Life and Liquor

I’m Not a Prostitute I Just Look Like One

One-Hundred-Dollar-Bill-1078123I was sitting at a Starbucks on a sunny morning in Scottsdale, Arizona. I was hungover and wearing my clothes from the night before when my friend arrived to pick me up.

When his window rolled down I said, “I’m not a prostitute I just look like one.”

He was wearing sunglasses and his head was hung low as if he was still exhausted, as if some annoying brat had called him early in the morning and asked for a ride from a Starbucks in Scottsdale. I melted into the comfort of his leather seats and air conditioning. In his Greek accent he said, “I decided where you’re buying me brunch.”

I had just made one hundred dollars. I had the crisp bill in my pocket. The least I could do was buy him brunch.

As he drove to our destination, he asked me how my night was.

The night before we had been out at a Scottsdale nightclub. Something was in the air, because everybody was into everybody. Winks and gropes and propositions took the place of the more subtle flirting people usually partake in.

We were approached by a tall, jock type. He wore a lavender shirt against black skin and had a smooth, shaved head. He was a behemoth of pure muscle. He explained that he was a lobbyist visiting from Atlanta, a former college football player (with some of the more annoying mannerisms that come with athletes). After some flirting, drinking, and dancing I decided to leave with him. He was staying in a nearby hotel so we chose to walk.

“Hop on,” he said, “I’m carrying you back.”

I jumped onto his back, wrapped my arms around his neck, and as he carried me towards his hotel his mouth went between whispering dirty, flirty comments and revealing that he still hadn’t told his family he was gay.

By the time we got to the hotel the alcohol had finally hit him, and all of the promises of a wild night collapsed into nothing more than affectionate kisses and warm cuddles.

The next morning we were both slow to waking up. The alcohol from the night before had drained our strength.

“Uh, I don’t have a car here so I’ll get you a cab,” he said, groggily shuffling through his pants to retrieve his wallet. He opened his wallet and laughed.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“It’s your lucky day. I only have a hundred,” he said, handing me the bill.

I asked several times if he was sure, because I could pay for my own cab, but he insisted, following with compliments and saying that it was wonderful meeting me.

As I stepped into the bright Arizona sun, he left a kiss on my cheek.

With fresh cash in my pocket, I called my friend to see if he would give me a ride in exchange for brunch, eager to attempt to drink off my hangover with a morning mimosa.

I could have made them myself at home, but making your own mimosas is for poor people without one hundred dollars.

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