Thursday, May 19, 2011


In Part 3 of How To Murder Your Children For Fun + Profit, one of the escorts - Naomi, had been going on about her dream of destiny, while Lynn, the other woman I’d been squiring around that evening was in servicing a john. Naomi’s heart-felt admission went like this: “I believe this stage of my life is almost finished and I will soon go to the United States where I'll meet a very rich man who will make me a big star - I mean huge.”

She made that statement just before dawn while we sat in a 24-hr Petrocan station somewhere around the border of Burlington and Mississauga, the pre-fab outer reaches of the Greater Toronto Asswipe, the GTA as it’s known. Within a few minutes, I get a text from Lynn that she’s done. So we go to her trick’s place around the corner at some cookie-cutter townhouse with a new - and no doubt heavily-leveraged - Camaro parked in front.

Lynn comes thumping out, looking disheveled in her East Asian baby doll get-up, throws herself into the backseat and promptly curls up under my jacket, even her head. The john is right behind her, thick-faced and nasty. As he comes round to the driver’s side, I reach for my pepper spray and flip off the safety, ready to soak him down.

He’s unshaven, sweaty and red-eyed, shirt buttons done up askew. His breath is a stomach-churning combination of sour booze, cheap cigars and rancid milk. His wrists lay heavily on the window sill.

“So, listen,” he says, out of breath from walking down the drive. “I know it’s not you but you tell Johnny or whatever the fuck the guy who runs this thing is called - you tell him I’m paying for these bitches to show up with real fucking blow, not some garbage cut with speed. I almost blew out a colon snortin’ that shit.” 

He points at Lynn in the backseat. “Ask her!” 

Lynn nods without pulling her head out from under my jacket. 

“I wear a hernia belt,” the john continues and lifts his shirt to show me some kind of black nylon waist harness with velcro straps. “If she wasn’t there to cinch up the back for me, my guts’d be all over the fucking tiles and I’d be suing the ass off that faggot Johnny - big time.” 

He starts to point at me but sees my hand rise a few inches, pepper spray at the ready and clearly thinks better of shoving his finger in my face. He stands straight and backs off a step. “So you just tell him that. Okay?”

“Will do.” I put the car into gear and drive off.

One of the main deals here at the low end of the whoring game, is the women must often show up with drugs, usually weed and/or blow. A lot of guys demand it. If the woman doesn’t bring along drugs then forget it. I mean, he’ll pay for the stuff an all but she’s got to have the shit or she gets the door slammed in her face.

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