What She Said: Jenny and Her Husband Get a Whore

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So my husband and I got a whore. I’m hoping, unless you’re some sick depraved dissolute of a person, this isn’t the kind of thing you hear everyday. If it is, fuck you, I thought it was pretty gangster. So, ok, where do I begin? I wanted to do something special for his birthday, isn’t that how all these stories start? We were married for just over a year, and in Gemini years, that’s like twelve.

The adventure started when I called up my asshole friend, Chelsea and asked if she knew any “massage therapists”. Chelsea insisted that this chick would come over and with the proper amount of alcohol, do whatever we wanted.

That night, I made the arrangements. I set the mood, turned on some Enigma, and poured champagne. My husband, however, paced around the house like a lunatic, wondering if he was going to get arrested for having a hooker visit our home. The girl arrived at the proper whoring hour of 9pm. I answered the door in a see-through bra and undies. I led her upstairs to my bedroom where she set up her massage table. About thirty minutes in, I started to realize something was wrong. This girl wasn’t a prostitute!! This girl was a legit massage therapist! Fucking Chelsea set me up. The entire hour she wouldn’t shut up about my rotator cuff and various bulging discs. As the night progressed, I did manage to get her drunk. Only to trap myself with her! She couldn’t drive home and wouldn’t shut the fuck up about her pilot she thought we would be perfect for and how, “Can you believe, so many people assume just because I’m a masseuse, I’m down for sex?” YES! I am one of those people! After hours of nonsense, she left. Jason was ready to strangle me. I called Chelsea, who proceeded to laugh her ass off for twenty minutes straight.

The next day, I was on a mission. As fate would have it, we were already scheduled to fly to Vegas that weekend for our friend’s surprise birthday party. While my husband waited on our luggage, my iPhone and I camped out next to a couple grungy kids whose mother was several yards away feeding their lunch money to the Triple Ace of Fortune slot monster. They asked if I was interested in kidnapping them. I smiled, sympathized, thought about my own overexposed childhood, flashed them a pair of tits on cityvibe.com, and said, “Sorry, it isn’t that kind of trip.” They nodded and wished me luck.

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As we scurried out of possibly the saddest airport on Earth, I honed in on a photo of a thin brunette with elbows for boobs and made the call. “Hello?” A cutesy voice chimed in instantly.

“Hi, um, Ava?”, I stuttered. Come on Jenny, pull your shit together, you are a bad ass renegade on the run.

“Yeah, well, my husband and I are in town tonight and we were wondering if you (we?) could get together”, I coughed out.

“Sure, what time were you guys thinking?“ she said plainly. Dude, this girl is a hooker right? I mean, she realizes that I am talking about sex acts? Her tone made me feel like I was hiring a fucking babysitter!

“Why are you not weirded out by what a freak I am?“ I thought silently.

“How about, four?” I said. I am a total loser!

Who calls a whore when it is still light out? Better question, who wants a whore coming to their room when they are stone sober and on their way to a family birthday party? I’ll tell you who bitches, me the renegade, that’s who!

“Sounds good. Why don’t you call me when you get to your hotel, give me the room number and I’ll be there.”

“Done”, I cooed and hung up.

We checked into the Four Seasons under the name Drew Peacock. About 50 people were in town specifically for this surprise party and nobody was to know we were there. As instructed, I texted the birthday boy’s wife, Jacklyn, to notify her we were in the building. In an attempt to preserve the surprise, Jacklyn instructed everyone to make sure their texts were cryptic enough to keep her husband from catching on. As I started to write, “The rooster is in the hen house” my husband tore the phone from my hands.

“Are you fucking nuts?” he barked. “The rooster is in the hen house? You might as well write, ‘we are in the lobby of the four seasons for Stefan’s surprise birthday party’”!

We finally decided on “Anderson Cooper is not gay.” She got the point and immediately wrote that they were in room 3512 and on their way to the pool.

cooper“Even these people know I’m gay, and they literally live in a tree.”

“Shit!” I screamed, pulling my husband into a fire escape. “We are in 3511!”

Not only was this logistically problematic for the surprise, it also further complicated our afternoon rendezvous. What are we going to say when a pair of tits on sticks saunters down the hall and starts knocking on our door? What if they hear the door and mistake it for their own? What if Tits McTitson accidentally gets the room number wrong? Would she then say, “Hi I’m looking for Jenny and Jason?” I guess at that point we would have to jump out of our room in bathrobes and scream surprise, feign innocence, and laugh like it was all a big joke! Fuck, this was not good!

I texted back, telling Jacklyn to remain in a holding pattern until we could run down the hall and disappear into our room. Through the peephole, I watched Stefan, Jacquelyn and their two little girls exit and head to the pool. Behind her back, Jacquelyn threw us what looked like some kind of gang sign I knew must be code for, “all systems a go.” So far everything seemed to be falling into place.

After a long and thorough hot shower, I started flat ironing my hair and shooting mini bar bottles of grey goose. Dancing in front of the mirror in a see through bra and panties, I primped like I was going to the prom.

“Do whores prefer eyeliner or just mascara with a pinch of shadow?” I pondered.

Before I could answer the question, there was a knock on the door. My husband opened it to reveal a no more than three foot tall Filipino chomping gum and twirling her hair.

“Eva?” he exclaimed. “Hi, guys.” she purred as she walked over to a chair and sat down.

I was a bit taken aback. This girl looked nothing like her photos online. In fact, to me, she kind of resembled one of those little island pygmies from Gulliver’s Travels. I wasn’t sure how this was going to work out.

“Why is everybody so giggly?” she went on.

I really only had one way of answering this which was, “Well, because you are a hooker and you are in our hotel room.”

“Oh, and you didn’t mention that you were a gartenswerk in your profile.” I decided against saying anything. Further laughter ensued until finally my husband said, “So, should we talk business?”

I took this to mean that he was willing to look past the munchkin factor and proceed as planned. Eva asked for three hundred dollars just to talk shop. She explained that it would just cover her bills and her “door fee.” Bullshit the kind of party we were going to have was up to us. In other words, hinged on how much more cash we were willing to fork over.

“Why is Bilbo Baggins being such a sheisty little bastard?” I thought.

Frustrated, my husband handed over the money and bluntly said, “OK. What can you do for three hundred more?”

Eva, laughed and asked us to hold as she called her fucking nail lady and told her she was going to have to push her appointment back an hour. We just sat there as she described what was going on with her acrylic and how she needed her fill a week sooner than usual. Once she hung up, my husband notified me that he was going to have to run down to the ATM for more cash.

“What about Stefan?” I said. He told me to text Jacklyn and make sure they were still at the pool. He was going to take the fire exit down to the lobby (no elevators) and wear a baseball cap.

mel gibsonBecause when does that not work?

“I will be right back,” he promised. Being the consummate gentleman, he asked both Eva and myself if there was anything he could get us.

“I’m good.” I said.

“Oh, and I’m actually Karen by the way,” Eva proclaimed.

Once we were alone, I was even more uncomfortable. Eva sat in her chair laughing and text messaging friends. I offered her a drink. She immediately declined. I hadn’t thought of it before but I got the impression it was in the hooker handbook not to accept drinks on the job. It made sense. One roofie and I could have easily scored my whole three hundred bucks back. She finished her calls and we sat in silence for a few seconds before she started telling me about her mother. She said her father left when she was very young (shocker) and her mother raised her all alone. For a minute I dazed off and started thinking I was in some Oliver Stone retelling of Rumplestiltskind.

My husband burst back into the room just before she asked me to start spinning the bed sheets into gold. He was out of breath and Eva talked over him.

“Ok, so, I will go down on him, and you can sit on his face, ok?” she declared.

I was jarred by how fast she got down to business when the money was near. She was like a shark circling its prey.

“Um…ok.” I gulped.

As she started to pull her rip-away outfit off, my husband stopped her.

“You guys, stop, this isn’t going to happen!” he stated. “I went down to the ATM and I couldn’t get anymore money out!” he said frankly. The shark looked angry.

“Do you accept cashier’s checks, I offered?

“No.”, said Eva, putting her top back on.

It was now five o’clock. An entire hour past and we accomplished nothing. Eva got back on her cell and made another call.

“Yeah, they can’t get anymore money. Just pull around front. I’m coming down,” she said, to who I assume was her pimp on the other end of the line. I was so embarrassed! What kind of losers are we? As we bid Eva farewell, I apologized profusely, thanked her for her time, and promised we would get in touch later after we figured out the cash situation. Once the door was locked and the evil widget was gone, I couldn’t help but let out a huge cry of frustration.

“Babe!” I shouted. “You totally embarrassed me in front of the whore. She totally thinks we can’t afford her,” I cried. My Husband, bless his soul, resisted suffocating me with a pillow on the spot.

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It was time to go to the party and I was properly hung over. I was also disappointed that my exciting turn to the dark side had only helped to further illuminate what a dork I was. We snuck out of the hotel with swine flu masks over our faces and big Tommy Bahama hats covering our hair. Once in the cab, I started in again.

“What if, you just go hit on some girl at a craps table and I hide over at a slot machine. Tell her you want to have a good time but you are married and just see what happens.” I offered.

I figured there had to be some sleaze ball girl running around that would be up for the adventure. But alas, my ego was still bruised from Herve Villachaise. I wasn’t ready to put myself out there again. I wanted something that was a sure thing. We arrived at the Palms Hotel and were escorted to the Hefner suite for the festivities. I was able to convince my husband to stay another night by promising we could spend the next day lounging by the pool and sipping mai tais. My ulterior motive of course being, “operation: finish what I started.” I told him that in exchange we were calling his host friend who works in the casinos and having him send us the most professional call girl he knows. He obliged and within thirty minutes our phone was bombed with photos of the “merchandise.” Aside from feeling like a dirty old man, I felt accomplished. “Finally, a professional” I declared. My husband stared at me like I was a small Larry Flynt. We texted Keisha, (hooker # 2) that we would love to meet up sometime tomorrow.

The next day was gorgeous, hot and amazing. We hung poolside with Jacklyn, Stefan and their two daughters until around noon. At 1:00, I feigned exhaustion and we scurried off to the ATM and up to the room. This time around, I dressed a bit more casual; in other words, no eyeliner. At two o’clock on the nose we could hear Hazel screaming down the hall and Flora trailing seconds behind. For a brief moment I panicked.

“Babe, get those two into their room! The whore is going to be here any minute.”, I whispered.

I pressed my face firmly against the peephole to see if I could collect any more data. Then, my entire frame went dark. Knock, knock, knock. Without thinking, I flung open the door and reached out to grab the little culprits. Instead of baby bikinis, however, I got a face full of silicone shoved up my nostrils. Horrified, I jumped back.

“Hi, I’m Keisha,” she laughed. It took me a second to process what was going on. Did Hazel and Flora morph into a giant whore on their walk down the hall? Did this deranged hooker chick eat our friends’ children? What the fuck was going on? And where were the kids? Seeing the shock on my face, my husband stepped in.

“Welcome!” he said as if we were on Fantasy Island.

“Where did the girls go?” I finally got out.

“Oh, they are so cute!” Keisha exclaimed. “They are looking out the window in the hall with their nanny. I rode the elevator up with them,” she continued.

“You didn’t tell them…” I started and then revised my question. “I mean, they didn’t see you come in here did they?” I said.

“No! I am really discreet! Even if they had, people never think I’m a working girl. I usually just get away with saying I’m somebody’s cousin,” she explained. “Somebody’s cousin who sucks dick for a living.” I thought to myself. The chick was wearing five-inch heels and had tits that seriously could have knocked anybody under six feet tall unconscious. There was no way she was passing for anything other than maybe Barbarella. In other words, she was hot. I took my cues from the previous day’s disaster and cut to the chase.

“We want you to go down on him for six hundred bucks,” I proclaimed. Keisha, being the professional that she was, didn’t bat an eye.

“Great,” she said plainly. In that instant I realized, I love this whore. First, she informed us that she wasn’t into girls and that if I wanted any action it would only be coming from my husband. I was fine with this at the time, but in retrospect, what the fuck? For six hundred bucks, I’ll be telling you what you’re into! She walked us through all the potential upsets: Wife gets hurt and wants to stop, husband can’t get erect; wife and husband can’t focus because they are too aware of the other’s emotions etc. I felt like I was in driver’s ed. and I loved it! This is exactly the type of information I wanted to be armed with. My husband, however, didn’t have the same reaction. With sweaty palms, clearly a bi -product of all the newly discovered potential for failure, he undressed and sat on the bed. Keisha instructed me to do the same.

The bronzed buxom beauty climbed up on my husband, fastened a condom over his semi erect penis and went to work. This was awesome for me. I didn’t have to do anything. For a split second I got worried. “Why am I the wife who isn’t freaking out?” “Do I not love him?” “Oh my god! I am a monster!”

Luckily, her long sparkly nails distracted me from my future couple’s therapy sessions and I was back in the game.

shiny

“Do you want to go down on him a bit?” Keisha suggested. In my mind I was thinking, “No, dude, that’s why I paid you the six hundred dollars, to do the work for me! I’m going to be over here eating chips.” Of course, there was no way my husband was going to let me get away with that so I obliged.

The most exciting part of the day was Keisha complimenting me on my blowjob skills. I love approval of any kind. Sadly, however, I think it was pretty obvious that my husband and I were both bored. He quickly became flaccid and we were left with nothing to do but stare at each other.

“I kind of feel like you are a giant baby and we are putting a diaper on you,” I blurted out.

“Umm, that’s not what I wanted to hear, Jen.” my husband laughed.

We spent the next half hour lying in bed with Keisha and listening to her crazy stories. She told us about the guy who makes her and her girlfriend come over, call a male prostitute, then order said guy to suck the male prostitute’s dick. “But he’s totally not gay, you guys!” Then there was the innocent looking couple from Washington State that wanted her to go home and take a laxative so she could come back later and shit on the husband while the wife took photos.

The thing that struck me the most significant was how casual and seemingly well-adjusted Keisha seemed. She was articulate, gregarious, and were it not for the torpedo boobs, the type of girl you COULD see being your cousin. As our time came to a close, Keisha apologized that she hadn’t done more for the money. She told us to call her if we wanted to try again later that evening. She lightened the mood by saying, “Look, see? Your husband must really love you. He couldn’t even stay excited by the idea of another woman.” I told her I appreciated the gesture and walked her to the door.

On the plane ride home I texted Keisha and thanked her for her work. What ever it was she had done, worked. I was instantly more aroused by my husband. He seemed so mysterious to me. Even though the actual act was relatively boring and a financial bust, the reliving of it grew hotter and hotter in my mind. “What a sweet whore,” I said to my husband, staring down at the flickering lights of good ole Sin City. He laughed and grabbed my leg. Something was rekindled between us. Or perhaps something blossomed that was never there before. I don’t know which it was, but I felt closer.

I kissed him, bashed my forehead against his, and asked “Do you think she’s on Facebook?”

Jenny Mollen Biggs is an actress and writer living in Los Angeles with two poodle angel muffins and an asshole miniature pinscher. She also has a husband. Keep up with her at IMDB or on Twitter @jennyandteets.

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