What She Said: That Time We Got a Whore

The original story, Jenny and Her Husband Get a Whore, showed up on September 30, 2011, and has gotten 191,000 page views — and counting. In honor of TSJ’s two-year anniversary, Jenny Mollen revisited the wild(ish) night she spent with her husband in Vegas.

MY HUSBAND AND I WERE MARRIED FOR BARELY A YEAR when I ran out of birthday present ideas. After some serious thought, I decided a hooker just made the most sense. I mean, I knew it wasn’t something he already had, it wasn’t something he was going to buy himself, and if everything went according to plan, wasn’t something that’d end up stuffed in a closet in our garage for the next four years. Besides, I wanted to do something sexy to remind him that just because I sleep in tattered boxer shorts and zit medicine most nights, I’m still capable of turning him on the way I did when we first got together. A year and a half earlier.

I went through my phone and searched for someone with access to whores, eventually settling on my friend, Cher. Cher worked at a nightclub, has a Marilyn Monroe tattoo on her pelvis and has hair that looks like she just got date raped. If she didn’t know a prostitute, nobody would.

I texted her and asked coyly if she knew any “massage therapists” I could contact for Jason’s birthday. I added quotes around the job title and a wink face on the end so that it would be clear what I actually meant was “whore.” She responded almost instantly with a name and a number of “Laura” (clearly a pseudonym to cover up her prostitute-y real name, which was no doubt something like “Chardonnay”).  I explained the situation as vaguely as possible and asked if she could come over that night. She agreed.

Around eight, I set the mood. I turned on a Buddha Bar CD and poured champagne while my husband paced around the house sweating and insisting we were going to get arrested.

When Laura arrived at the proper whoring hour of 9 pm, I opened the door in a see-through bra and undies and led her upstairs to my bedroom. Jason walked in nervously with three glasses of champagne.

“Who wants to go first?” Laura asked earnestly.

“Oh, we can’t go together?” I hinted.

“Well, I only have two hands,” she replied.

“I have two, too!” I told her seductively.

Laura looked at me quizzically, and then it dawned on me. This girl was a masseuse. An ACTUAL masseuse. A total non-whore.

Laura proceeded to give Jason and me consecutive, professional, non-sexual massages while helping herself to the ample supply of Dom meant for the whore.

“So many people assume just because I’m a masseuse, I’m down for sex? Can you believe that?” she slurred as she stumbled down the stairs back into the living room.

YES! I am one of those people! I thought.

Laura plopped down on the couch and kicked her feet up.

“You guys are so cool. I get so many douchebags in my line of work,” she went on. “We should hang out sometime. I can totally see myself being friends with you guys.”

Jason and I sat there, torn. This girl was definitely too drunk to drive but also definitely too annoying to keep in our house. After a solid minute of deliberating, we decided against being good people and poured both Laura and her massage table back into her car.

“You’ll be fine!” I said.

“It’s like riding a bike,” Jason assured her as we stood in the driveway waving goodbye.

The minute Laura was out of sight and no longer my problem, I ran inside and texted Cher: “The whore SUCKED.”

“Huh? Mani-pedis this week?” she wrote back, clearly oblivious.

The next day, I was not only pissed off that my husband’s birthday treat didn’t come to fruition, I was also ashamed that I didn’t have any friends with access to whores. I must be getting old, I thought.

As fate would have it, we were scheduled to fly to Vegas that weekend for our friend Alan’s fortieth surprise birthday party. I mitigated my inner rage by assuring myself that I’d pick up where I left off the minute we landed. I had to pull off this birthday adventure!

The minute we hit the Vegas tarmac I was on Cityvibe.com trolling for escorts.  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, Eva? I whispered so as not to tip off the people seated around us.

“Yeah, well, my husband and I are in town tonight and we were wondering if you could get together this evening,” I whispered.

“Sure, what time were you guys thinking?“ she said.

“How about, four?” I suggested.

“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. I texted Alan’s wife, Gertrude, to notify her we’d arrived. She wrote back that they were in room 3512 and heading down to the pool.

“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.

We peered out the fire escape door and waited for Gertie, Alan and their two boys to disappear into the elevator. Once the coast was clear, we made a beeline for our room.

After a long and thorough hot shower, I started flat-ironing my hair and shooting mini bar bottles of grey goose like I was going to the prom.

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

Before he could answer, there was a knock on the door. Excitedly, I tossed the iron and threw myself on the bed. Jason opened the door revealing a no more than three foot tall Filipina chomping gum and twirling her hair.

“Eva?” he exclaimed trying to mask his discomfort.

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

My mind sort of froze for a minute as my eyes took Eva in. She looked nothing like her online photos. In fact, 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 asked.

I guess mainly because you didn’t mention that you were a gartenswerk in your profile, I thought.

Further nervous laughter ensued until finally my husband said, “So, should we talk business?”

I took this to be his way of saying he was willing to look past the munchkin factor and proceed as planned. Eva asked for three hundred dollars before talking shop. She explained that it would just cover her bills and her “door fee.” The kind of party we were going to have was up to us, she said. In other words, it 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 asked, “What can you do for three hundred more?”

Eva laughed and asked us to hold as she called her manicurist and pushed her appointment back an hour. We sat there awkwardly 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 needed to run down to the ATM for more cash.

“I will be right back,” he promised.

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. Once she was done with her text war, she started telling me about her family. She said her father left when she was very young (shocker) and her mother raised her all alone. I felt like I was in an Oliver Stone retelling of Rumplestiltskind. Thankfully, 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.

“Okay, so, I will go down on him, and you can sit on his face, cool?” she asked.

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

“Um… okay,” I gulped.

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

“I couldn’t get anymore money out!”

“What?!” Eva and I replied in irritable unison.

“I already maxed out how much I can withdraw for a day,” he said pathetically.

The shark looked angry.

“Do you accept cashier’s checks?” I offered.

“No,” she said, putting her top back on and getting back on her phone.

“Yeah, they don’t have enough money. Just pull around front. I’m coming down,” she said, to what must have been her pimp on the other end of the line.

I was so embarrassed. Apologizing profusely, I walked Eva out, thanked her for her time and promised we’d get in touch once we figured out the cash situation.

As soon as the door was locked and the evil widget was gone, I let out a huge cry of frustration.

“Babe! You totally embarrassed me in front of the whore! She totally thinks we can’t afford her!” I cried.

It was time to go to the surprise party and I was hungover, frustrated and humiliated – in a totally unfuckable way.

On our way downstairs, I convinced my husband to stay another night by promising to be nice to him. My ulterior motive of course being, Operation: Find Whore. Still reeling from the Herve Villachaise debacle, I decided to take an alternate approach. On our way out, I walked up to the youngest concierge and just gave it to him straight, “Dude, I’m having the worst hooker luck! Can you help?”

He looked me in the eye the way drug dealers do when they’re trying to assess whether or not you’re an undercover cop, paused, then handed me a small pamphlet.

Seated at the surprise dinner, we perused pictures of the “merchandise” like those rich guys who murder for sport in HOSTEL 2.

“Finally, a professional!” I said, before ordering my main course (salmon).

The next day we hung poolside with Gert, Alan and their boys. At 1 pm, I feigned exhaustion and scurried up to the room. Jason met up with me several minutes later. This time around, I dressed a bit more casual (no eyeliner). At 2 pm on the nose we heard Gert and Alan’s boys running down the hall with their nanny. For a brief moment I panicked.

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

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 swim trunks, however, I got a face full of silicone.

“Hi, I’m Keisha,” she laughed.

It took me a second to process what was going on. Did Gertty and Alan hire a new nanny? Did the boys morph into a giant whore on their walk down the hall?  Seeing the shock on my face, my husband stepped in.

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

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

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

“They didn’t see you come in here, did they?”

“No! I am really discreet! I usually just get away with saying I’m somebody’s cousin,” she explained.

I cut to the chase. “We want you to go down on him for six hundred bucks,”

“Great,” she said cheerily.

Finally the red shoe diary version of our Vegas weekend was about to get underway.

“Oh and just so you know, I don’t do girls so any pleasure you get is gonna be from your husband,” Keisha cautioned.

Not into girls? For six hundred bucks, I’ll be telling you what you’re into! I pouted silently, feeling rejected.

Slightly less intrigued, bordering on bored, I listened as Keisha walked us through an extensive list of 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. With sweaty palms, clearly a bi-product of all the newly discovered potential for failure, my husband 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. Instantly, my excitement returned. This was the easiest sex I’d ever had!

“Do you want to go down on him a bit?” Keisha suggested.

No, that’s why I paid you the six hundred dollars, I’m going to be over here eating chips. I thought as I nodded my head yes so as to appease my increasingly more distraught husband.

I decided to forgive Keisha for not wanting to go down on me the second she complimented my blowjob skills.

“Good job Jenny — you’re really deep throating that thing!”

“See baby, I am kind of good at this,” I said as Jason’s dick went completely limp in my gloating mouth.

“Stay focused!” Keisha said smacking me on the head causing me to choke on my husband’s cock.

Coughing up saliva and stale cashew remnants all over Keisha’s balloon tits, I sputtered, “Does anyone else kind of feel like Jason’s a giant baby and we’re putting a weird sex diaper on him?”

“Just you, Jen.” Jason said, sitting up and putting underwear back on.

“Wait, we’re done?” I asked.

“For now,” he sighed.

We spent the next half hour lying in bed with Keisha listening to stories about her crazy life. 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. 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 was how casual and seemingly well-adjusted Keisha was. She was articulate, gregarious, and were it not for the torpedo boobs and crotchless panties, the type of girl you COULD see being your cousin. As our time came to a close, Keisha apologized and told us to call her if we wanted to try again later that evening. She lightened the mood by saying,

“See, your husband must really love you. He couldn’t even stay excited by the idea of another woman.”

Mmm. I’m pretty sure I’m the reason he lost his erection but… it’s cool, let’s pretend I wasn’t. Go back to the part about me being good at oral… I thought as I walked her to the door.

On the plane ride home I texted Keisha and thanked her for her work. Whatever she did for that six hundred bucks worked. I was significantly more aroused by my husband. He seemed so mysterious to me. Even though the actual prostitution act was relatively boring and a total financial bust, the reliving of it grew hotter and hotter in my mind.

“What a sweet whore,” I said, staring down at the flickering lights of Sin City.

Jason 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

“Any ideas on what you’re getting me for my birthday?”

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.

Related on The Smoking Jacket:
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What She Said: Jenny Mollen Goes Fifty Shades of Grey 
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What She Said: Blood on the Couch: A Tale of Making a Good First Impression

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