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Money Can’t Buy Me Sex Part 2

September 8, 2012

Now, I’d never been with a hooker before. You can’t count that one-time years ago that I tried to pick up a hooker near Times Square. It turned out to be one of the guys I went to high school with. Anyway, when I told Larry I was going to take him up on the offer, he was surprised. “I was only joking” he replied.

Before he had a chance to take the hooker offer off the “night table,” so to speak, I explained to him that I talked it over with my comic peers who pressured me into taking the plunge. LD, never for- getting his stand-up roots, understood my dilemma and wished me luck.

Now it was time for me to find a hooker- slash-call-girl, but I didn’t have the slightest idea where to look. It was time to ask a friend, but who? Then it came to me. I had a friend who had to know where to find a hooker, after all he was a serious jazz musician. I was wrong about one thing, he didn’t know any hookers, but he was a serious jazz musician. He offered to set me up with his girlfriend’s identical twin sister, a four hundred pound knock out. I’d forgotten that this guy liked his women on the obese side, his last girlfriend was blamed by Stephen Hawking for the expanding universe.

The next guy I called was a hundred per- cent sure bet to know all about hookers; After all he was a comic, an alcoholic, and a degenerate gambler — The Hooker Trifecta. Unfortunately, my timing was off; the only hookers he knew were now back in Texas and members of the House of Representatives (due to last minute redistricting as payback for the many contributions to the Republican party).

My next call was out of desperation. I would give it one last try before throwing in the Kleenex. In order to make this call it took every ounce of my control. I had a comic friend, who frankly was not much of a comic, but inherited tons of money from his deceased parents. Yes, myself and my comic brethren were very envious of him. After all he had what most struggling comics dreamed about: a large inheritance and dead parents.

Money in the hands of most men acts as an aphrodisiac, but in the hands of a comic it only enables you to get rejected by a higher class of woman.  He had to be the one, the one who could find me my birthday hooker. I popped the question, then held my breath, and squeezed the phone so hard parts began to pour out of the little holes in the receiver like chop meat through a grinder.  Did he know? Was I going find an actual in the flesh (but hopefully not too fleshy) hooker? His answer squeaked through the receiver. And I yelled, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” — the elation lasting longer then most of my sexual encounters. Usually women only have time enough to scream out my initials. In fact, the only time I’d ever heard my name being yelled during sex it was quite loud and followed by, “Get your father an ashtray!”

My mediocre comic friend had told me a fail-safe sure-fire way of finding my wet- dream girl. All I had to do was buy a certain weekly newspaper, and I’d have my pick. And he was right… there were hundreds of them! Too many, mostly highly trained experts specializing in whips, chains, masochism, sadism, S&M, WD40, and other acts so low even agents and managers wouldn’t even consider representing.  But where were the average all-American hooker-next-door types? That’s what I wanted, what I needed, what my fellow comics thirsted for. Then, I turned to the last page and found it, pictures of several naked beauties, many with black rectangles over their eyes. I deduced that they must be ashamed to show that they wore glasses.

After an hour or two of hormonal debate, I selected the picture of an adorable brunette, her right hip thrust poetically sideways as she leaned against the open lip of an over flowing trash can. I called her and when she quoted me a price her voice seemed pleasant and rather sexy. I was surprised that a woman of her spectacular qualities could be so inexpensive. At her rate I could afford two hours of her company, where I would show her my stand-up tape which would sweep her off her feet and then, of course, she would spend the night at no extra charge.

Money Can’t Buy Me Sex Part 1
Money Can’t Buy Me Sex Part 3

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From → Oddball Stories

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  1. Money Can’t Buy Me Sex Part 1 « The 920 Spot

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