Do Hookers Have Morals? A Gaze into Brothel Babe’s Past….

Do Hookers have Morals?
Do Hookers Move Slow?
Do Hookers Have Boundaries?
Do Hookers know where their line is?
I don’t have answers to these questions,
as every hooker is different, but I can tell you a story.

I went to this big uppity social gathering for charity a while back when I was home.
Among my circle its like the “party of the year.” It was there I ran into one of my dear friends. A photographer took a photo of us which I later found on the events website.

It dawned on me…
It’s taken five years of friendship to even get a photo together.

We have never boned.

Lets rewind – to four years before I started this job, when I met him.
I met him at the restaurant where my friend bartends.
When we went back to her house and everyone was doing cocaine,
he and I were the only ones who weren’t. So we spent most of the night talking.

I was interested in him.

I asked that same bartender friend if he was single. She told me yes.

My friend was mistaken.
It was only later that I found out he was married.

The moment that he told me he played the victim to the hilt, his deep eyes begging for me to carry his burden. He played a sad and lonely husband, with a wife that is here only half the time because of her job. I was innocent enough to feel bad for him….young enough to be confused.

The first time he and I ever hung out 1-on-1, my other friend was bartending, and pouring the drinks very strong.

Too strong enough for me to keep my filters up. I was not an experienced drunk. I only started drinking when I could manage to finagle my way into bars. Filter down, Brothel Babe was ADAMANT….wanting answers to questions:

“Why are you married if this person does not make you happy? I don’t understand.”

I wanted desperately to understand.
It never dawned on me that I would never get the truth from this man.

When I went into the bathroom to barf….he literally followed me in the bathroom before I could shut the door behind me, and kissed me on the lips. Without warning, without my permission, without ever asking me if that was ok.

Driving home, he pulled over to the side of the road for me when I had to barf.
He asked if he should come inside. I lived by myself, and I told him no.

For some reason we have always stayed in contact on and off, because he’s a great conversationalist. He’s often pushed or encouraged me to cross that boundary line….but I’ve always wrestled with the idea that I would never be his one and only, and I could never call him mine.

Some years later,I was talking with a friend of mine and we realized that we had this same friend in common. Her discovery? “oh hey, this same guy hit on you too, but he never wore his wedding ring, and when I asked if he was single, he said…”yes.”

A couple years after that,
I found out ANOTHER GF of mine had sex with him.
I brought up how he was married, like it is common knowledge.

She said,
“He was married? But, we had sex! He came over to my house many times.
I figured he was divorced because he never brought her up!”
“Did you ask him specifically if he was still, in fact, married?” I asked.
“There is your problem.” I said.

I hit a breaking point when I was traveling across country for my other work this summer, taking a break from my ho-status. I was feeling very much alone, and wanted a familiar funny exchange. His normally humorous texts took a turn for romantic:

“I wish I could be there,
holding you right now.”

I LOST IT.

I said, “Fuck you, you have chosen your shitty marriage for 12 years, and how dare you hijack my emotions when I am across country. I think the only reason you’ve stayed friends with me is because some part of you still thinks we will fuck someday, and you don’t really care forme at all, you just see me as a potential lay. If you are going to be my friend, you can’t do that shit ever again.”

He stopped talking to me after that.
Two, three months went by.
I returned to my job back here at the Brothel…
Returned to my long drives where I spend 10 hours on the 395 with no one to talk to.
I was somewhere in Barstow when I texted him….

“Can we reconcile now?”
“Yes.” he said.
“Thank God, I’m dying for intelligent conversation.”

BrothelBabe wants scientific answers! The 10 day fallout.

Every time I come here to work, about at day 10, plus or minus a few days, something happens which I call the “10 day fall-out.”

Call it homesickness, heartache, or a break down.
What I imagine is….your heart is a vessel for all these positive emotions.
Everything from your cat wanting to be held when you get home,
to the hand you hold with your forbidden lover, to your mother saying, “lets get lunch this week.”

All of your most recent memories have a 10 day holding time.

When the last drop of love drips out of your heart, like the last grain of sand
in an hourglass…something in you also runs out. Your body knows it, feels it, senses the loss, and doesn’t like it.

You’ve been physically cut off from all of the comforts of your other world back home, and when this moment of loss hits, all you can do is cry.

This time is strange as its the first time I have been back here not having an official boyfriend.
I HAD a boyfriend.
I HAD a ring. Well…he had it. Waiting to give it to me.
I didn’t want it.
I fell for somebody else – somebody forbidden.

Not intentionally either – I’m talking about the kind of love where you tripped, you fell hard, and there isn’t shit you can do about it. The kind where you say to yourself, “Really, heart? Are you sure?! I think you might have lost your mind.”

Knowing my heart no longer wanted to be with Mr. Sensible…I ended things with him some weeks ago, in favor of the untested waters of Mr. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

My boyfriend and I had a very different routine than this time’s 10 day Fall-Out.
Day 10 was when we would fight, and I’d want to break up.

This time all I could do was cry.
Because I miss everything that’s right,
but mostly I miss Mr. Wrong.

I wish I knew the science of “Day 10.” Alpha female, biological chemical warfare, explained. Maybe my ovaries sense the loss. Maybe after 10 days of a night shift, my dopamine levels are low, and the crying is due to a lack of natural sunlight. Its certain that exercise alone doesn’t fix it. No amount of treadmill running and pole dancing is a suitable cure.

Having this much free time working the night shift allows your brain the opportunity to get a little too imaginative. Your head spins around all the magical “what-ifs”.

What IF Mr. Wrong was suddenly available. What IF Mr. Wrong knew how I felt.
I don’t know that he knows. There’s plenty to dig up. We have facebook, after all…where I’ve left plenty of pieces making it easy for any love detective to put together.

Talking with my genius writer friend online, he said that I should tell Mr. Wrong how I feel. I type out a practice letter, as if writing to Mr. Wrong. My friend revised it. It became brilliance and simplicity, all in one.

I took that letter and re-fashioned it to my liking in an email.

Then I got reasonable, and asked myself questions.

What is the result of a whore saying “I want to be with you”?
You can’t really be with a girl while she lives in a brothel.
I’m here to take care of my life. Relationships seem imaginary.
Mr. Wrong is just as broke as I am so saying “lets run off and be together!”
is the biggest joke imaginable.

Unlike other women, I don’t seek to possess or own any man.
No man can truly call me “his” right now, and knowing somebody is the keeper of my heart would not change the reality of my situation.

That email? I saved it, and it will never be sent.
I have too much pride to be anything other than realistic.

Instead in my moment of longing, all I could do was text Mr. Wrong and say,
“How’s the weather back home? I’m missing it.”
As if to say, “I’m missing you.”
His response?
“It’s hot here too.”