The Hooker: A Reprehensible Acts Story

This
book is comprised of works of fiction.
 
All names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and
incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are factiously used.
 
Any semblance to actual persons, living or
dead, real events or locales is entirely coincidental.

© 2011, 2016
Simon Wood.
 
All rights reserved.

About the Author:

Simon
Wood is a California transplant from England. He's a former competitive racecar
driver, a licensed pilot, an endurance cyclist and an occasional PI. He shares
his world with his American wife, Julie. Their lives are dominated by a
menagerie of rescue animals. He's the Anthony Award winning author of Working
Stiffs, Accidents Waiting to Happen, Paying the Piper, Terminated, Asking
For
Trouble, We All Fall Down and the Aidy Westlake series.
His latest thriller is The One That Got Away. He also writes horror under the
pen name of Simon Janus. Curious people can learn more at:
http://www.simonwood.net
.

THE HOOKER

Mark
was content to see out his single days with a bachelor party, but his best man,
Lance, wasn’t.
 
He insists in sending
Mark off in style...in the company of a hooker.
 
It’s supposed to be the last hoorah of a single man before being
condemned to a life of marriage, but that all changes when the hooker scams
them.
 
Mark's world unravels and a dark
side he never knew he possessed spills out.

REPREHENSIBLE ACTS

The
REPREHENSIBLE ACTS series feature stories without heroes or happy endings in
some cases.
 
These stories feature
characters that lose their way and may never find their way back.
 
You can’t condone their actions, but perhaps
you can have sympathy for their damaged souls.
 
You might find these stories unpalatable, but then again, you're meant
to.
 
Don’t judge.
 
No one is immune to committing a
reprehensible act.

My bachelor party came to a bleary-eyed
end around two when the bar closed and the refugees of the event, a dozen of my
closest friends, spewed onto the sidewalk.
 
The night had been the usual affair of too much drinking, a strip club
and the obligatory lap dance.
 
The bar’s
security had called cabs for us.
 
As the
taxis rolled up, we were all more than ready to go our separate ways, hoping to
be sober enough for Saturday’s wedding.
 
Lance, my best man, was the exception.
 
He'd been tossing around his theory all night that it was every
condemned man’s duty to bang a hooker before getting hitched.
 
Nobody had the stamina for the last hoorah
and everyone tried to shout Lance down, but he wouldn’t stop harping on about
prostitutes.
 
The last cab pulled up and
I went to get in, but Lance waved it away.

“Sorry,
cabbie.
 
You’ll have to find another
fare.
 
My boy, Mark here, still has
work
to do.”

The
taxi driver shook his head and roared off.

“We
have to find you some pussy, my man.”

“Lance,
no.
 
I’m too wasted to know fact from
fiction.
 
I’d be no good to a
hooker.”
 
Alcohol wasn’t the reason for
my lame libido.
 
It was the fact that sex
with a prostitute was something I just wasn’t into.
 
I found something about paying for sex,
depressing.
 
Superficial love or lust
held no desire for me.

“Mark,
Mark, Mark, you’re letting the team down.
 
You’ve got to.
 
You don’t have a
choice.”

“I’m
not interested.
 
I’m getting
married.
 
The last thing I need is AIDS
or some other kind of dick rot.”

“Jesus,
I can’t believe you’re being such a pussy.”
 
Lance shook his head then inhaled.
 
“Blowjob then.”

I
frowned.
 

“Fuck
it, dude.
 
Don’t turn your nose up at a
blowjob.
 
What can you catch from a
blowjob?”

It
was my turn to shake my head.
 
“Whatever.”

“Now
you’re talking.”

So
yes, I agreed to the hooker hunt.
 
Not
because I buckled to Lance’s peer pressure but instead, betting on the
improbability we’d actually find one before Lance lost patience or a hooker
would find two drunken idiots as acceptable clientele.
 
I didn’t know much about prostitutes, but my
guess was they wanted a simple transaction with an interested party.
 
The last thing they needed was two wasted
jerks.

Lance
guided me to his Cherokee.
 
He was just
as drunk as I was and I shouldn’t have let him drive, but he was a grown man
capable of making his own decisions, regardless of how blurred by alcohol they
were.
 
Besides, if a cop picked us up, it
would be the end of our hooker search.

We
trawled the south end of Delaware Street.
 
By day, it was a bustling commercial district, bristling with office
building after office building wedged up against one another.
 
This was where Lance and I, and most of my
buddies, worked.
 
But when the sun went
down, a different kind of business took over.

Prostitutes
hung out on street corners around the block.
 
The prettier ones clustered under the streetlights.
 
The not so pretty ones used the shadows for
cover.
 
If you were innocent, you might
have wondered why so many women hung around in clumps, especially when no buses
ran down Delaware.
 
But if you had any
street smarts, you knew exactly what they were there for.
 
Not too many were dressed like movie hookers,
with feather boas and the like, but nothing was concealed.
 
Skirts were a little too high, makeup a
little too heavy and stares a little too searching.

We
weren’t subtle about our approach either.
 
Alcohol collided with adrenaline to make a volatile cocktail.
 
Lance powered down the windows and hollered
at the prostitutes, spewing infantile abuse that wouldn’t have been acceptable
from construction workers.

“Hey
baby,” he shouted.
 
“My man here needs to
be blown, real bad.
 
Can you help him
out?”

It
wasn’t surprising to see the hookers retreat into the shadows, hurling
obscenities back our way.
 
Nobody wanted
our kind of business.
 
In retrospect, we
were damned lucky that Delaware didn’t have any undercover vice working the
street.

As
the parade of prostitutes ended, we turned off Delaware and onto J Street.
 
My euphoria died and I thought my brush with
a hooker was lost.
  
But it wasn’t.
 
It was just beginning.

Lance
was slow correcting his turn and wandered across two lanes before getting
affairs under control.
 
I have no idea
what speed we were going but it must have been slower than I imagined or she
wouldn’t have caught up with us.
 
Before
Lance had a chance to accelerate, something struck the car from the rear.

“Jesus,”
I said, cowering more out of instinct than necessity.

Lance
slammed on the brakes.

“Let
me in,” she screamed.
 
“For God’s sake,
let me in.”

She
was in the street, yanking repeatedly on the rear passenger door handle.
 
She had a decent figure—tall, slim, a little
flat-chested, and narrow in the hips, but her face was nothing to write home
about, even with God knows how many shots of Jack Daniels I’d knocked
back.
 

“What
d’ya
want?” Lance asked, being purposely obtuse.
 

But
as I think of it now, maybe Lance was playing it smart.
 
Late at night, you don’t know what stunts
might be pulled.

“He’s
chasing me.”

Lance
looked behind her.
 
“I don’t see anyone.”

Panic
ravaged her features, making her uglier than she was.
 
She glanced back over her shoulder.

“Let
her in, Lance,” I said, fancying myself as a knight in shining armor.
 
She might have been a hooker, but she didn’t
deserve a beating.

“I
just don’t see anyone.”

Then
I did the dumbest thing in my life.
 
If
I’d told Lance to punch it right then, the world would have been a different
place.
 
But I didn’t.
 
I flipped the lock release on the back
door.
 
Why I did it, I don’t know.
 
Maybe I thought I was being a hero, trying to
impress a woman, albeit a hooker.
 
Before
Lance could react, she had the door open and was on the back seat.

“Hit
it,” she said and Lance did.

“Who’s
chasing you?” I asked.

“My
pimp,” she said.

The
answer wasn’t a shocker and neither was the reason.

“He
wants more money.
 
He thinks I’m holding
out.”

“Where
can we drop you?”
 
Lance asked.
 
He was strangely aloof.
 
He wasn’t happy with me, I could tell.
 
The look on his face said he didn’t want to
get mixed up in any fucked up business that had nothing to do with him.
 
And I couldn't say I disagreed.

 
“The next street.”

Lance
eased the Cherokee over to the side of the street.
 
“Be careful now,” he said without much
affection.

“Thanks,”
the hooker said.
 
“I wish there was some
way I could repay you.”

A
leer spread across Lance’s face.
 
“Actually, there is something you can do.”

I
guessed what he would say.

“What's
your name?” Lance asked.

“Hope.”

“Love
that name, Hope,” Lance said insincerely.
 
“It’s my friend’s bachelor party and I promised him a blowjob.”

“Sixty
bucks.”

I
realized we’d been conned.
 
There
probably was a pimp, but not one after her blood.
 
She was never going to be the pick of the
bunch, not with that face.
 
So, she
needed an in, a way of getting a John.
 
And she had one.
 
Who could resist
a damsel in distress?

Lance
didn’t care about the con.
 
He’d gotten
what he wanted.
 
And the reward was twice
as sweet because he could pay me back for my blunder.

“Sixty
bucks for a bee-jay?
 
Fuck that.
 
For sixty, we both get one.”

She
considered Lance’s offer for a nanosecond.
 
“Okay.”

“Cool,”
Lance said.

I
groaned inside.

“Pull
into that alley.
 
I don’t want any cops.”

Grinning,
Lance said, “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

He
slipped the Cherokee into a litter-strewn service alley.
 
Three dumpsters lined the right-hand side of
the alley, which came to a dead end two hundred feet in.
 
Lance stopped half a car’s length from the
dead end, letting his high beams reflect off the concrete and back into the
Jeep’s interior.

“Money
first,” she said.

“This
one’s on me,” Lance said and handed her three twenties.

She
slipped the cash into her bra.
 
“Don’t
look so nervous, baby.
 
Come here,” she
said to me.

I
didn’t move.

Lance
leered. “Batter up, pal.”
 

I
clambered into the backseat, next to Hope, and let her get to work.
 
She unbuckled my belt and unzipped my
pants.
 
Her hands delved inside my shorts
and she pulled out her prey.

“Oh
my,” she said, massaging my dick.
 
“I
don’t think your little lady is going to be disappointed on her wedding night.”
 

If
it had come from Jane, my fiancée, or any other attractive woman, I would have
been as stiff as a board.
 
But Hope
didn’t summon up those impulses.
 
The
whole situation made me squirm.
 
This
wasn’t my thing for so many reasons.
 
“I
bet you say that to all the boys.”

“No,”
she said matter-of-factly.
 
“But I do, do
this for all of them,” she said and descended into my crotch, swallowing my
shaft.

“Oh,
you go girl,” Lance cackled.

Even
if I was getting my whistle wetted, I wasn’t getting aroused.
 
I wish I could blame it on the booze but it
was more mental than physical.
 
My limp
libido was fueled by embarrassment and guilt.
 
Here I was less than forty-eight hours from a lifetime commitment of
marriage getting a blow job from a prostitute in front of my best friend.
 

She
stopped when she realized that in spite of all her hard work, nothing was
happening.
 
“Don't be shy.
 
Just lay back, close your eyes and let Hope
work her magic.”

I
nodded.

Her
mouth descended upon me again.
 
Our gazes
met and she winked.

I
followed Hope’s instructions and let my head roll back and closed my eyes.
 
I detached myself from the situation,
imagining whose mouth I did want sucking on me.
 
Film stars and singers scampered across my mind, and things started
looking up.

She
wanted me for Lance’s sixty bucks and I wanted her for her wet mouth.
 
Hope broke her hold for a moment to mutter a
couple of words of encouragement.
 
I
placed a helping hand on her head and guided her to a steady rhythm.
  

“Don’t
wear yourself out, Hope,” Lance said.
 
“Remember, you’ve got me to do next.”

My
fingers weaved themselves into her hair.
 
I was getting close, climax was only moments away and my hand tightened
into a fist.
 
Hope bobbed down to swallow
me again.
 
This time, my guiding hand
didn’t keep time with Hope’s head and I felt her hair come away in my
hand.
 
Not just a few errant strands or
even a handful, but all of her hair, as if she had been on chemotherapy.