Whore Next Door: A Heel in Heels

(Photograph by Isabel Dresler/Isabeldresler.com)

“Let’s go out tonight,” my boyfriend Sam said as we made our way down the steps of the old Moorish castle and onto Mission Street. I was dubious, as he is usually asleep by 10:25 at the latest, and it was already getting late. But after a short interrogation that confirmed he wasn’t a pod person, we split a veggie burrito and got in an Uber headed to North Beach.

We had just taught another successful kink class at the San Francisco Armory; it was a warm night, and we were in the mood to celebrate. A friend of ours was bartending at Vesuvio, the beatnik bar nestled in Jack Keruoac Alley, spitting distance from City Lights.

We tucked our way into a corner booth upstairs and started drinking like Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti would have wanted us to. The neon from the strip clubs on Broadway made the condensation on the inside of the windows glow like Christmas. Mr Bing’s, the corner bar into which I used to run for shots of tequila when I worked double shifts at Lusty Lady peep show, smiled up at us.

That feels like the ancient past: The peep show closed three years ago this month. I miss it all the time.

Sam and I made it home over the bridge somehow. I certainly didn’t drive. I hadn’t drunk with such abandon like that in years, and upon waking, I remembered why.

I had two appointments with clients the following day, one with someone I’d seen previously, and another with a new couple. Although I puked in the shower upon waking, I was certain I’d still be able to pull it together in time to dazzle my dates.

I tried, I really did. But the best I could manage was a tousled ponytail, a hotel bathrobe, and a natural glow (that came from burst capillaries and perspiration).

“I’m not feeling my best,” I told my first client, hoping I’d somehow sound cute. I should have cancelled, but as soon as he walked in the door, he began taking care of me, treating me like a goddess even though I was a very clearly a hot mess.

He has a background in medicine, so he applied some acupressure, and even went out to get fresh ginger and hot water to ease my stomach.

I began to feel a little better, and we talked about the different kinks we like — chastity to for him, lifestyle and financial domination for me — and he let me proselytize about the future of the sex-worker rights movement.

“Maybe we should start calling you a ‘proselytute,'” he teased.

I giggled, but knew in my heart that after today I should probably just be known as “The Worst Hooker in San Francisco.”

After I quietly and demurely threw up for the third time, there was no point in pretending I’d be OK enough to go on a first date — and possibly have a threesome a few hours later — so I reached out to the couple to reschedule, and they were kind enough to understand.

I felt like a heel. Swept away by nostalgia for my bygone baby stripper days, I forgot that my liver is no longer acclimated to a North Beach lifestyle.

Sam came over later on to spend the night and take care of me. He wasn’t in much better shape. We snuggled and watched Stranger Things, and eventually were able to nibble on the fancy crackers and cheese that my client had brought to go with the red wine I had banished from my sight as soon as he even mentioned it.

I’d told my client that to make up for being such a mess during our session, we could continue the tease and denial game we’d started playing after he went home. He had mentally deprived himself of an orgasm for seven weeks, and was eager to finally have release, with my permission. I said I would grant it to him later that evening, but by 9:30 p.m., when my phone was buzzing with pleas, I was deep in a post-hangover, Netflix-induced coma.

I swear by Mary Magdalene that I am usually the most professional, courteous, and compassionate companion a pervert could ask for, but unfortunately, this weekend I definitely earned the title of “The Worst Hooker in San Francisco.” Sorry, everybody.

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