Tighty Whities

 
I've only been paid for sex a handful of times. I've had sex for food, drugs, and booze more often. There is something about the exchange of money that made and makes me uncomfortable. I am always uncomfortable around money.

We answered an ad on Craigslist. He wanted a couple with a bisexual man. He was willing to pay a lot of money for me to put on some tighty-whities and fondle me as she watched whispering forcefully in his ear. He was older, discreet, not gay, full of turmoil. We were desperately poor and needed some spare cash. Halloween was approaching. Marilyn and Ling needed some new clothes and make-up.

We drove to Albany late that night when there were barely any cars on the Bay Bridge. His apartment complex was a left over from the 60s or 70s with lots of mirrors, glass, gold, brass, and chandeliers. I caught my reflection looking tired, stressed, strained. She was tentative and reserved. We rode the elevator up to his apartment surrounded by these reflections, unable to escape until the doors opened and they greeted us in the lobby of the twelth floor. We were in a maze of mirrors constantly reminded of the distortion of these events.

I knocked on the door, and he opened revealing a pitch black room. He was even older than he told us, somewhere in his 70s.

"Put these on," and he hel out a pair fo 36" Fruit of the Looms. I took them to the bathroom, stripped down, and obliged. I was a 28" waist. They were saggy and looked like a cloth diaper.

The apartment was sparsely furnished. Only a futon lay on the floor of the bedroom. He was in the same Fruit of the Looms patting the large, hard pillow.

"Don't touch me," were his only instructions to me. "Tell me how dirty I am," were his instructions to her.

About 20 minutes later, we were done. He handed us around $200 and said "I don't live here. don't even thing about coming back." We left.

I kept the Fruit of the Looms until I fit in to them. Then, I threw them away.

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