I used to sit in my beat-up old minivan outside suburban houses when I was driving escorts. Dark streets of cookie-cutter subdivisions, double-wide driveways full of various vehicular toys. One of the things we provided to trusted, long-time customers – aside from bodies to bang – were drugs. Blow and weed – and booze, if required.
I’d get the drugs, sell the shit to the girls and they’d resell it at a premium to the johns. And those dudes paid without any bullshit. I mean, hey – they’re getting nice clean flake or sticky skunky bud delivered by hot pussy and all without leaving their goddamn sofa. I’d say that’s worth a little extra.
Blow is a money maker in more ways than one. It’s a massive, hyper-inflated ego trip and the trick can easily be hustled to keep humping away. If the girl’s any kind of grifter, she plays along with the ol’ His Eyes Are Bigger Than His Cock shtick. If the dude’s been doing blow, the whore would mostly likely text me after the first hour that the guy’s ready to pay for another round. With pretty much zero prodding, he’s convinced that given enough sweat, toil and concentration, his cocaine softened semi-erection will finally grow into an engorged, fire-breathing monster.
That’s the whole cocaine/hard-on paradigm. A guy does blow and his dick just won’t play ball. It’s a kind of ass backwards mind-body disconnect that promotes delusions of all kinds of grandeur and there’s no convincing the user otherwise – no matter how many times they’ve been proven wrong.
The chick might end up with lock jaw but she toughs it out by keeping her mind on the cash. Or as one battle-hardened veteran of the quasi-hard cock wars quipped: “Three hours of his dog-legged pecker looking for my tonsils while his balls bounce off my forehead. Awesome.”
These guys aren’t newbies either. They’ve pulled this shit before and know for a fact that after doing blow there’s no way they’re turning into the Man of Steel. Their dick gets up part way and acts like a drunken eel trying to steer a skateboard.
He desperately wants to fuck the living shit out of her, pound her skull through the floor and THIS time it’s gonna work, goddamnit. The coke makes him feel omnipotent - but it’s his brain that’s erect and hard as iron while his dick remains ambivalent. I’ve seen cokeheads enraged with frustration, slapping at their uncooperative member, shrieking and calling the thing names.
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I recall one Friday night regular from when I was kid who’d go all Bizarro on blow. He was a publisher and paid me pretty good to come over with a couple of grams. He was civilised, used a lot of ten dollar words. I’d show up and there would be Eric Satie on the stereo, some decent brandy, a big Mapplethorpe coffee table book left open to some sexy shot. Kinda corny but whatever, getting paid to play along with that kind of thing is never a problem.
So he’d fuck around with me for a bit, have some fun, but then – this normally reasonable guy would snort up some rails, get all paranoid and weirded out then lock himself in the toilet and spank his monkey for ages – occasionally yelling out at me to make sure I was still there. I wished he would have just fucked me instead and done the blow AFTER I was gone.
Anyway, the smart guys don’t bother with that sort of bullshit if they’re doing blow. They still get the girls over but instead of trying to fuck their way out of this chemically-induced conundrum, these dudes just chill, play cards, talk shit. It’s more fun in the end to have the whores walk around in their slinky underthings looking hot, sit on your lap naked and smelling good and you just soak up all that sweet savoir faire. I’ve been there and it’s actually pretty relaxing. No pressure to get down to some serious ditch digging.
You pay for congenial female company, as the old expression goes, all while getting high, laying some lines on the chicks, drinking quality booze and maybe have the girls play with one another, which always looks pretty great. I’m an old perv and believe me, after banging coke, the last thing you wanna do is try to force yourself to pump out a load just cuz ya paid for it.
In terms of self-respect, actual physical labour and general philosophical self-examination, it’s far more satisfying to separate the drug from the whore and let each do their thing without imposing any serious demands on either.
I guess it’s what you might call a Zen sleazebag mentality. Besides, as every old whoremonger will tell you, a good whore is more about the company than the cocksucking.
Basil Papademos is the author of the novel, Mount Royal: There’s Nothing Harder Than Love, winner of the 2013 BiLines Book Award. His upcoming novel is How To Fuck Your Psychiatrist. Basil's website is accessible here.
