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April 15, 2013

Hookers, Line, and Sinker

Hookers-dadcentricI want to take a moment to talk about hookers. Did he just say—yes I did. Specifically I want to talk about my personal experiences with hookers which, believe it or not, are quite extensive (and no, not in the way you’re thinking). You may be asking what this has to do with being a father. Well, it might sound like a stretch, but I intend to eventually pass these stories along to my sons to help them avoid such awkward situations later in life and to my stepdaughters so they don’t go down this road because of any daddy issues I may have caused. Think of it as a twisted take on How I Met Your Mother

I could probably start off any number of over a dozen encounters with hookers such as the Lady Marmalade knock-offs at that dive joint near the San Antonio airport or the country girl in Tahoe who claimed she needed a place to stay because her truck had broke down—and don’t even get me started about my time living in the Far East! Instead, I’ll begin in my mid 30’s when I was between marriages and living the life of a well-to-do bachelor. (My wife refers to this time as my “douchey years.”) 

I was big into the club scene back then and often traveled out to Vegas. It was during one of these trips that I found myself alone at one of Sin City’s more famous clubs. There I was having a drink, just minding my own business when this gorgeous redhead walks up to me and asks if I could help her over the short wall separating the dance floor from the bar area. It seemed a bit odd, but she smiled and, of course, being a gentleman, I obliged.

Problem was, the little black dress hugging her slender figure prevented her legs from lifting high enough to step over the low wall. Noticing the difficulty I swung into action, scooping her up in my arms and carrying her off the floor like a groom crossing the threshold with his bride. Because I’m romantic that way.

As I sat her back down she rubbed my biceps. “You’re reeeally strong,” she said.

I blushed.

Then she leaned in close to my ear. “So, are you in town alone?” she asked suggestively.

Now, at my age you’d think I’d have seen all the signs. In my mind, however, I couldn’t conceive of someone so beautiful, let alone a redhead, being anything other than sincere. If I recall correctly, I believe my first thought was, “Oh this is so going to happen.”

“I’m staying with some friends,” I answered, which was true. To me, however, the logistical issues this presented mattered not at the present moment. Something could be arranged.

Hearing this, her demeanor suddenly changed, and she pulled away. “I have to go to the ladies room,” she said tersely before turning and walking away. Again, not reading the signs, I followed like a smitten puppy. It’s funny how I distinctly remember the bouncer rolling his eyes at me as I quickened my pace to keep up with the redhead who was currently making a b-line for the restroom.

Somewhat confused at this point, I waited for her to come back. When she finally did emerge she brushed right past me and headed straight to open bar on the casino floor.

“Hey there,” I called out. Nothing. Then I noticed she had pulled a phone from her purse. “Yeah, come get me. I’ve got a sticker,” I heard her say once I got closer.

A sticker? What the… And that’s when it hit me. I wasn’t a sticker; I was asucker--the biggest sucker in the world. Oh my God! She's a… hooker! A prostitute! A lady of the evening!

I walked off embarrassed and angry with myself for being so stupid.

To my boys I would say the lesson here is that if an attractive young lady in a little black dress approaches you with an out-of-the-ordinary request—even if she’s a redhead in distress—she probably a hooker. And to my stepdaughters, never ever let a boy try to scoop you up in his arms!

My problem when it came to hookers was that I was too unassuming. I mean sometimes it’s obvious who they are like the “drinkie” girls in the bars of South Korea, or the one in that hotel lobby whose pimp tackled her to the ground as she ran after me shouting obscenities because I had blown her off. In other instances, though, I couldn’t help but think they were truly interested in me the same way women are attracted to David Duchovny in that show, Californication. “What a nice, friendly girl,” I’d think because I tend to believe the best in people. It’s how I was raised.  Eventually, I’d catch on.    

One of my last hooker adventures, again, took place in Vegas at a rave on Easter morning (because, yeah, there’s no better way to celebrate the resurrection of your Lord and Savior than with glow sticks and Ecstacy). Anyway, there I was observing the mass of people pulsating to some techno remix with more energy than any one person should have at 7am on a Sunday.

Surveying the scene, my eyes spotted a petite blond in a light blue, form-fitting dress. What made her stand out, aside from her overall cuteness, was that she was the only one in the crowd not dancing. In fact she seemed rather bored.

“I wonder if she might like to have breakfast,” I thought, walking up next to her. “You look bored,” I said bending slightly in her direction.

She said nothing. Instead, she smiled at me which I will never forget because it was one of the sweetest smiles I have ever seen. Forgive the cliché, but it was angelic even. Then she pushed up in her heels and kissed me on the cheek.  

This wasn’t exactly the response I expected, but hey, I took it as a good sign. Before I could ask her if she was hungry, though, she turned and melted into the crowd. Scanning the club, I caught a glimpse of her leaving. This time I didn’t follow. The bouncer unhooked the velvet rope to let her out, and I knew. She was looking for a sucker, and I wasn’t him.

There’s a moral for the children in this story too. For my sons it’s this: if you ever happen to find yourself at a drug-infused party on any given Christian holiday, and you think you’ve seen an angel (especially if you’re rolling), I hate to say it, but she’s really a hooker. And girls, don’t kiss boys—ever!       


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