in a profoundly impaired state. Smoking cocaine is the only pharmaceutical intervention that reliably lifts her spirits and hauls her out of the death spiral she enters whenever she goes back to her normal medications. She discovered cannabis fudge was a preferable sleep preparation to Ambien, using clinical evidence we compiled ourselves. I slept at her house as light and innocent as a monk.
Our romantic entanglement proved impossible, because Trudy maintained two lives—the recovering and repentant failed parent persona, which she assumed in order to be in contact with her daughter and grandchildren—and the swaggering crack ho who could keep herself high for just the first 8 or 10 days of the month, month in, month out, and that part of her life would never change—and I was unfortunately unable to keep a foot in each of her lives to make our love connection work. Trudy herself admitted she could never again love a cocaine addict. We agreed, and yet we loved being with one another, loved connecting. And then we didn’t. We were together for three months. Then our arrangement fell apart. I recently blocked her phone number.
Tanya
I met Tanya on Backpage. She lived in Biddeford, and for some reason that was a convenient stop for me that day. She was delightful company, maybe in her forties, freckles, pile of bleach blonde hair, high-strung and skinny, made more pronounced by her double mastectomy. What an amazing woman who makes a living this way and has no tits. Her oral attentions were skillful and effective, and as I slipped away from her grasp, she purred, smiled, and asked if I really came. My life is heaven.
Bitchez 