Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Kings Cross Chronicles, Part 1

(Author's Note: This blog is a mixture of things that includes sports talk, music rants, pop culture bullshit and my various perverted tales. This is the latter).

Everyone knows the saying, "Nothing good happens after 2am." How I Met Your Mother dedicated a whole episode to the idea. However, it's also a saying that I have continually ignored over my life.

As far as I can tell, everything good in this world happens after 2am. When I was a young lad I learnt that the cable channels showed dirty movies with breasts at this time on weekends, so I'd sneak upstairs to the TV room while my parents slept and watch away. Later, I would go on to figure out that since a lot of pubs begin winding down after 2am, this is the best time to find an actual woman to take home to re-enact those movies.

However, there are times when conventional wisdom can be right. Like a few weeks ago.

If nothing good happens after 2am, then it's a near guarantee that nothing good happens in Kings Cross after 2am.

Yet there I was, wandering around drunk and horny as a caged bull. I had just spent a couple of hours in a strip club, taking advantage of my friend the DJ to get in free and enjoy a bunch of absolutely not free lap dances. When you get teased for an hour straight you tend to want to do the real thing. The amount I'd had to drink (not quite Ash-ed stage, but definitely just a few drinks away from being so on Darlinghurst Road) and the stuff I'd stuck up my nose only further served to impair my notoriously questionable even when sober judgement.

Unfortunately, by this stage I was clearly too pissed to even be allowed entry into a bar. The Trademark and the Empire both had security guards tell me to fuck off, and when I attempted to raise my reasonable objection to this request I simply got glares that could melt steel from a 150 kilo Poly bloke who could probably have broken my arm with one hand. Even when pissed I have a pretty good sense of self preservation.

As I slink away from the empire, though, I hear the call of the Kings Cross Hooker.

"Hey baby. You wanna have some fun?"

(Can also be considered the universal call of the hooker anywhere).

Now, what would a sensible, rational person do? He would politely decline, get in a cab, go home, call the night a loss and perform the Stranger to something off xvideos.

What do I do?

"How much?"

"$160."

"I'll do it." Having just been paid, I was also cruising the Cross with a wallet full of money. Alcohol, cash and stupidity = a truly lethal combination. Generally I only have the former and latter which probably explains how I am still amongst the living.

Anyone who's ever hired a street hooker knows how it goes from here, only she took me to her apartment rather than to a dodgy motel. Or what I think was her apartment.

"Ok...so what am I getting for $160?"

"Missionary. Protected."

"Nothing else? Fuck...what about a blowjob? Or at least I get to eat your pussy?"

"That's extra."

"Shit. OK..."

"Look, why don't you go have a shower and we'll negotiate a fee later?"

I stripped down right there (talk about modesty!) and stumbled my way into the shower, let the water run for a while (couldn't find soap) and, by now a tad more sober but still not enough to make a rational decision, stepped outside to see she wasn't there. OK, fair enough. I came prepared. As much as I like it when I get a condom put on by a mouth, that would surely be another extra. Lie on bed, raging boner, wait for her to come back. Still a little woozy.

Next thing I know she's returned and her lips are around my cock.

"What..."

She raises a hand. Sweeeeeet. I'm getting this shit for free. I'd better be.

I won't give all the details of the sex cause only perverts wanna know that shit. Let's just say that it was good, and as I pulled my pants on and climbed into a taxi home I was a happy man.

Until I had to actually pay the driver.

Shit.

Where's my cash? I had...no. No. No. Fucking bitch stole it from me!

I'm a fucking idiot! I left my wallet in my jeans and dumped them on her floor when I went to shower. And I had a whole wad of cash in there. A load of cash and a prostitute? I of all people should have known better. How many times did I steal from johns? Alcohol, you bitch arse cunt. You make me lose all my senses.

My first instinct was to go back and get it. Yeah. Fat fucking chance of that. This explains how I got a BJ for free. Plus there's no way I could afford a cab back to the Cross.

No choice but to just quietly put it on my card, slink home and remember why they say nothing good happens after 2am.

Even when I think I win I lose.

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