You Get What You Pay For
Perhaps I can best explain by giving an example.
This was a couple of weeks ago. I know the local drinking scene well, and I picked a bar that would give me what I wanted. Not a high end place, but not a complete dive. The kind of place a community college student would go to unwind, where the crowd wouldn’t be too rough but the drinks would be cheap.
I arrived fashionably late, and the place was already crowded. I looked around until I found my mark for the night. She was young and pretty, with very dark hair that she kept in a short but feminine cut. She was dressed to go out in a slinky dress; tight fitting but not too revealing. It showed off her figure, nothing amazing but still decent to look at.
I reckoned she was probably here getting a few drinks before moving on to a club; it was much cheaper to get started at a place like this. That was perfect for me, and she was nice enough looking, so I decided that she would be my the one. There were several backup options as well, but I didn’t think I’d need them.
Now, as you can see, I’m not exactly great looking myself, but I clean up OK, and I have had a lot of practice talking to women. It’s amazing how much confidence it gives you to know exactly how the conversation will end.
But in her case, I didn’t see any reason to draw the process out longer than necessary.
“Hi,” I said, approaching her spot at the bar.
She nodded in response, not even giving me a verbal reply. I could tell she was going to be the minimum amount of polite then disengage at the first opportunity. I didn’t waste any more time.
“How much?” I asked.
“Sorry?” she replied. I had her at least speaking aloud, now.
“How much do you charge?” I asked, clarifying the question.
Her expression soured, and she looked skeptical. But she was still curious or polite enough to ask “For what?”
“To fuck,” I continued. “How much would it cost me to fuck you?”
I have to admit, no matter how many times I see it, I still enjoy the next part almost as much as the sex. She started to say something rude and dismissive to me, but paused. Then, despite herself, she started thinking about my question.
It’s not an easy question to answer, unless you count ‘Fuck off, creep,” as an answer. But now she was trying, probably for the first time in her life, to decide on an actual number. I was patient, though, and she finally responded, “Two hundred bucks.”
I snorted. Everyone starts high, but I can usually talk them down. “Two hundred bucks? Come on, dressed like that, you were probably going home with someone tonight for just the cost of a couple of drinks!”
She looked insulted, but considered my response. “But that would be somebody hot, not somebody like you.”
“I’m not that bad looking, and you never know what some hot douchebag in a club can do in bed. Maybe I’m better than he is.”
“What’s your counter offer?” she asked.
“Fifty,” I said.
She was offended. But we negotiated for a few more minutes, and settled on a price of $75.
Five minutes later, we were leaving the bar.
When we got back to my place, I started undressing immediately. With just a little hesitancy, so did she. Her body was about what I’d imagined, under her dress.
“Suck my cock,” I said.
“No way,” was her reply. “I’ll fuck you, but I’m not putting your dick in my mouth.”
“If you wanted to negotiate restrictions, you should have said something before we made a deal,” I said.
That convinced her, but she wasn’t very good at giving head, so we switched to doggy-style after just a few minutes. I considered anal, but she would probably whine about it and it didn’t seem worth the trouble.
Half an hour later, I paid her and showed her the door. She had gotten pretty enthusiastic by the end, so I gave her an even $100. I’m a good tipper.
There are a few things that I’ve figured out about how it works, mostly through trial and error. The $200 that coed opened with, that was some kind of honest assessment of her value, though subject to negotiations.
It seems to take into account her financial status, her own perception of her value as a sex partner, the inconvenience of changing her plans, and so on. Her interested in me as a sex partner is a minor factor at most; I’ve gotten low-ball offers from lesbians before. What the calculation does not include is anything like the fact that she’s not a whore, what people would think of her selling her body, or that she would never do anything like that. If that were the case, most women would probably set their prices unreasonably high, and I would have a different sort of problem.
In the end, though, they all pick a number. And once they do, and we come to an agreement, they have to follow through. And I have to pay.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Here is a guy describing sex with a random stranger of his choice, and the only downside is that it cost a little money. He has to have the best life ever. Or, I suppose it’s more likely you’re thinking that I’m a monster, using my power to defile innocent women. Well, I’m here to tell you that it’s neither. While I do have my fun, what I have is a curse, not a blessing.
Why? Well, two reasons.
The first reason I call it a curse is because I was actually literally cursed. By an old witch, even.
It may not surprise you that I wasn’t always like how I am now. I used to have a hard time talking to girls. I was still a virgin right up until my mid twenties, when I went on a trip to Vegas with some work friends and they chipped in to get a stripper to fuck me in the back of a seedy club.
That solved one problem, but I still didn’t have any clue how to meet or date a girl under ordinary circumstances. And I had only the vaguest idea how to find a prostitute in my own home town. I knew where the streetwalkers were, but I was terrified of being arrested, of having my name in the paper, of having my friends and parents find out what a loser I was.
After a year or two of expensive vacations to Vegas and drives out into the desert to visit the brothels, I had to find something different to do. I couldn’t afford to travel like that every time I wanted to get laid.
So I found myself heading out to an establishment that I had heard was the right kind of place to go, and safe from any law enforcement. Turned out, the place was a Mexican restaurant and bar, but I wasn’t picky.
It took me half an hour to work up the courage to ask one of the young women if her services were available. Turns out, the prostitute in the miniskirt who I had been watching had just left, and I actually approached another person in similar, though not quite as revealing, clothing.
She slapped me. I was so embarrassed that I left immediately. Or, at least, I tried to.
In the parking lot, I met her husband, older brother, and most of the male members of her family. Turns out, it was her birthday party, and they wanted to make absolutely sure I knew how much I had ruined it for them. Listen, I was pretty tipsy already, and I mistook her for the other girl, OK?
When they were done working me over, this old woman, probably somebody’s grandmother, came over to me, wiped my blood on a handkerchief, spat on me, and said something in Spanish. I don’t speak Spanish, but I could tell she really meant it. Then the whole crew split before the cops could show up.
While I waited for the ambulance, I asked one of the bystanders what the old woman said. “You get what you pay for,” he translated for me. I’ve looked into that phrase, since. It doesn’t translate well into Spanish, they say something more like “cheap turns out expensive.” I don’t know if the guy translated that colloquially, or the old lady said something else, so I’m not sure what her exact words were. At the time, I didn’t even know what they did to me.
My colossal screw-up scared me away from prostitution, I thought forever. And eventually, somehow, I met a girl the normal way. Mercedes was just an ordinary girl, a little bit shy, a little bit overweight, but we got along and I wasn’t in a position to be picky.
I’m sorry, that came out a little callous. I liked her, I really did. Nothing that happened was her fault.
Anyway, it was our third or fourth date, and I finally got up the courage to ask her to come up to my place. She agreed, and though I didn’t mention sex, we both knew what we wanted. And then I discovered the second reason that I think of this as a curse.
Things first went wrong when we were sitting on the couch, the Netflix menu on my TV showing a long list of shows we didn’t plan on watching. I leaned in for a kiss. Mercedes looked hesitant, so I paused.
“I need forty dollars,” she said.
“What?” I asked. I could feel my face burning.
“I need forty dollars,” she repeated.
“I didn’t think you were …” I began. “I mean, I’m not looking for…” I could barely speak. Embarrassment rushed through me, mixed with rage and betrayal. I thought I had made a connection with this girl, finally, but I was learning that she was just a whore.
“No, it’s not like that at all!” she protested. “I like you, I really do!”
I waited. I was breathing heavily, and I probably looked scary. I don’t think I would have hurt her, but it might have looked like I wanted to.
She squeezed her eyes shut, then spoke quietly. “But I need you to pay me forty dollars first.”
I kicked her out. I hated her. I couldn’t understand how I had made such a mistake.
The next night, I got very drunk. I decided that if fate meant that I was only going to sleep with prostitutes, than I would sleep with prostitutes.
I went to one of those parts of town until I saw a likely woman standing on a street corner. I had always been too scared to pick up a hooker this way before, but alcohol and anger gave me the guts to try it. I had to drive a while before I found anyone, so it was getting late.
“Hey baby, want a good time,” the woman said, as I rolled down my window. Up close, she looked better than I expected. Her clothes and makeup were total skank, but she was fit and attractive underneath.
“Sure,” I replied. “How much?”
She didn’t answer me at first, looking like she was thinking about how much to ask for. I grew impatient quickly. How could she not know what she wanted to charge? She reached into her handbag, but pulled her hand out again empty. “Two hundred bucks for an hour,” she said.
“Fine,” I replied. It was more than I expected, but less than I had paid sometimes in Vegas. I had the money, and I needed relief from the total disaster of the night before.
“But listen,” she continued. “I can’t get in here. I’ll meet you at the gas station on Fifth next to the on-ramp in fifteen minutes.”
I protested, but she was already backing away.
I spent the first ten minutes looking for someone else, but the only other likely streetwalker I could find was missing enough teeth that I drove on before she could say anything. So I went to the station the woman had suggested and got there just in time. I was a little surprised that she was waiting for me, but she was, and got straight in my car.
We drove to a motel, cheap but clean, and I endured the judgmental gaze of the night clerk. The buzz of alcohol was wearing off a little, but I had gotten myself this far.
The hooker was a firecracker in bed, bouncing up and down and crying out in reasonably well acted pleasure. Everything went great, until I was spent and she was getting dressed. She had just taken the money from me, and fumbled to put it away at the same time as she was pulling up her panties.
Her handbag spilled out over the table, revealing a radio, a gun, and a police badge.
“What the fuck,” I said.
“Oh, shit,” she said, scrambling to collect the items. She saw that I had seen them and slowed down.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said.
“But,” I replied, “you’re a cop?”
“Yeah,” she answered.
“Dressed like that?” I asked. She was in the process of straightening her tube top.
“Well, you know. Undercover,” she answered. “Vice.”
“Wait a minute, this was a sting?” My stomach bottomed out. Was I about to be arrested?
“No no no,” she protested. “OK, I was on a sting to bust johns, but I called it off before picking you up.” She looked at me. “Do you really think any charges would stick after what we just did?”
“But,” I asked, confused to the core, “why?”
“You paid what I’m worth,” she replied. “I don’t expect we’ll meet again,” and she left the motel room.
That was the first time. There have been many more since. It took me a while to learn the rules, but I already told you what I’ve figured out.
So, that’s the long and short of it. I can sleep with anyone I want, but I have to pay for it every time.
Now, you might be wondering why I have told you all of this in detail. I’ve been doing this a while, and I’m pretty good at guessing how much people might ask for. As I said, I’ve figured out what does and doesn’t go into the price. The most I’ve ever been asked for before is $25,000, by Cindy Crawford. A late-forties Cindy Crawford on a book tour, but still, Cindy Crawford. I didn’t have the money, sadly.
But I explained all of this to you because I have to know why. You’re an ordinary woman in an ordinary hotel bar. You’re hot, but you aren’t Cindy Crawford hot. I’m pretty sure you’re not Cindy Crawford famous, either. What could possibly make you think you’re worth $1 million to sleep with?