A Thousand Lovers

(I was looking for a black escort and found this really cute babe. She was hooked on drugs and confided in me that she had sold her body to at least a thousand men. She said it was the only way she could pay for her habit. She also confided in me that she never developed any feelings for any of those men, except for this one white guy. She said she had written a book about it, and she gave me a copy to read. This is the book she wrote, about her and this white guy. An absolute true story, of one in a thousand, word for word, with no changes at all)

*

The wind whipped off my low cut top, freezing my generous cleavage and howling as it echoed along the garbage strewn alley.

Smiley was sleeping off yet another hangover, his shivering bare legs protruding out of the alley. Someone had stolen both his pants and the expensive leather cow boy boots he had himself stolen from Macey's only a week earlier.

"Everything okay Ginger?"

I recognized the voice immediately as belonging to Dan Crowley, a local Guardian Angel who was moonlighing as a keeper of the neighborhood peace whenever he wasn't working twelve hour days as a pizza delivery driver.

"Any pizza today, Danny?" I said hopefully, my big brown eyes still red and diluted from the last tokes of crack I'd had a mere hour earlier. I couldn't remember when I had last eaten. I only knew that even with the numbing crack and uppers in my system, the hunger pangs were brutal and consistent.

"Sorry love," he whispered. "I didn't drive today. But I have a candy bar if you're interested."

"I'm interested," I said, shivering not only from the cold, but from the realization that the watered down crack I'd bought from 'Stan The Man,' earlier had been stepped on one time too many. It's potency wasn't at what it should've been. I was coming down sooner than expected. I was suddenly desperate to do whatever it might take to avoid the dreaded withdrawal pains.

"You get tested lately?" Dan asked, handing me the Oh Henry bar.

"No, shit, I can't eat this," I whimpered disappointedly, ignoring his question and handing it back to him. "I have a deadly allergy to peanuts."

"I'll try and bring you something later," he said, "but you never answered my question. You get tested lately?"

"A woman came by from the city health department last week. Said I was clean, then said she wouldn't be coming by no more, something about government cutbacks to community programs."

Dan frowned, his face awash with disbelief. "Debbie was diagnosed with HIV just last week," he whispered. "I know they were trying to keep her off the street, but I caught her yesterday down under the bridge on Dupont Street. Working on some white guy in the back seat of his Lexus. I tapped on the window but they were real busy, if you get my drift. The guy wouldn't give me the time of day. I just hope she was using a condom," he added.

"If it was a white guy, then yeah. Certain Indian men will pay extra to go bareback, so if you see her with an Indian man then you know that there might be a problem."

A siren suddenly blared. Cops were always reluctant to come into the drug infested area. They normally only came in for two reasons, one, if the drug bust was going to be monumental, and take loads of crack or meth, plus guns off the street. The second was if there was a body lying around that just happened to be the obvious recipient of a bullet or knife blade. The sirens continued on down the street until they eventually dissipated further off into the distance.

"What's wrong with Smiley?"

"Sleeping it off as usual," I answered.

"Why is he naked?"

"He was wearing brand new designer clothes he'd stolen. Somebody obviously didn't want him dressing better than they did. His toes look funny, though, almost as if...as if....he's dead."

"What?"

"He's dead."

"He can't be. I was just talking to him yesterday."

"Well you won't be talking to him no more. That is definitely rigor mortis setting in. Oh shit, no wonder. Look at his face."

I was terrified to look and gasped at what I saw. "A hole right between the eyes. Somebody with a gun sure wasn't taking any chances of a later payback when stripping him down."

"It doesn't scare you that a guy you knew was gunned down by some cold blooded killer, just feet from your corner?"

"If you're gonna try and scare me, you're doing a very poor job of it. I'm immune to danger now. I've been given bad drugs, robbed, gang raped, beaten, slashed, had a shotgun pointed at my head, and been threatened with death so many times that none of it resonates anymore. All I care about now is getting high. I have no illusions about whether or not I'll actually be alive tomorrow. Being high today is all that matters."

Dan eyed me with a look of profound disappointment. He actually cared about my well-being, and it showed in his gaze. That's why the girls always opened up to him, and chatted whenever he happened by. He was definitely on our side. It tore him up inside that we were just throwing away our lives like that.

"Hey, ho!"

The voice was high pitched and squeaky, a far cry from the usual deep, velvety rich voiced Johns that prowled the corners in this drug infested district, hunting for cheap prostitutes.

"Hiya," I said, spinning around at the head peeking out of the car.

I came closer.

His face was red and pot marked with realms of acne. He also had this weird, wavy red hair that hung over his skinny shoulders. His car was rusted and beaten up. I sighed dejectedly. This definitely wasn't going to be a Julia Roberts, Richard Gere moment.

"How much to go round the world," he said, his rotting teeth smiling goofily, and his bad breath almost keeling me over. It never failed to astonish me how guys wanted us hookers to kiss them when they didn't brush their teeth, and to suck on cocks they hadn't washed in weeks, that were putrid with rank pee, dirt, and ripening leftover cum.

Going around the world simply meant they got to fuck either end of us, meaning our pussies and our mouths.

"A hundred," I shot back.

"Hmm," he said, deflating my ego by insinuating I was charging too much.

"A bit much if you ask me. But, I ain't never been with a black girl before and you have really nice tits. I'll give you sixty."

"Sixty gets you a choice of my mouth or my pussy. A hundred gets you both."

"Sorry. I aint going above sixty," he shot back. Then he shrugged and pulled his head back in through the window, turning on his car engine. The car stalled, and made a constant whirring sound as he tried to get it the engine started again. The fact he haggled over price so much probably meant he was harmless. I desperately wanted a burger and a shake, and really needed a new, double score of top grade crack. $60 would fix me up with everything.

I walked over to his car and stuck my head through the window. "Fine, I'll do it for sixty."

He glanced at my large jiggling cleavage then smiled and let his eyes widen. "Good! Hop in."

"Naw. I've got room number seven on the third floor in the Remo Motel across the street. You can park anywhere out front. You won't get a ticket."

"Suits me," he said. "You go ahead. I'll park and meet you there.

I stepped through the lobby. The motel was always only half full. The desk clerk let me use room seven for free on the condition I would slip him a ten every time I passed.

I put my last ten dollars on his desk and he flipped me the key card, saying with a giggle that one day he was gonna take me upstairs and be my John for an hour or two and show me what a real man was like.

I smiled instead of answering, still shivering as I passed him, an indication of just how mind numbingly cold it had been outside.

The elevator was broken as usual, and so I swung open the heavy iron door, listening to it creak and then listening to the sound of my steel tipped shoes as they clicked along the rising concrete steps.

I yanked open the door on three and sauntered to door number seven.

Once inside I drank off the complimentary can of ginger ale. It had been my first time using the room all day. Business on the corner was definitely slowing down.

"Hi."

I jumped at the squeaky voice of the red head. I hadn't even heard him come in.

My body was shaking with vicious need. If I didn't get some high grade crack into my system soon, then I was going to have a full blown episode.

"You got the shakes," he whispered, clearly in awe, realizing he had me at a distinct disadvantage. He knew I was beyond desperate and would probably do anything he said.

"Money first," I asked.

He put fifty on the table.

"You're short ten."

"I changed my mind. Fifty take it or leave it."

I was getting antsy. Fifty would cover a high grade double hit, but no food. I didn't care.

"Fine let's just get it over with," I demanded, picking up the fifty and putting it into my purse.

"I like taking my time," he said.

He whipped off his pants and pulled out his dick. I gasped. It was huge. I had seen a few black guys with such giant wankers but never a white dude with one so damn big before.

He next asked me to get undressed which I did quickly.

He fondled my tits.

"You must have fucked a lot of men, and yet, your tits are still stiff and upright. They only sag a little."

He gently pushed me into sitting down on the bed, then tapped his smelly cock against my lips.

"Don't you ever wash that damn thing," I said, disgusted.

"You can clean it inside of your mouth," he ordered.

"Fine," I said, rolling a condom onto him.

He quickly yanked it off.

"I can't feel your lips unless you do it bareback," he complained.

"No glove, no love," I countered.

"Fuck that," he said, taking out twenty more. "This outta cover it."

My heart began to pound. Apart for the chocolate bar I had eaten, my stomach hadn't seen food in days, plus I would need a ten for when I used the room next. With the desk clerk it was always upfront. Never on credit.

I put the twenty in my purse.

"I'll suck without it but it's only rubber allowed in my pussy. I aint having no baby."

"Fine," he said, shrugging.

I gripped his cock. It was massive and stunk to high heaven. I rolled back the skin and it was all red and almost festering with some kind of yeast infection.

"You going to suck it or not," he demanded.

I grabbed the complimentary bottled water off the table as well as the small complimentary bar of soap. I took half a minute and washed the damn thing as best I could then rolled my mouth over top of it, having to stretch my lips just as far as they would go. It was just so damn huge. I could only get it about half way inside before it began to tap against the back of my throat. I tried not to gag, but a burst of saliva from inside my cheeks rolled down his cock.

I rolled my mouth up and down along it long and hard, jerking the shaft with my fingers while paying special attention to sucking on the cock head.

He moaned like crazy and kept on acting as though he were going to reach climax, and yet, he never did.

After a full hour of ferocious sucking he still hadn't come and I was beginning to panic. I was very skilled at what I did, and could usually make a guy come within five to ten minutes. This guy, however was holding out as if he were iron man.

I gave it another fifteen minutes until my hand and mouth were bone tired and then I finally stopped. If he had of come inside my mouth, then I could have watched him shrink and not have to fuck him with my pussy.

I tried to roll another condom on him but he yanked it off. Then he pulled out thirty dollars more and slapped it onto the table.

I want to ride you bareback.

I was really shivering now and starting to go into withdrawal. I needed to finish away with him quick so that I could get high before I fell apart.

I slipped the thirty into my purse, knowing that fucking me with no condom was going to turn him on.

"Just don't come inside, okay?" I begged.

"I'll try not to," he answered, obviously going to do whatever he wanted.

I laid on the bed and lift my legs, waiting to wrap them around his waist.

"No," he said. "You get on top of me. I want you to do all the work. I want to see your face sweat while you try to make me reach orgasm. I can hold out forever," he warned. "If you can't make me come I'm taking my money back."

I was now in a full blown panic, so I tried to calm myself. He lay on his back and I climbed on top of him, letting my breasts dangle on his red haired skinny chest. Everything about this creep was either small or skinny except for his gigantic torpedo sized cock.

I rose and fell over him and his eyes betrayed the fact my pussy was a lot more skilful than he could ever have imagined.

What was really turning him on, and I knew it would, was my swinging my massive black tits back and forth across his chest. My huge nipples dug into his skin and he really liked that, getting all red in the face and moaning away like some crazy man while I grunted with each impossibly huge full length thrust. I kept the strokes going fast and deep, until he finally caved and shivered underneath me, a sure sign he was about to explode.

I was just about to leap off him when suddenly he reached up and grabbed my waist, holding me down while his fountain of sperm shot deep inside of me.

"Fuck you," I whispered angrily, waiting for him to stop so I could break free of his iron grasp and get off him.

After about thirty seconds he finally stop firing then let go of me, allowing me to hop off him as his warm cum ran out of my pussy and down my thigh.

"You idiot," I whispered. "What if I get pregnant?"

He merely shrugged as I whipped on my clothes. Then I grabbed my purse and headed for the door.

"Don't let them find you alone in the room," I warned him, "or else they'll demand you pay for a day."

I then flew out the door and headed for the stairwell. The corner that sold the weak crack was only five minutes away, but the good stuff was a whole fifteen. I prayed I could hold out for fifteen more minutes.

XXX

When it came to prostitution in our town, the only real place to pick up Johns was on Randall Avenue. There were numerous bars and strip clubs along that street. If guys weren't drinking, buying dope or watching the strippers, then they were picking up one of the hundred or so hookers that lined both sides of the street.

The East side belonged to a pimp named Arnie Johnston. We all knew that wasn't his real name. Rumor had it that he had a lot of outstanding warrants out on him, and had been using fake ID to get around it whenever the cops rousted him. The deal with Arnie was that you got as much crack, meth and heroin as you wanted, but all your earnings went to him. He kept a book, and at the end of each week, if you didn't hand in so much, then he would beat the stuffing out of you. All his girls lived in a motel that he owned, and twice a day he ordered in Chinese or pizza so his girls wouldn't starve.

The West side of the street belonged to a real mean bastard named lucky Tim. He got that nickname by once dodging a hail of bullets from a passing Acura. The deal with Tim was that he would split the money with the girls fifty-fifty, and then give Arnie a cut out of his take. That kept Arnie happy. Especially since the deal was that Tim wouldn't sell dope and that he would ensure all his girls bought their drugs from Arnie.

I never liked the idea of being with either Tim or Arnie, not that it didn't have its advantages, but there were always lots of ugly stories about girls that were under their thumb but then tried to quit. Some girls were cut up and some were beaten so badly they were vegetables from there on out. Others trying to leave the business turned up as lifeless as mannequins in ditches. I always fancied that one day I would leave the ugly world of prostitution behind, but then being hooked on drugs was always what kept me coming back day after day. To understand prostitution, you first have to understand the near impossibility of getting off strong drugs like crack, meth or heroin once you're addicted. A girl will do virtually anything to get her fix.

For me, the heroin addiction was so strong that I had a three to four time a day habit. I suppose that was what kept Arnie tolerating the fact I wouldn't become one of his girls. I bought all my dope from him. He controlled two main corners that peddled all three hard drugs. The one closet to me seemed to water the damn potency down. I once complained and got two of my fingers broken for my trouble, so now I just quietly walk down the adjacent lane to the other corner and buy from his other guys. I never walk along Randall Avenue, because, as I said, for a hooker to use that street, even for passing by, she had better belong to either Arnie or Tim or she would be a dead hooker.

I actually plied my hooking trade from the dimly lit, out of the way corner at the furthest end of the strip. Most Johns never drove so far. But the ones that did, would always comment on the size and firmness of my boobs, and some had never fucked a black woman before and wanted to use me as a guinea pig, so to speak.

My dad knew all about my corner, and for a whole year had come there each night tirelessly, his eyes swollen with tears, begging me to give up the dangerous and humiliating lifestyle. I was usually stoned out of my mind whenever he came. He would always bring me something to eat, but made the mistake once of trying to stop me from handing over money for some drugs some dealers had just handed me. My dad got his throat cut for that valiant effort. Thank goodness it was only a superficial wound. The blade had hit the collar bone as opposed to his juggler. So he was okay. But my mom was worried for his safety after that, and wouldn't let him come to see me anymore.

I suppose in that respect, my family had given up on me. I can't say I blame them. I have a $150 to $200 dollar a day heroin habit. I simply cannot live without the shit, although Lord knows I've tried. I managed to get into a couple of treatment programs, but as soon as I got out, it was right back to the damn needle. I used to cry about it, but now I just accept it as a way of life. I also suppose, in some ways, that I'm still a real hot looking girl. My long, silky smooth legs are dynamite, and my big black, gravity defying boobs really excite the men that see me. But those same breasts are starting to sag a little at all constant attention they're getting. I have great nails and great hair, but my face is really starting to look more like a fifty year olds as opposed to the twenty-three years of age that I actually am. I have these really nice pouty, puffy lips but the rest of my face is worn from drugs and has been used as a punching bag so often that I look more pathetic than pretty.

So when Dexter came along, and actually asked me out on a date, so to speak, I was kind of blown away. He was a top journalist with NBC, but couldn't get any of the other girls on the strip to give him an interview. That was because all those girls belonged to either Arnie or Tim. Neither pimp would tolerate having one of their girls talk to cops or reporters.

Dexter had promised me two thousand dollars, plus a few nice restaurant meals if I would take the time to let him interview me extensively on my life as a prostitute on Randall Street. I readily agreed, but with the stipulation I wouldn't have to talk to about Arnie or Tim at all. No amount of money was worth getting a hail bullets lodged into mine brain.

A high profile magazine was doing a story on the plight of women in the prostitution trade. Dexter was to write the story about me, and I was to have some pictures of me taken and put in the mag, next to the story. In addition, depending on how the pics turned out, I might even be featured on the cover.