Whore Lover Part 2

This is a continuation of Whore Lover Part I. Happy reading!

In Oz, it wasn’t enough for us to work for someone else in the Sydney brothels. So we decide to head north to a tourist town on the Sunshine Coast, place ads in the local newspaper, and run our own gig from a secluded rental townhouse on the beach. The place is more luxurious than the tents, squats and couches we are used to. Here we have mirrored closet doors, our own washer and dryer. We have our own brothel. We can do it. Fuck brothels where management takes half our fee. We can reel clients in ourselves. It’s easy with a bit of hustle, a sweet talk on the phone.

Our ads are side-by-side in the community classifieds. Soon we realize that all the clients are calling us both, checking out rates and services. We try a scam. Between us, we rotate offering a cut rate $20 less than each other. The guy always books the cheaper rate. We are bleeding the same market. After a few bookings, I have an idea.

“Do you want to pool our earnings?” I ask Juliet. “We are splitting the ad, lodging and food costs. Why not collectivise the incoming?” We have long shared our spoils through common stories, laments and rage against the whore-phobic world.

She thinks about it for a millisecond, and agrees. “Why not?” We fish out a bigger envelope. It feels radical to share the proceeds, each acknowledging that we have common interests and skills and that we support each other’s work.

I think our mutual desire for cash wafted out on the ocean breeze because before long a fellow arrived. He is a crack dealer, ready to flash his cash, and didn’t even ask the rate. Juliet hustles the guy to pay us both, at the same time. It’s what is colloquially known as the “lesbian double.” Show time!

So we make $1400 to do what we do best – make a big porny show of moaning with a just a bit of effort on our part. I find myself between Juliet’s legs, with him behind me. I flick out my tongue and lick her bad porn style, my tongue outstretched not to please her but to make the whole performance something special for the guy our client. It works. He plunges into my pussy and cums pretty fast. As we all lay on the bed afterwards, I whisper in Juliet’s ear. “You know I don’t really lick pussy like that, right?” She laughs.

We hadn’t fucked each other for a long while, Juliet and I. We always had other lovers, interests, passions. Sex was just never the most interesting thing we had to learn about each other. That was funny to us both, since we both held a deep interest in sex and sexuality. But we had no shortage of intimacy, of course. “I adore you,” she always says, when she wakes beside me. To show my true colours, I prefer smothering her with kisses all over her face and tracing her lips with my fingers. We have escaped the plague of jealousy, I think because we have such a deep desire to see each other succeed, to grow, to be happy. Our desire is an investment in the ever-changing nature of intimacy, in the belief that it can’t be held tightly, nor measured or owned. Nor is it only sexual. Our intimacy has always been unruly, free and expansive. We witness each other. We accept each other, without shame for who we are or what we do. We adore each other just because we are.

Our working cunts just much prefer spending time together cuddling in the bed,laughing, pinching, kissing, talking…all things that don’t involve thrusting. Thrusting has become boring and commonplace. And I revel in the intimacy of knowing what does turn Juliet on. It’s not fucking. This is knowledge that no client has, or could possibly guess. I could tell you all about it – if you paid me.

We were a couple of queers playing straights playing bi-curious for cash. It was so thrilling to see the pile of bills on the bedside table, all for our performance. A hooker I once worked with told me that when clients ask her what turns her on, she says “money”. She gets great tips. And I see how it’s true. Our lesbian double show isn’t all faked…we are genuinely into performing and getting paid for a show well done.

Another night, she comes to me, cunt aching from her period. She had been working the night before, and her menstrual sponge is stuck inside. These little sponges stop blood from pouring onto a client, but they often get pounded deep beyond reach. She asks me to slip my hand inside her and remove it. This time, it lays tucked under her cervix, out of the awkward reach of her own hand. I don’t know how anyone gets them out alone, really.

We are camping on a beach and it is dark. We have no flashlight, no mattress, and no stove to make dinner. But we have heels, lingerie, and latex gloves.

I snap a glove on. We laugh at the sound, associating it more with sex than with doctor visits. “Are you ready?” I ask her. “Do you want some lube?” I know she is a bit nervous, because she is often stone. There is almost no occasion (ON) in which she would ask someone to slip their hand in. But if it was going to be anyone, it would probably be me. She trusts me. I can tell.

“Yeah, get some lube,” she agrees.

First we try in the campground bathroom. It’s ablaze with green fluorescent buzzing lights and resident moths. I insist Juliet sit on the toilet. She leans back. She stabilizes herself by bracing her arms against the stall walls. She blushes at the exposure, shushing me when ladies arrive for their nightly shower. But still we revel in filling the toilets with our slutty mania.

“Shit, wait, almost touching it, fuck, is that your cervix or the sponge?” I crane my wrist to a new angle. Juliet’s face swells with a held laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t know,” she squeaks out. She almost falls off the toilet, giggling. “This isn’t going to work, I can’t even feel it,” I say. We move to the tent, where she can lay flat on her back.

There, I reach inside her with my palm facing up, two fingers sliding in and then my thumb following. She tightens, but she is trusting. I’m surprised to now feel the sponge resting right there, not far from the mouth of her cunt. It’s a wet creature sitting on a golden seamway. Waiting for me. So easy for me to grab, so out of her reach. This pleases me, reminds me that we need each other so intimately. I pinch the pink treasure with the tips of my fingers and pull it out. It is dark veined with blood and it smells like earth. I snap the glove up from my wrist and stretch it around the still-warm creature. I tie a knot in the end and bat the stretchy filled glove against my knuckles like a toy. We screech and laugh. I am reminded of some old joke about wanting to be someone’s tampon. I would love to curl inside Juliet, and feel her open herself to clients, to her work, to feel her power. I suddenly wonder why there is no such a thing as peer-administered pap smears and STI tests. We could all reach up into each other’s cunts, keeping them going, keeping them working. It would breed familiarity and intimacy with the source of our cultural alienation. The familiarity would remind us again and again that there is nothing subterranean or dangerous about our busy cunts. What feels more mysterious is how Juliet and I have found each other, and figured out to use our cunts, market them in ways that deepen our love for each other. We are comrades in this mystery, practicing a revolution without a map. We support each other’s autonomy. We love without borders.

That night on the Sunshine Coast, as the stream of client calls slows, I ask Juliet if we can consummate our money-sharing approach with a bit of a ritual. She agrees. We collected palm fronds and all the cash we’d made. Holding hands, we step together into a small circle I’d fashioned from the palms. There is just enough room for us both to sit cross-legged inside it.

I take the money and lay the bills all in the same direction. Juliet then takes them from me, and starts counting out the money in hundred dollar piles, fanning them out around our thighs. The counting is the best part. On some mornings when I arrive home from the brothel around 8am, Juliet wakes up from our bed just to watch me count. I now have a sense of what is going on in the gangster and drug dealer films – our common relatives in the cash only economy. It feels powerful. We count the piles together, and screech when we reach the grand total.

Then we hold hands, close eyes.

“I invoke the whores of history, our foremothers and forefathers,” Juliet chants. “All the brave, smart hustlers.”
“All the fat and young whores.” I add.
“The bold. The beautiful.” Ha.
“The tranny hos.”
“The working girls of colour, the stories not passed on.”
“The ones who will come after us.”

We sit in silence, savouring. Lightly touching fingers, knees bumping up against each other, surrounded by light.

Posted: December 11th, 2009 under Whore Love.