alersandr hunta/shutterstock

I’d met him once before in passing, but he was mostly a stranger. He was in his mid-50s. A bit on the sloppy side, but not dirty. A little pudgy. Working in the sun had darkened his skin and faded his irises, but his hair had always been a dusty brown. He was balding a little on top, and wore what he had left in a way that reminded me of those monks who shave just the tops of their heads. Alcohol and cocaine (taken nasally) had aged his face in a way that made him look like a soft, stupid man much older than his years, and he took advantage of that when he could.

When my ex got us kicked out of every place I’d found for us to stay, he talked me into staying with the first truly sexually open person I had ever met in all of my 18 years. I met the woman for the first time the moment she opened her front door. A friend dropped me off with our kids and all our things…but not my ex. He was staying somewhere else. It was the practical thing to do since we didn’t have a car and his job was an hour away.

My ex is an “out of sight, out of mind” kinda guy. It really doesn’t matter how long he’s away from the “object of his affection”. The second he can’t see you anymore, he’s forgotten his obligation to you. It wasn’t long before we broke up because I found out he was cheating on me. Again. Heard it on the radio, even. The chick, who thought he was dating only her, dedicated a song to him.

His friend (we’ll call her B) let me stay, asking only that I help take care of the house and her kids, but eventually, the strain of three extra mouths (and two diapered butts) became too much for her husband to bear alone. So I started looking for a job. 

I had a built in babysitter, because B was a stay-at-home mom, and we lived within walking distance of a shopping center. I was a good student, barely out of high school. Christmas was getting closer and closer. I figured finding work would be a cinch. But every single place I applied called to tell me they’d given the job to someone else.

In desperation, I went to Social Services to apply for help while I widened the search. They sent me to WIC and the courthouse, and told me that after I’d been approved for WIC, had the managers of fourteen places (why fourteen? Does applying for fourteen jobs in a week show a stronger desire to work than thirteen? What bureaucratic asshole grabbed that arbitrary number out of the air?) over the following week sign a piece of paper saying I’d applied there, and sued my ex for child support, they’d look at my income and decide whether or not they could help me.

So I did the only thing I could do. I applied for more jobs. In the meantime, the kids were teetering dangerously close to needing things I couldn’t provide, so I called their father to ask for money. When we broke up, while standing in front of his boys, he said, “I’ll bring you money for the kids every week.” but I hadn’t heard from him in a month.

He laughed at me.

That’s when John showed up.

B introduced us, and later explained that he was her sugar daddy. She met him on one of those phone dating services that was free for women, but charged men to talk to the female members. A lot of our friends in sex work used this particular line to find dates. Not just straight up prostitutes, but escorts, too. She’d occasionally have sex with him, and he’d give her money. Her husband knew. I have no idea how he felt about it.

John didn’t stay long.

“Just dropping something off,” he called, as he stuffed bills into her hand. “I gotta get back to work.”

“Aww, baby, stay. Don’t you want a little something for your trouble?” she crooned, as she sidled up next to him and nestled her head against his chest. And the trap was set.

He was back later that night, but I was out. She pretended he didn’t give her any money, and accused him of messing around behind her back. To shut her up, he eventually gave her more, and left without ever touching her. The whole time he was there, he talked about me.

When I got home, she’d already set up the date without even asking me if I was interested. She didn’t tell me until the night John came back. He offered a hundred bucks for fifteen minutes alone in a room with me. And I knew everything there was to know about John’s ability (or lack thereof) in the bedroom.

It was a piece of cake, if a bit awkward. John suffered from erectile dysfunction, and was so nervous his hands shook as he tried to push his penis inside of me. He was gentle, and kissed my forehead a lot, which creeped me out a little, but in the end, he gave up trying because he was embarrassed, and I earned $100 bucks for letting a guy rub his dick on my pussy. Nobody got hurt (except maybe John’s pride). Nobody died. No big deal.

He asked if he could come back, but he never did. He did send a lot of his friends. So I stopped looking for a job.