Chapter 15
While Rosie was out taking care of the animals, I hooked my first customer. I got a real thrill out of escorting him into my bedroom. Before, I had looked upon cat-house bedrooms in about the same way that I had bus station or filling station rest rooms. It was for my use, but it wasn't personally mine and I was conscious of the fact that countless other chippies had used the room before I did. They had left their scratches, cigarette burns on the dresser, and other marks. When a mattress wore out, the Madame brought a new one. When the men got tired of a chippy, the Madame ordered another one in about the same way she ordered the mattress.
But this bedroom was different. It was my own personal bedroom. It showed my tastes, my ideas of beauty, and if a room can, some of my own personality. It made my engagement with my customer seem more real and intimate. After he left me, I wondered if I would feel that way towards all my customers and I hoped I would. I didn't want this place to become just another whorehouse and I didn't want to be just another whore. I wanted to be something special to the men who came to me.
I hooked three dates that afternoon. I really tried to show them a good time and pretend I enjoyed it. I told them to come back again.
It's funny, being a whore. I don't think anything about it when a man turns up my walk or asks me how much I charge. It doesn't bother me to take his money or to undress before him. The look of admiration in their eyes when I strip, the eager way they come to me makes prostitution seem O.K. I feel that I've known the guy all my life and it's right and proper for us to do it. Somehow, I can believe that I am his and I belong to him. Perhaps, I feel the same way that a wife feels towards her husband after they've been married a long time, I don't know.
But when it's over and I watch the customer put on his clothes, it gives me a funny feeling to know that he's going to walk out on me the same casual way that he walked into my bedroom. It gives me a feeling of regret and uselessness to know that I mean nothing to him.
A man uses a prostitute for his own pleasure, only a prostitute can never see it that way. It gives my conscience a jolt to see a guy who has been to me several times turn into another whorehouse. Sometimes, when I'm alone, I'll suddenly remember the face of some customer. Perhaps he only came to me just one time and I've never seen him since. I don't know his name or anything about him. But for the moment, I wonder about him and if he remembers me.
A prostitute gives more than just her body to a man, she gives up a tiny drop of her soul. I may be just merchandise to a Madame or some vice ring, but I can't look upon my own body that way. I pay for the money I earn and I don't earn it as easy as people think I do.
When it got dark, the men started coming. It's always that way on a red light street. The men wait until it's dark because they are ashamed they'll be recognized. The men waited in the semi-dark living room that was between the kitchen and the parlor. Just as soon as one got through, I would slip on my panties and peek into the living room. If no one was there, I would slip on my pajama bottoms, go into the parlor to flop in the easy chair beside the window, and light a cigarette. But I didn't get very many chances to try out my easy chair as there were generally men waiting in the living room. Once, there were six guys waiting for me.
"Next," I'd say, and hold the door open. I would smile up at him and try to show pleasure with my eyes.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, but they've really been giving me a work out," I would say. "Now, how would you like to have it?"
It gave most of the guys a thrill when I told them I was getting a work out. Since all I had to do was kick off my panties, I could lay down and catch my breath while he undressed. It was restful, just to stare up at the ceiling for a moment's peace. When he started to get into bed, I would look at him and smile again.
If he tried to kiss me, I would turn my face and take his kiss on my cheek. It's screwy, I know, but all prostitutes have nutty ideas. I couldn't let a man kiss me. I felt that my kisses were only for Tom and someday the rest of me would be his alone too.
"You come back and see me, Honey, maybe the next time I won't be so busy and you can stay longer," I would say before I opened the door.
I smiled so much that there were moments that I felt my face would crack like it was made out of plaster. My insides were sore and swollen from so many dates and some of the men hurt me so much that I had to grit my teeth from the pain. The muscles in my back ached from so much twisting.
Each time I ushered in a new customer, there was that twinge of fear that this one would discover that I was a phony, and that my sexual enjoyment was only a pretense and a game that I was playing for their benefit. But none of them seemed to notice and so many of them were so childish in their eagerness to get in bed with me that they reminded me of naked little boys. Perhaps the most amusing part is the guys who pause to ask me how or why I'm a prostitute.
"I guess I'm lucky," was my stock answer. The men like it and it's an answer they are willing to believe.
So far, I've never had a man to ask me that before he got into bed with me. That question always comes while they are pulling on their pants. If they would ask me that at the door, they might have their answer. When a guy is so shook up over going to bed with me that I have to help him unzip his pants, I know why I'm a chippy. Most men aren't very particular about whom they have relations with, and most of the time, all they think about is their own pleasure. They can get the urge so bad or strong that they are glad to pay a woman. As long as men want it that bad, they'll hunt until they find a woman who is willing to sell. They'll always be prostitutes.
Prostitution, even our moral code concerning sex, is all in the man's favor and is a pretty one-sided affair. I've checked a lot of books out of the library about prostitution. Some of them have been pretty truthful and accurate and others were so far from reality that it was pitiful. Some of the books, especially by doctors and social workers, claim that prostitutes and their customers are emotionally ill. If my customers are emotionally ill, there are sure a lot of nuts running loose. I think that nature made the sex drive in men so he would go out seeking women. It's just a man's normal nature to go hunting for a woman and have relations with her without any love or strings attached. A damn man can cheat on his wife and go home to her without a flicker of conscience. Men have made it a national sport to brag about their conquests, even if their conquest is only a whore like me.
But all the books seem to fail in pointing out one thing. As soon as one prostitute leaves this racket, another one takes her place. That the demand for prostitutes never ends, and men will flock to a dame who puts out for cash. My own opinion is that prostitution is the natural result of a man's normal sex drive.
It gives a man a feeling of superiority to lay a woman and he thinks he is dominating her. I know because I've watched a lot of them leave my body and how they acted and what they've said. They can think they 'own' me in the same way they own their wives and they can forget the men waiting in the living room for me.
I'm not saying that prostitution should be legalized and looked upon as an honorable profession. I think that would be just as wrong as it is to hound us, treat us like criminals, and make us outcasts.
Somewhere in between is the answer. I have no idea where. Perhaps I am emotionally sick, I don't know. Perhaps, if I had married the right guy, I wouldn't have wound up on Green street. But if I had married the right guy, I might have ended up taking on every man in the neighborhood. There are wives who cheat constantly on their husbands, just as there are plenty of wives who hate to have sex relations and give their husband ten bucks and send him to me. That happens all the time.
By the way prostitution is set up in this country now, the men get the fun, and everyone but the prostitute gets her money.
I took on fifty-seven men my opening night and I was dog tired when I quit. Rosie was real swell to me. She changed the sheet on my bed and fixed my supper. Afterwards, she gave me a rub down to take the kinks out of my back. Already the foot board of my bed had been scratched and scuffed by men who hadn't bothered to take off their shoes. I even had one guy who started to get in bed with his hat on and he got sore when I made him take it off.
Fifty-seven men for me and ten for Rosie. I lay there in bed and just relaxed, feeling Rosie's gentle hands stroking my back. I was pleased with myself and I knew the boys would be happy. I stayed awake while Rosie pinned up my hair, but I felt myself slide off into comfortable cozy blackness of sleep when she rubbed cold cream on my face.