MY HOOKER

I once had a hooker ...
or should I say she once had me?
She lived just next door,
my working ho, my little whore.
(NorWeJimWood)

But seriously folks, she wasn't really my hooker. She WAS a hooker—and Lyn and I DID live next door. It was our first apartment together in NYC—Lyn and I, not me and the hooker....

After several months of sharing a wall with—let's call her "Debbie"—(whom I didn't yet know was a pro, bro) I commented to a coworker of mine that people were always ringing her bell during the day. He laughed at my statement.

"Dude," he said. "I guarantee you, she's a prostitute. Just look out your peephole the next time you're home."

So one day, when I stayed home, I took his advice.

It started around 11:00 a.m.:
The first "gentleman caller" buzzed her apartment. "Debbie" went right to the intercom and said in her husky, gin-soaked-sounding southern accent, "Cum on up, sweetie."

I raced to the door, put me pupil to the peephole and waited as the John made his way up four flights of stairs to the wanton woman's whoopee woom.

From my right I could here "Debbie" clomping "seductively" towards the door in her hooker heels, Boyz 2 Men whoa whoa whoaing in the background on the CD player.

And then I spotted him, cresting the landing of our floor in a very expensive suit. He was young—late twenties. Attractive. Fit. I was stunned. How could this be? I thought only celibate sad sacks propositioned hos. But this guy... He was better than ME.

As I peered pensively through the peephole, the young stud stood stoicly on the steps, straightening his tie and smoothing his hair while trying to get his bearings. He looked to his right and thought, "Is she this way?"

Suddenly, "Debbie" unlocked her Medco with an audible, echo-y clack and "John" turned towards my door, his gaze searching MY peephole for some semblance of sexiness.

I immediately shrank back from the hole—feeling as if he could see right through me—but rallied just as "Debbie" opened her door letting "John" know he was heading towards the wrong residence.

And then...
The sound of ice clinking into two glasses, R&B woo woo wooing from the boom box, and nothing else ... for 8 whole minutes.

When they were done, "Debbie"—sans shoes—walked "John" to the door and bid him adieu. 40 minutes later: The next guy arrived.

This all occurred several times a week, no more than three times a day. Always during the day. Always the same scenario. Buzz. Clomp. Clack. Clink. And every one of them standing unsurely, eyeing MY apartment.

I don't know how many times I was tempted to just open up my door dressed in something slutty....
(click the pic for a more Jimtimate view)



It would've been worth a million dollars to see their faces.