I saw Charles* weekly for just over two months. We'd have a lunch date every Saturday. No intimacy other than a kiss on the cheek ever transpired between us, but I never thought much of it. It was simple - he'd hand me an envelope of cash and we'd have lunch. Stranger things have happened. He liked to talk and the lunch dates just made sense in a hooker as therapist sort of way.

One of these lunch dates included a picnic rather than a restaurant. Much to my dismay, Charles brought headcheese. He honestly seemed to like it. For those who are unfamiliar with the epicurean bliss known as headcheese, it's simply a hog’s head, skull removed and all the fleshy bits chopped up and formed into a gory little loaf of brain, skin, tongue, ears, snout, etc.

In the name of decent manners, I ate the putrid concoction on what would have been an otherwise tasty baguette. I did so without gagging, but it wasn't easy.

A week after the headcheese and baguette picnic, Charles and I met up for lunch at a restaurant and he said, "This has to stop".

This seemed reasonable to me as these things don't go on forever, but it was then that he also demanded "the letter". I had no idea what letter he was referring to and told him so. Charles then told me that playing stupid didn't suit me, to just give him the letter, that I was blackmailing him and that he'd call the police if it didn't stop.

At this point I'm all at once amused, baffled and offended. Sure, I'm a hooker, but I'm a relatively honest hooker and blackmail has never even occurred to me. I told Charles that I was offended and added the fact that considering the innocent nature of our dates, I clearly don't have anything worth blackmailing him over anyway. He countered by stating, "Exactly. Why else do you think I've been giving you this money? Do you think I'm stupid? Just give me the letter. This is over."

...clearly the hooker as therapy bit has backfired as he never really seemed crazy until just then.

This odd little dispute lasted for about 10 minutes before we both went our separate ways. I assume he went home to seethe, but I left to inflict this fucked up little story on a friend over a martini.

My friend views this as hilarious. While I try to explain just how offended I am over the incident, he just keeps laughing. He's of the opinion that I should claim to have "the letter" and see what happens. By the end of the second martini, this seems like a good idea to me.

I call Charles and tell him that I have "the letter". Now it seems I'm much better at the nefarious business of blackmail when I don't actually know I'm doing it as the conversation went like this:

Me: Charles?
Charles: Yes
Me: I have the letter.
Charles: Just fuck off.
Me: ... Very well then.

Now my friend thinks it's even funnier. I'm not sure what he (or I) expected, but that wasn't it. He clearly finds this a little more humorous than I do as he's still snickering while I voice my dismay over the fact that it sucks to learn that I've unwittingly been accepting payment from Charles for something other than being so damned foxy. Blackmail or no blackmail, this really fucks with my irresistible man bait image.

Having recovered from the ego damage, foremost on my mind is the fact that if it weren't for Charles, I'd never have suffered the indignity of discovering what boiled hogs' brains taste like.

I'll consider this a lesson learned. Should a future client wish to introduce me to a gourmet taste sensation such as - let's say, minced livestock anus, I'm going to decline. Manners and the expansion of epicurean horizons be damned. It's really not worth it.

Miss Jones

Recipe courtesy of Peggy's Antiquated Recipes

*Name, which was probably an alias regardless, has been changed.

Posted by Miss Meretrix Jones at 2:54 PM

God and Redheads

I can't scream in my dreams. I've tried. It results in becoming very frustrated and waking up to find that I'm making the most bizarre gagging, choking sort of noises. I don't wake up frightened - I typically don't even remember my dreams, I just wake up pissed that I can't scream. I've had only one dream that I actually remember in any detail and that also resulted in waking up frightened.

It was a recurring dream I had when I was younger which involved nothing but a red haired man chasing me into a church. It was understood in this dream that the man was "the devil", but the scariest part was having to run into a church. Church was scarier than the red headed devil and I couldn't get out once the door shut behind me.

Even when younger, I was sure that this dream was only the result of listening to my father rant about redheads and my grandmother perpetually rambling on about the god-fearing nonsense that she seemed to find so much comfort in.

My father was of the opinion that redheads where the result of some sort of unfortunate genetic fuck up. Evidence of this fuck up was abundant....they burn easy, have extra sensitive skin, eyelashes that can sometimes seem to be altogether missing, and most importantly, their hair was actually red. In my father's opinion, redheads qualified for their own handicapped parking spots and they should avoid breeding (He had similar opinions regarding the French and anyone with an accent). My grandmother's ramblings tended to focus more on the warm and cozy story that unfolds in the Bible...most specifically that cuddly little bedtime story also known as Revelations, but with the stoning of whores and tales of a woman's place always at the ready when Armagedden grew tiresome.

I first had the redheaded devil dream when I was about 8. Though I had the same dream off and on for more than a year I didn't tell anyone because what was more frightening than the dream itself was the prospect of having it "cured" by Grandma upping the weekly dosage of the bible and I didn't care to offer my father any more irrefutable evidence that redheads shouldn't exist - what with the freckles and such, they've suffered enough.

It's never occured to me to offer this little bit of personal trivia when asked to explain my tendencies to occassionally dye my hair bright red even though it clearly doesn't suit me, to very nearly throw up over any discussion of theology and to discard the notion of a woman's good and wholesome place while indulging in the act of selling my fine ass.

God still scares me more than any redheaded devil ever could.

Miss Jones

Posted by Miss Meretrix Jones at 6:07 PM