800 for One Shot (2021)

It was the first day in a week-long vacation just ahead of winter break (the school never does that), my parents were at home fighting (they never do that), and the gym at school was empty (it never is that). 

I had just finished a set of incline dumbbell press (my favourite exercise for activating the upper chest), and I was listening to the ambient drone music the DJ in the air conditioning unit was cooking up, when my friend called me. “Ay, man. Let’s fuck some hookers.”

Now, seeing as we were in a country that would see us both deported, and me lashed several times on account of my religion, if caught in the act of whorefuckery, I thought this guy was fucking joking. So, I asked him if he was fucking joking.

“No, man. You think I’d joke about something as serious as this? 400 a piece.”

“400 a piece? A swindler’s price if I’ve ever seen one. As if anyone in a wasteland like this would just have 800 lying around-”

“I got it, nigga! My mom left me 1,000 this weekend for emergency money! Come through, man! I’m not tryna get laid by myself.”

Now, I thought that last part was weird. Usually, when you get laid, you do it by yourself. But I ignored that. “Interesting. And what are their rates on a tag-team sort of situation? Better to share a whore and half the sin, I say.”

“Hell nah, nigga. What kinda gayass shit? This why I don’t fucking talk to you. Listen, I’ll cover you. One girl for me, one girl for you.”

“I’m not so sure, my friend. The prospect of eternal damnation doesn’t entice me as much as it does a man with your particular lack of faith.”

“Bruh, listen. Lemme send you the pictures.”

He sent them to me, and I constructed my own personal Tower of Babel in my pants.

“Well, you’re the one paying. And as far as I’m concerned it’s the payment that incurs the brunt of the sin. A few nights at the altar and I should be in the clear.” And so, compelled by the craftiness of my own mind, I agreed to accompany my friend for a night of impromptu whorefuckery. 

So, I headed out of the gym and walked over to my friend’s place, just a few minutes away. It’s worth noting that I, in addition to all my friends, lived only a short walk from the school, so I wasn’t exactly dressed for the occasion. An old, torn t-shirt that had something generic on it about surfing and the worst baggy sweatpants I owned, which, thankfully, covered my abysmal knockoff basketball shoes. 

I was the picture of a 16-year old virgin. An honest portrayal on my part, but honesty only got you so far in this godless city where worship is to this day paid for in gold.

I called my Mom and told her I’d be heading out with some friends. Usually, she’d ask where, with who, and when I’d be back. But right then, she just said “Ok.” 

So, I called my Dad, who would usually do the same thing, only more vigorously. But he too, it seemed, had devoted too much of his efforts to their little domestic spat. He just said “Have fun.” Well, I thought I’d at least try to obey my Father this time.

On my way to my friend’s house, a cop car blazed past me on the road, sirens wailing, leaving streaks of red and blue light in the air. I thought it was a bad omen, but then I realized I don’t believe in omens, and went forward. I thought it’d be funny if they were heading over to arrest the prostitutes we were trying to fuck.

As I walked into my friend’s apartment building, the security guard eyed me with almost cartoonish suspicion. He was new. He ruffled his moustache as I signed myself in. I turned to go to the elevator, when he stopped me.

“Wait!” The man said. He examined the sign-in sheet. “Not yet.” He stared at the sheet for what must’ve been hours, as if he somehow knew my real information, and was just checking to see if it matched up. “Things are too easy around here.” He said, with a slightly British, but mostly Indian accent. “My job is to make things hard.”

“The oldest job in the world.”

He nodded approvingly and tapped on the sign-in sheet. “Go.” 

And I did.

At my friend’s place, the door was unlocked, and he was playing his Gibson SG on full gain, max distortion on his Marshall amp as usual, going through a medley of hair metal riffs. Say what you want about him, but he was damn good at guitar.

“Yo, you ready?” I asked.

He continued on with a power chord sequence.

“Yo, you ready?!”

Nothing but music.

I unplugged the guitar from the amp, and the feedback cracked the sky.

“Man! What the fuck!”

“What the fuck yourself. Have some decency. I came over here on the promise of a night of orgasmic whorefuckery, not to waste time listening to your two-penny concert.”

“Nigga, chill.”

“Chill? Whorefuckery is serious business. I’d appreciate it if you treated the situation with more gravity.”

“My nigga, it’s–” he checked his phone, “2:30!”

“The days are short. It’s winter, after all.”

“Fuck’s sake, man. I don’t even think they’re open right now.”

“What are they, a convenience store? Just call them!”

“Alright, alright, chill. Jesus fucking Christ...” So he dialed up the pimp and put him on loudspeaker.

“Who is this?” A lady said in a thick Russian accent. I thought it would be a guy. I needed to check my biases.

“Yo, are you guys open?” My friend asked.

“What? Who is this?”

“We’re asking about the hookers. I called an hour ago.”

“Ah! Yes, yes. We have.”

“Can we come now?”

“Only with condom. You bring. Don’t want girls getting messy.”

My friend looked up at me, scrunching his eyebrows.

“He’s asking if you’re accepting customers right now.” I said.

“Ah! Yes, yes, of course!” She gave us the hotel and the room number, 2003 (twenty-zero-three) and we took it down.

“800, right?” My friend asked.

“Yes, yes.”

We hung up, and got ready to go.

“You can cover the condoms right?” He asked.

“What?”

“I mean, I’m covering for the bitches. You can cover for the condoms, right?”

“Listen, I’m risking my life out here. I’m risking my reputation, and the reputation of my family name. Should we be exposed for the perverts that we are, the most that will happen to you is a convenient relocation. As for me? I will pay in blood. I will pay in skin. I will pay in life. And I will pay in shame. This is to say nothing of my risk of being thrown into hellfire, a risk you seem to already be resigned to. You want me to pay the price of condoms? Why, I already risk the ultimate price!”

“So, you can’t cover for the condoms?”

“No.”

“Jesus, man. Just say that, then.”

So, we headed down, and on our way we passed by that security guard, who seemed to have thrown away all the dignity and pride he had when I first came in, in exchange for a cheery smile and a wave to my friend. I glanced back at him as we left the building, and his stern exterior magically returned. I guess the Great Unemployment finally came for the thespians. 

We headed for the supermarket. It was this rundown, outdated joint that stuck out like a boiling sore among the new architecture that surrounded it. It made me nostalgic for the way things were a decade ago, when things were easier, and you didn’t have to worry about going home to a blazing inferno, or the risks that come when pursuing a coveted night of whorefuckery with a trusted friend. That nostalgia was obliterated with my first step into the supermarket. 

It stunk like shit, likely a result of the fish section going unattended for too long. Who the fuck would think to buy fish from a dump like this? We headed over to the shampoo and soap section, where they usually kept the condoms, and we examined our choices.

“Should we go for ribbed?” He asked.

“Why would we go for ribbed?”

“It says ‘maximum pleasure’. I’m paying maximum cash. I want maximum pleasure.”

“It’s a scam. It’s all a scam. There’s two kinds of maximum pleasure in sex. There’s pleasure from cumming, and there’s pleasure from knowing that your dick won’t all of a sudden grow a friend one morning on the side of his head, or that you won’t open the door one day to a knock from a vaguely familiar lady with a newborn in her arm and a slip that entitles her to 50% of your monthly earnings for the rest of your life. For that pleasure, you take these.” I pulled out a box of Extra Thick Durex condoms. 

“Yeah, I think I just won’t wear one.”

As was customary when purchasing condoms from the marketplace, we buried them under a diabetic amount of sweets that we had no intention of eating. I piled the conveyor high with chocolate bars and chips.

“Yo. We’re not even eating these. It’s just to make it less awkward. We don’t need this many.”

“Ah, my poor, uneducated friend. It’s a scientific fact that the more candy you add to your pile, the less awkward the condoms will look when they’re up for the scanner.”

“Then at least pay for some of them, nigga!”

“Need I remind you of the price I already risk, nigga?”

“Oh my fucking God…”

“So, what’s our story?”

“Story?”

“Yeah, for why we’re buying the condoms in addition to all these confectioneries.”

“My nigga, we do not need a story. She’s a fucking cashier.”

I sighed. “A fool. Fine. I’ll handle this.”

“What? No!”

Our turn arrived with the cashier. “Excuse me, madam. My friend and I are two champion basketball players on the return from an exhausting battle for this year’s championship. Both the journey and the matches have left us exhausted, and in dire need to refuel our energy. And this is to say nothing of the wives, am I right?” I winked. “So, without further ado, let us commence with the transaction! And don’t mind any… non-edible purchases.” I winked again.

The cashier gave me a blank stare.

My friend gave me a stare of blinding rage.

Without a single word, the cashier brought forth our horde on the conveyor, scanning them one by one with her laser gun. Had she even understood a word I said? What would become of us?

BEEP went the gun. FSHH went the products into the plastic bag. VRRR went the conveyor. 

BEEP. FSHH. VRRR. 

BEEP. FSHH. VRRR. 

BEEP. FSHH. VRRR. 

A hypnotic song for a deadly ritual. The process reminded me of a slaughterhouse from a documentary we watched in health class about the meat industry. BEEP. The nailgun pops the cow’s skull open. FSHH. The hook whisks it away, bleeding. VRRR. Another carcass-to-be is brought forth before the executioner.

I couldn’t help but gulp as the cashier executed our carefully selected soldiers, one by one, as if they were nothing but fodder, knowing that sooner or later, she would uncover our dirtiest secret. “Now, I ignored that nonsensical tirade earlier, but this is crossing a line!” The cashier would most definitely say. “What do two obviously 16-year-old boys want with a box of Extra Thick Durex condoms? Off on a secret night of whorefuckery, no doubt! What would your parents think of this? What would the authorities think of this? What would God think of this?”

Snivelling, wretched rats that we were, we would have no response for her, and would proceed with the only logical course of action left to us. We would come clean to the police, offer to relinquish our family names in order to preserve their honour, and slave away for the rest of our lives in the labour camps.

BEEP. FSHH. VRRR.

She had finally arrived at the box of extra thick Durex condoms. I braced myself, praying that I would have the dignity not to relieve myself of all the urine I was so bravely holding in. I prayed to every name of God I knew, as the shame of the eyes of every prophet in heaven crushed my corporeal body.

BEEP. FSHH. VRRR.

And the condom was in the bag.

“45. Receipt?”

Outside, we stood on the curb to hail a cab.

“What are we gonna do with all this shit, man?” My friend asked, shaking the four plastic bags of chips and candy bars.

“I don’t know. Donate it to an orphanage. Feed it to the dogs. Doesn’t matter. They did their job. They saved us. That’s all that matters. Say a prayer for them, if your apostate tongue can stomach it.”

“What do you mean? That cashier didn’t give a fuck!”

“You’re telling me your bowels don’t sting from the guilt right fucking now? You’re telling me your butthole isn’t clenched to high heaven?”

“No, nigga. She didn’t give a fuck.”

“Ah, whatever.” Some people just didn’t get it.

So, we stood there, on the curb, waiting for a cab. Cabs were all over the place when you already had a ride on the way. You couldn’t get away from them if you tried. But when you were waiting out on the street, desperate for a set of wheels, it was like they all just decided that they hated money, and they avoided any paying customer like they held the plague in their wallets. We managed to hail a cab eventually. No doubt he was a sinner just like us, betraying his brothers-at-the-wheel for just a few measly coins.

“Where you going?” Our driver asked. The screen at the front told me he was a Nigerian immigrant. We gave him the directions, and he drove on. African gospel music played on the speakers, and a woman sang soulfully about the saving grace of God, and the touch of Jesus that heals all wounds.

Now, seeing as I wasn’t too keen on getting touched by Jesus (or anyone that wasn’t a whore paid for with my own hard-earned money), I decided it would be better to ignore the song, and eat the ice cream bar I got from the supermarket. I unwrapped it and took one bite before it fell all over the seat. 

I smiled. “Ah, but for a meager bite, it was all worth it.”

The driver looked at me in the rear view mirror. “Are you making a mess in my car?”

I have to admit, even though the man was of an incorrect faith, I still felt kind of bad. “Very well, I’ll accommodate. Pay the man, my friend.”

My friend looked back at me from the passenger seat. “Nigga what? You’re the one who made the fucking mess!”

“A mess that only occurred because of your relentless persistence that we engage in a dishonourable night of whorefuckery.”

“This is why nobody talks to you, man.”

We arrived at the hotel within half an hour, and our cab driver took off in a huff, leaving us coughing in a cloud of black exhaust.

“Call me a skeptic, but I don’t think that car is up to regulation. Maybe you shouldn’t have given him that money after all.”

“Man, forget that. You look like a fucking idiot.”

I looked down and noticed I had gotten some ice cream on my pants on the way here. I wiped at it, but it just smudged. “Well, if the whores are as good as their price, then I won’t be spending too much time in these clothes.”

The hotel lobby was playing that cheap schlock that passed for jazz these days. All you needed was an overly reverberated piano and a barely audible double bass and you could replace Miles Davis, Bill Evans, Thelonious Monk, Charles Mingus, and Dave Brubeck. “Forget about those losers,” the music said, “Forget sense, forget class, forget culture, forget elegance, and forget standing for something!” 

A call from my Dad interrupted the cheap music’s 50-cent villain speech, and I told my friend to hold on a sec. Had my father’s bad mood finally gotten the better of him? Would he now order me back into that blazing inferno of a home, that once tranquil place that I all of a sudden had to escape at all costs? 

Of course, just as I was about to enter the halls of men and engage in an indulgent night of whorefuckery (and all-expenses-covered whorefuckery, no less), the chain tugged at my ankle, pulling me back into the abyss of virginity whence I came.

I picked up the phone. I gulped. “Hello, Dad?” 

“Get some milk on your way home. We ran out.”

“Uh, yeah. I’ll do that.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

He hung up.

The chain had been released! For the promise of a meager quantity of milk, this prisoner has been let to dine in the hall of kings!

“Yo, my man. Let’s go.” 

“Go we shall, into the warm arms of a compagnon temporaire!’

We entered an elevator full of Japanese tourists. I pressed the number 20 and thought of how many men had pressed that same number in the hopes of arriving at the promised land of flesh and pleasure. And how many soldiers had fallen on the way, succumbing to cowardice and religion? 

The act of whorefuckery transformed before my eyes, from an act of leisure into a life-and-death quest, passed like a torch down from my virginal predecessors. 

I pulled good old virginité by a chain, that lifelong friend that had stuck to me like a whimpering little brother. “No more.” I said to him, “The time has come for you to be fed to the tigers!”

We arrived at the 20th floor, and headed over to room 2003, where we knocked on the door and waited. And as we waited, several girls walked back and forth between the rooms, exchanging makeup, hairbrushes, hair dryers, soap, shampoo, lingerie, and perfumes. 

“Well, I’ll be,” I said, “The whole damn floor’s full of them.”

“What, roaches?” 

“No. Whores. The whole 20th floor is full of whores.”

“Ok.”

The door opened, and out walked a tall, bearded gentleman. Likely a rich one, by the watch on his wrist, and by his taste in prostitutes. 

We walked in. On two beds were two blonde, white women. One was thin, with firm breasts and long legs. The other was girthy, but in all the right ways. Her voluptuous breasts threatened to spill from their hubristic, man-made constraints.

My friend cleared his throat. “So-”

“I’ll take it from here, champ.”

“Oh, Jesus. Not again.” 

“Madames, gracious madames. We are two all-star champion basketball players, here to engage in the age-old act of whorefuckery. We arrive hot off the trails of the biggest win in our lucrative careers. We bring good pay, and we expect service of an equivalent calibre.”

The whores looked at each other in confusion. 

My friend looked at me with disdain.

“800 for one shot. 1,000 for two.” The big one said in a Russian accent.

“So. We’ve been swindled. I should’ve expected it from those of such a dishonourable trade.”

“It’s fine, man. I got it.”

“No, it’s not fine. You shouldn’t have to pay a dime more than you promised.”

“Now you have a problem with my spending?”

“What’s in bag?” The thin one said.

“Confectioneries.” I showed her the contents of the bag. “Would this cover the rest of the cost?”

She took a bag of chips, opened it, and munched down.

“Problem resolved. Never question my methods. Now, back to the topic of whorefuckery.”

My friend put the money down on the dresser. “I call dibs on this one.” He pointed at the voluptuous one.

“Fine by me. I prefer them lithe and supple. Élégance is in low supply these days.”

“Go to the bathroom, though.”

“Why? There’s two perfectly good beds right here. Are you going to use both of them? Are you going to engage in one of those of new fangled psychofuckular techniques? Without even teaching me? Ah, whatever happened to the good old days of simple flesh-on-flesh.”

“What? What are you fucking saying? I mean it’s gay to fuck bitches side-by-side with another guy.”

“Gay to fuck bitches. Got it.” And so, lamenting the death of reason in the modern age, I led my whore of choice to the bathroom. She washed the chip dust from her lips and hands, then began undressing. 

But she didn’t even have the time to reveal half a breast to me before the call to prayer announced from all the speakers on the streets. Virginité’s damnable trump card: my undying love for God. 

I held the woman’s arm, preventing her from undressing herself further. She raised her eyebrow at me, but I only shook my head and pointed at the sky. That is all that was needed. 

“Hey! What is this?” The other whore shouted from outside the bathroom.

I ran out to see what was going on. The big woman was counting bills, while my friend sat on the bed, pantsless and disappointed. 

“Not enough! You try to cheat us? I will call bodyguard!”

“What? But that’s a thousand right there! Not to mention we offered you our confectioneries!”

“One thousand for two shot. Two cum.”

“Yes.” I pointed at my friend and I, “Two are cumming, or at least we’re trying to.”

“No. For one girl only.”

“What? Damn it. Damn it all to hell!”

“Chill out, man.”

“Well, I suppose we could tag team one girl. That seems to be the only way to get our money’s worth.”

“What kinda gayass shit– Nigga, if you don’t shut the fuck up right now. Listen, we can get the money.” He turned to the woman. “Don’t call no goddamn bodyguard or whatever the fuck. We’ll get the rest of the money.” He said that last sentence with conviction.

The woman shrugged. “Ok.” And handed him his money back. He pulled up his pants, and we got out of there.

“Wow. I guess it really wasn’t in the stars for us today, huh.”

“What do you mean? We’re getting that money, nigga. We’re getting our dicks wet tonight.”

“Did your mother leave you an extra 600 green ones? Because I sure as damnation don’t have that kind of money in my coffers.”

“Don’t sweat it. I got some friends. They owe me some.”

“Alright, my friend. I’ll trust in you now, but only because your conviction is so awe-inspiring. Beware, day! Your time has come to be seized!”

“I’m never going out with you again.”

And so we ended up on the curb again, hoping that a cab would so much as look in our general direction. When one finally did, and actually stopped for us (God bless his soul), we got in. My friend named an expensive villa complex about 45 minutes away.

This cab driver was an Indian man, who bobbed his head side to side to a set of Bollywood tunes playing from his speakers. Occasionally, he’d hum along.

“Good music.” I bobbed my head along with him. “You’re clearly a man of refined taste, fit to direct us to our destinies.”

He nodded. He smiled. And he started singing out loud for us. In all honesty, his was the most honest voice I’d heard since… Darn me! I couldn’t even remember! It was the kind of voice that wouldn’t have lost much by coming through on a distorted cassette player. That was the kind of voice we were missing nowadays. 

“Your voice is one of a kind, kiddo. I oughta tell my agents about you.”

He continued singing, giving no indication that he was listening to what I was saying.

“Hey, kiddo, you got a business card?”

Still smiling and singing, he shook his finger.

“Hey, kid, write your number down for me. I’m gonna make you a star, you hear? A star!”

“What are you bothering him for? You already got him singing. What are you acting like a record producer for?”

“Don’t you see the potential here, buckaroo? He’s got the most honest voice since- since, well-”

“Howlin’ Wolf?”

“Not quite.”

“Bob Dylan?”

“A little closer.”

“Leonard Cohen?”

“You’re getting there, bucko.”

“Shit, uh… Tom Waits?”

“Damn right! Since the venerable Tom Waits last sang into my ears through a set of headphones, I haven’t heard a voice as honest as the one this cabbie’s got right now.”

“An honest voice doesn’t mean a good voice, though.”

“Damn right you are, buster. At least not in this day and age. Was a time you could make it on honesty alone, back when this city here was just a desert, before its citizens descended into lunacy and whorefuckery. That’s all this city is, anyways. A desert. They’ll throw anything up on these sands to convince you otherwise, but it’s just a desert. Used to be you could find all the meaning you needed in a desert. You’d look at the sunset and see God’s eye slowly blink. Now, it’s as if the city has deemed the sun unworthy of being looked at. Saying, ‘Out with you, old man! You are unfit for our city! Our people will look at our thousand wonders of metal and glass and rejoice!’”

“I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

And so, the afternoon blurred past, and we arrived at my friend’s friend’s villa complex. We got out of the cab, and he drove off. 

“Damn it. I forgot to jot down his number. You can’t let an honest voice like that go unprotected in this cold, wild world.”

“Shut the fuck up. Don’t be talking that weird shit around my friend. You’ll weird him out.”

We walked up to the gate and my friend talked to the security guard. He’d been here before, so getting in was no problem. 

“Yo.” I said to the guard. “Can I bum a cig off ya, daddy-o?”

The guard raised an eyebrow at me, clearly unfamiliar with my language. He was a bald man with a curly moustache, kind of like the Iron Sheik’s, but thicker, and his nametag read Mahmoud. A man fresh off the plane from Egypt, I guessed. My father's land. I decided to use a more appropriate language.

“Say, fine sir, would you perchance be of the mind to lend me a cigarette? Should you be in the possession of one you would not mind lending, of course.”

“Why, most certainly!” A smile grew on the man’s face as he offered me my pick from an open carton of Marlboro Golds. I’d hoped for Camel or Salem, a manlier brand, but the kindness compelled me more than the quality of the blend. “Anything for a fellow countryman!” He said.

I picked a cigarette. “Refreshing to meet someone from the motherland out here in this wasteful city.” 

He lit my cigarette. “A sentiment most agreeably shared by myself, good sir.” 

We exchanged farewells, and I went over to my friend, who was waiting impatiently for me.

“Boy, these Egyptians get better and better at English everyday.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

I took two steps before my lungs and I collectively determined that cigarettes weren’t for us. It felt wrong to throw away that man’s kindness, though, so I put it out and stuffed it in my pocket.

We made our way over to my friend’s friend’s villa, where my friend rang the doorbell, and his friend promptly answered. A tall, widely built European-American he was. He welcomed us in. I extended my hand to shake his, but he seemed confused, and left me hanging.

“Who the fuck’s this?” The friend of a friend asked.

“My friend.” My friend answered. “Listen, I need 600 right now.”

“600? For what?”

“We’re pursuing an unapologetic night of whorefuckery.”

“What? Did you guys just come to my house for some bullshit?”

“No. Don’t listen to him, man. Just spot me this once and I got you. I promise.”

“You still owe me that 200 from the waterpark.”

“I know. When my mom gets back, she’ll cover me. I’ll explain it, don’t worry.”

“I thought he owed you.”

“Shut up!” He stomped on my toe.

The friend of a friend sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, man.” And my friend followed him deeper into the house. I was going to accompany them, but the friend of a friend’s little brother interfered.

He pointed two plastic revolvers at me. “Stick’em up, ya lily-livered varmint!” 

“Yosemite Sam, huh?”

He smiled and nodded enthusiastically.

“Very well. Try this on for size!” I put on my best Daffy Duck impression and let him have it.

“Not bad.” He put on his best Spongebob. And boy, I tell you, he did a damn good Spongebob.

“Alright, alright. How about this!” I put on my best Rigby impression. That got him laughing.

“Okay. Okay.” And he put on a Cookie Monster impression that would’ve sounded like absolute gold on a Tom Waits record.

“Very well.” And I damn near pulled a hamstring getting my Kermit the Frog impression right.

“Hmm.” And then he blew my absolute fucking mind with a Sheikh Mohammad Siddiq Al Minshawi impression, reciting the entirety of Surat Al Qadr with perfect tone and inflection, such that the mountains quivered and the winds rose in admiration.

“Well, I’ll be.” I said, before doing a Scooby Doo impression that sent him flying.

My friend returned, waving some bills around. “I got it. Let’s go.”

I turned to the kid. “Alright, little buddy. I’ll be seeing you.”

He held out his hand to me, and I had to contain a tear. Hope remains with the youth. I thought. We shared a firm handshake before saluting each other. 

I left that house almost regretfully, knowing that I was abandoning a comrade-in-arms for a meager night of whorefuckery.

So, it was like this: We were standing by the curb once again, waiting for a cab–just one cab!–to spare us the torment of impatience and pick us up, or otherwise run us over and end our misery. One cab driver elected to do the former, but when we got into his car, we discovered it was a miracle he didn’t accidentally do the latter instead. 

The man’s pupils were dilated to fuck. You could’ve pulled rabbits out of his eyes, man. Not to mention he was chewing on a metal bottle cap. In this city, you could never trust people who chewed on metal bottle caps.

“Ras Island.” My friend said, and the cab driver saluted him and drove on. 

“Wait, Ras Island?” I asked.

“Ras Island.” 

The driver pumped his fist. “Ras Island!” 

“Why Ras Island?”

“My friend only gave me 200. I’m getting the rest.” He had the look of an honourable warrior seeking revenge for the murder of his father. It was the look of a man you wouldn’t want to cross, but I had my reserves.

“Ras Island’s an hour away! Is a quick night of whorefuckery really worth all this?”

He turned back from the passenger seat and gazed into my soul. “What do you think?”

“What do I think? Why, I think it’s crazy. Not just that, I think it’s preposterous! Turn this cab back now!”

“Nigga, you have been crazy and preposterous all night. Can’t you see? We need crazy and preposterous if we wanna fuck us some bitches!”

I put the unlit Marlboro Gold between my lips. “You know what, you crazy sunnuva bitch? You make a lot of sense. Too much sense, if you ask me. My  mother always warned me against people who made too much sense. They’re usually scammers. Sense is something best possessed in rarity. But then again.” I smiled. “What’s more senseless than driving all the way across the city for the mere promise of a maddening night of whorefuckery?”

As if on cue, the cab driver switched to a radio station playing Snoop Dogg’s “Gin and Juice” and started weaving through cars like it was his life’s mission to break not only every traffic violation of our time, but also every traffic violation that would ever be written. 

The city lights blurred around us, streaking across the windows like angel’s fingers made of pure light, trying to rescue three men from impending doom. When this cab driver finally decided to not run a red light, we ended up sitting in a lane adjacent to a cop car. Hesitantly, I looked up from our window at the gigantic SUV that towered over us. “Mind your loins!” I said in a hushed voice.

“What?” My friend asked.

“If these officers of the law sniff out such lust as emanates from our testicles, they’ll surely catch on to the fact that there is whorefuckery afoot!”

“Why should I care?”

“My friend, need I remind you that acts of whorefuckery are illegal in this town?”

“Right.”

“It’s a shameful city that rejects the world’s oldest profession. And they call themselves the upholders of tradition. Not! It is we, the whorefucklers, that uphold the greatest tradition of all: the debasement and devaluation of women’s bodies. And I refused to be sentenced to The Whip before I have had a taste of bought-and-paid-for pussy.”

“Gotcha, man.”

The cab driver was hyperventilating something fierce. In the rear view mirror, his pupils had diluted to the point where both of his eyes were entirely a glossy black colour, like spheres of obsidian. 

Hold on. He whispered in a snakelike voice.

“What?” I barely had the time to think before the traffic light went green, and the cab driver shifted into twelfth gear and shot us through the starlight dimension, consuming every star in the sky to fuel the gluttonous engine of his metal chariot, after which we arrived at our destination in record time. 

The car had become a busted mess, and the driver was foaming at the mouth, but we had no time to dawdle over fallen comrades.

We got out of the cab, and my door fell off as I tried to close it. “Did you see that?” I asked.

“Huh?” 

“That driving!”

“Oh, yeah. Pretty crazy, haha. Nigga was tripping. Anyways, this is my tutor’s place. He’s super Christian, so just act really chill, and don’t swear at all, okay? And none of that weird ‘whorefuckery’ shit. Or any of that shit that makes no goddamn sense.”

“What? But, I mean, just– ugh. Whatever.” I walked dejectedly alongside him. “Ah!” I shouted to the starless night sky. “O! You shining soldiers of God! Where art thou!”

“What did I just say?”

It was a long ride up in the elevator. The tutor was on the 77th floor. “Yo,” I said. “What floor do you think heaven’s on?”

“Huh?”

“Heaven. If we stacked floors up to heaven, how many would we need?”

“Always with some bullshit, man.”

“Come on. Humour me.”

“Shit. A million.”

“Just a million? We wouldn’t even reach the sun with that many!”

“See? Your question’s dumb as fuck.”

“And why’s that?”

“It’s like in math class. If the answer’s more than a million, it’s a bullshit question.”

Ignoring his complete disregard for mathematical truth, I pursued a different line of questioning. “Okay, how about this. If we had an elevator to heaven, how long would it take for us to get there?”

“Probably about as long as it takes for you to die.”

I had to laugh. This was what I saw in my friend that no one else saw. A capacity for wit that surprised even me. “Looks like we’ll be in heaven before we reach your tutor.”

“Looks like it.”

Finally, we arrived at the 77th floor. My friend rang the doorbell, and a few moments later, a middle-aged man answered the door. From within the house, the clattering of plates and the chattering of family. 

The tutor dapped  my friend up. “My man!” 

“Hey. This is my friend,” He pointed to me, then he gave the whole bullshit story of why he needed 400. He went into elaborate detail about the circumstances of his mother leaving him home alone, his incompetence for losing the key to his apartment, the dubious reliability of his building’s maintenance team, the abandonment issues he felt regarding the absence of his biological father, and the overwhelming cost required to enter into his flat.

“Alright, captain. I gotcha. But hey, listen, you and your friend have got to stay over for dinner.”

“Oh, no sir.” I said. “We can’t impose.”

“No, I insist! My wife’s making her special bacon bit mac-and-cheese.” The tutor did a little dance as he said that. “Tell’em. Tell’em how good it is!”

“It’s really good.” My friend said. We gotta get this over with. His eyes told me.

Very well. I replied with my own eyes. I conceded, and followed my friend into the apartment. 

The family had just started setting the table for dinner.

“Look!” The tutor said, “We got two people to fill up those spots Uncle Bill and his girl left! God sure has a way with everything.”

“He sure does.” I said.

I was seated between a decrepit old man who appeared to be the tutor’s father-in-law, and a beautiful young man who appeared to be the tutor’s nephew. 

I thought to myself that I wouldn’t mind if the radiant man to my right were the object of tonight’s sinful crusade. His full curls tumbled down from his head like the clouds above Jerusalem, and upon his walnut skin the chandelier’s light shone magnificently.  

In that moment I decided that I would attempt to secure a second meeting with this man. Such beauty has not been seen in men since the days when Carthage stood tall.

The tutor clinked his glass with his fork as the last of the table was set. “Ahem. Before we begin, would anyone like to say grace?”

A devious idea came to mind. Such passion as existed in my loins would prompt any man to cross the religious barrier, so I do not fault myself.

“I volunteer.” I said.

Everyone at the table looked at me awkwardly, and my friend looked at me with pure, unwavering malice in his blood, but what good Christian would deny a guest the opportunity to say grace?

“Alllllrighty then.” The tutor extended his hands. Everyone followed suit, and held the hands of those at their sides. In my left, I held the rocklike alligator hand of a decrepit old codger. In my right, I held the elegant, long-fingered hand of the object of my affection for the night. 

I closed my eyes. “Oh, Father who art in heaven! A hundred thousand years of constant, unrelenting prayer would still remain insufficient as repayment for what You have provided us! And yet, despite that, we endeavour foolishly to present You with our meager thanks. A Sisyphean task, to be sure, if You do not mind my referencing the lore of lesser cultures. And so, undeserving wretches that we are, we dare to thank You for the health that You have provided us, as well the gracious bounty upon this table!” And this night of glorious whorefuckery to boot! 

And so I sat down. And scarcely did the tutor’s wife have the time to spoon her hard-laboured food onto my plate before I began regaling the table with my fictitious tales of basketball heroism, my opinions on the recent and tragic death of jazz music, and my view that the only Protestants who are guaranteed a spot in Hell are the most devout ones.

And the entire time, I was fondling the buttocks of the beautiful man on my right, who himself was climbing my personal Tower of Babel. He laughed at all my jokes with a silky smooth laugh; the only one at that table with a sense of humour, it seemed.

Then, my fondling hand made its way over to the man’s crotch area, whereupon there appeared to be a missing appendage. I groped more strongly, as it may have just been incredibly small. Still, nothing. 

I pulled the man up out of his seat and pulled down his pants. To my shock, and surely to the shock of everyone at the table, there was a vagina in place of a cock!

“Ok. Not interested.”

“What?”

“Maybe if I knew you were just a girl with a moustache from the start, I would’ve permitted you the privilege of relieving me of my virginity. But I was really building you up in my head as a guy. Yeah, no. This doesn’t work for me.” 

The tutor stood up and was about to say something, but I stopped him before he spoke. “No, thank you. As it is right now, I hardly have any stomach for ‘bacon bit mac-and-cheese’, or whatever the fuck this mockery of the culinary arts is. You can take the whole thing away. Just leave me be. I need to think. God, I regret my crossover into Christianity about as much as I regret coming here.”

“That’s enough!” The tutor said. “You come into my house, you mock my religion, you molest my niece, and now you insult my wife’s cooking?”

I looked around. My friend was nowhere to be seen, so I decided to defend myself against the accusations, which in all fairness were mostly true. “It’s not my fault your wife lacks culinary imagination to the point where she thinks bacon in mac-and-cheese is an acceptable thing to serve guests! Nor is it my fault that your niece is such a tart! You ask me? It’s your fault! You guys are the ones who turned God into a product. Into a commodity. Turned him into god with a lowercase ‘G’. Buy your god mug, god socks, and premium god subscription service now! Your team loves to blame the Jews for killing Jesus, but you guys are the real guilty ones! You killed him so you could sell his corpse a thousand times over for profit! You ask me? Salah Al Din should’ve marched right on up to Britain and finished the job!”

The tutor’s hands turned into claws, and from his muzzle grew a snout. “Get him!”

The entirety of the family bared their claws at the table and turned on me, revealing the true nature of the Protestant.

“Uh, buddy?” I asked. “Where are you?”

“I’m here!” My friend was already at the door. “Run!”

I bolted.

My friend held the elevator door for me. “Get in! Get in!” 

With the Protestant horde at my heels, I made a dive and slipped right into the elevator at the last second. The doors closed around the tutor’s taloned finger and tore it off completely, spraying us both with litres upon litres of blood.

I wiped myself off. “Well, that little foray into Christian life was enough to convince me. I don’t know how you guys do it. You know, you really ought to convert some time. It’s not good for you, being on the wrong side and all.”

“It’s your fault, nigga. You were feeling that bitch up in front of everyone. At least wait a little. I didn’t know you had game like that, though.”

“I don’t have game like that. She was just born into an uncultured household, so of course she fell for the first cultured man she saw: the last cultured man in the city. Listen, I’m sorry you couldn’t get the last 400. I suppose it really wasn’t in the stars for us. Not that there’s any stars anymore after that taxi ride. What a fitting fate for two godless sinners on the chase for a night of decadent whorefuckery.”

“Now, hold on.” My friend smiled deviously. “I didn’t say I didn’t get the money.” He withdrew a wallet from his pocket. “I grabbed it when I saw you out there being a faggot.”

“You sly devil.”

“We’re going to whoretown, baby.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “There is no God but God,” I said, finally returning to The True Religion, “And we all know who His prophet is.”

Outside the building, a cab was already waiting for us. The window rolled down. “A night of whorefuckery?” He asked.

“Why, how did you know?”

“I could smell your cocks from a mile away, bad boys. Now get in, before the anti-crusaders catch us!”

I looked. On the West Horizon, the fiery ulti-drum of the anti-crusaders beat forward, paving the road to stoic salvation: a road we were intent on avoiding if truly we were to fuck the predestined whores.

We entered the car and the driver sped on into the night. Waiting for us in the car were two boxes of Lacnor strawberry milk: the universal beverage of saints, priests, and degenerates alike. I raised my box. “To a night of resplendent whorefuckery!”

My partner raised his box. “To getting our dicks fucked with whorefuckery!”

The cab driver raised his box. “To the world-shattering splendour of WHOREFUCKERY!”

We stuck our heads out of the windows and screamed, tongues out like the incorrigible dogs we were:

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

We arrived at the hotel at 8:10 PM. The cab driver waved us goodbye, and drove off just as he arrived: into the night and with reckless abandon. 

“Goodbye, you shining soldier.”

At the hotel, we wiped our feet on the entrance mat so as not to get blood all over the place. Just as we were about to enter the elevator, I received a text from my Dad. 

“Don’t forget the milk.” The message read, between the outstretched arms of Kanye West on my lockscreen.

A wise reminder, because this pursuit of whorefuckery had me forgetting everything important. 

We headed up the elevator to the 20th floor, got out, and knocked on room 2003. No response. We knocked again. No response. “No way! No fucking way! There is absolutely no way this is happening to me! I’ll fucking kill myself!”

“Chill, nigga. Jesus Christ.” He pulled his phone out.

“You know, that’s just the problem with you guys. You take your lord’s name in vain too much. That’s why he hasn’t come back for you.”

He called the pimp and put her on speaker. She picked up. “Yes, hello?” 

“Yeah,” my friend said. “We’re at room 2003, but no one’s here.”

“You call for girls?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, please wait a little bit. I will call you back.” She hung up. 

“We’re finished.” I said. “Absolutely finished.

“Chill.”

“There’s nothing left here for us.” The red walls of the hallway closed in around me, pulsating like an engorged blood vessel, angry that I was blocking its path. “Our pursuit of a righteous and well-deserved night of whorefuckery has left us stranded in a wasteland of morality. A wasteland God made specifically out of the way of his line of sight so that he wouldn’t have to look at the disgusting freaks who  wound  up  there.”

“Chill.”

“Chill? Why the fuck should I chill? I have every reason to be angry! They’re out there writing meaning out of everything that holds it, and we’re supposed to be the bastions of truth? What’s to become of society when its most valiant defenders are off whoring and wenching to their cock’s content? What is to become?! Lament the death of the heroes of the future, my friend, for not only have they died, but they will never even have a chance to live! Wherefore would they set foot on such land? Land less fertile than it was when it was desert! So long as those animals out there have free license to continue raping the world of all value, there will be no heroes–I will correct myself: There can be no heroes! For in what hall will they dine?! What hall will remain aside from whorehouses empty of whores and palaces so crowded with monuments to hubris that God wont even be able to squeeze his pinky toenail inside just to dignify the place?! Tell me, you fool! TELL ME!”

“Goddamn, nigga, do you ever shut the fuck up? Sheesh. Look, here she is calling us back. Fucking dumbass.”

“Try 2004.” The pimp said, 

“2004?” My friend confirmed.

We moved one door over and knocked. The door opened. My friend looked at me.

“Ok, but I’m still right.”

2004 was an identical room to 2003, only inverted: the bathroom was on the left this time. On the two beds, there were two girls. Again, one was plump, and the other slim. It seemed like a great business model to ensure customer satisfaction.

The plump one was blonde, with bright red lipstick and an unreasonably fat ass. “Dibs.” My friend said. 

The other was a slim woman, with brown hair and skin like snow on the Urals. Her tits perked up through her shirt, and her eyes bore the look of one who had devoured as many naive lovers as the Siberian winter did naive hunters. My virginity cowered before her might. “Dibs.” I said.

My friend handed the plump one the money. She counted it, nodded, and set it down. I took an Extra Thick Durex condom from the box, and my girl led me to the bathroom, and the last thing I saw of my friend was him plopping himself on the bed, ready to get obliterated. 

In the bathroom, the girl wasted no time. The call to prayer took place outside, but it did not deter me. Dear old virginité could not hide between God’s legs any longer. 

She removed her shirt, and for the first time since I was ten, gazing at that woman in the room on that yacht changing out of her bra, I saw a pair of real life human titties. Their shape was sculpted by an artisan’s hand, with the nipples culminating in a point so sharp that if I put my hands on them, I was sure I’d cut myself. 

She took down her pants, and for the first time in the entirety of my memory, I saw a real life pussy. It was hairy, but well-groomed, like a tennis court. 

I took off my shirt.

“Ah. You have beautiful body.”

“Thanks. I work hard on it. Are you Russian?”

“Ukrainian. But my boyfriend is Russian.”

“Oh. Your boyfriend?”

“Yes. But you are my boyfriend tonight.” She kissed me on the cheek and bit my ear. Then she dropped my pants. 

Now, for the first time since I was last bathed by a family member at the age of 4, I was seen naked by another person. 

She started kissing me, but I moved away. “I’m a basketball player, you know.”

“Mm.” She followed me and kissed me some more.

I moved away again. “Won a lot of awards. Medals. Trophies and the like–”

She grabbed my dick. The feeling of her palm on my penis sent every hair in my body flying, but I put up with it.

“So, how old are you?” I asked.

“25.”

“Oh. I’m 16.”

She laughed. “Only 16? I thought you’re older.”

“Yeah.” I pushed myself away from her for a second, “That doesn’t deter you?”

“No. Why? You’re a virgin?”

“What age did you lose your virginity?”

“13.” She moved in to kiss me again.

“Oh.” I pushed her off once again. “Well, you see, the thing is, not everyone can have a life as, well, eventful as yours. I, for one, am still a virgin.”

She laughed. “Okay. Don’t worry, we will teach you.” She moved in to kiss me again.

I pushed her off once again. “Certainly a persistent one, you are. And there’s certainly something good to be said for those who are persistent in attaining the fruits of their labour. But I think my interactions with the Protestants may have wiped out my sex dri–”

She pressed her tongue into my mouth, and it writhed there like a snake’s tail while she fondled my cold, limp dick. I pushed her away a final time, more forcefully.

“What happened? You gay? We have boys for gay.”

“No! Most certainly not! It’s just–You’re a beautiful woman. And I want to enjoy this, really. But it’s just–I don’t know.”

“You want anal? It’s more of this.” And she rubbed her fingers together to indicate that the “this” in question was, in fact, money.

“No. Just–Can you make sex noises for a few minutes so everyone in the other room thinks we had sex, and then we can just go our separate ways?”

“Okay. I still get the money, though.”

“Of course. A gentleman keeps his word. Especially with regards to those of the world’s oldest profession!”

She sighed. Then, awkwardly, she began making moaning noises, which juxtaposed interestingly with her bored face as she was getting dressed again. 

I got dressed again, too, and the moaning continued for about five more minutes, before it ended with me sitting on a chair and her on the closed toilet seat. We stared at each other for a minute. She lit a cigarette. “You want?”

“No thanks, I have my own.” I pulled out the Marlboro Gold my countryman provided me with a few hours ago. She offered to light it but I refused. “So, how’d you get into this business?”

“I was in high school in Ukraine. I was thinking maybe being a whore would be fun. It was.”

“Right. The age old story.”

“Then, I fuck one client. He’s biggest cock I ever seen. So hard to fit in, but he’s the first man to make me cum. Can you believe it? One year as a whore and this is the first time I cum. Of course, I fall in love. I am also the first woman who make him cum in years, so he falls in love with me, too. ”

“A completely logical sequence of events.”

“One day, this man, he takes me in the middle of the night when I’m with my boyfriend.”

“Oh, so you had a boyfriend while you were a hooker.”

“Of course. All whores have boyfriends.” She looked at me like I was an idiot for not assuming that. “Ok so him and his friends beat up my boyfriend, make him watch him fuck me, make me cry from so much cumming.”

“Right, of course.”

“So, for next week, I am dreaming of this man while my boyfriend beats me. My boyfriend tries to make me cum, but I cannot even pretend, so he beats me. Even with customers, I cannot pretend, so my boyfriend beats me. I discover this man I love, actually, he is the leader of the mafia in Moscow. So I kill my boyfriend and go after him.”

“A splendid plan. And I’m sure it must’ve worked out wonderfully, but I think it’s time to go.” I got up and opened the door. “Ahoy, soldier. I think it’s about time–” He was getting the life rode out of him. Back to the bathroom it was.

“So, on 21st birthday, he brings me the head of my father as a gift, and we do anal for the first time.” She was clipping her toenails.

“How much did I miss?”

“This is how he discovers I’m cheating on him with his brother.”

“Nevermind, I totally understand.”

“For next week, we fight and fuck always. Always, we’re hitting, stabbing, shooting each other, cum everywhere.”

“I commend your resilience.”

“It takes too much time, this fighting and fucking, and he loses control of the mafia. All his friends are dead, he leaves Russia with me, but I’m not a cheap whore.”

“Oh, most certainly not, if your price tag is any evidence.”

“So, I kill him on the train and leave with man I found going to India to practice yoga.”

“And kudos to you for that one! One sec, darling, let me check what’s going on outside.” I got up and opened the door. “Hey, brother–”

“BLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGHLRGH!” 

My friend was convulsing. He was in the process of having his entire sense of being absolutely annihilated by that woman. And so back to the warzone it was.

“Now, I’m feeling homesick for Ukraine. So, when I finish robbing my boyfriend–”

“You kill him?”

“What? No! Do you think I’m a monster!”

“Of course not! How could I doubt your moral virtue?”

“I put sleeping drug in his food so he falls asleep. But I put too much and he dies by accident. Not my fault.”

“You really should get in the habit of reading the fine print.”

“So, I call my friend. She tell me come here. It is better. So I come here and do whoring for her. I make a lot of money. Have a lot of sex. Lot of free time. Have not cum in years. I still miss my boyfriend. I wish I did not kill him so he can make me cum one more time.” And a tear fell down her cheek. 

That was when I realized that God wasn’t real, and that everything I knew was a lie. I got up and opened the door. “Yo! It’s time to go!”

“Yeah. I’m done. Why are you shouting?”

And so, I left that sad, sad woman in that bathroom, and went down the elevator to the lobby.

“I heard you in there, man!” My friend said. “You were in that!”

“Yup. Totally in that. You were having a transcendental time in there, though.”

“Eh, it was alright.”

“What?”

“I’ve had better. Wanna hear about it?”

“Over McDonald’s. On you.”

Outside, the anti-crusaders were nowhere to be seen or heard. I guess magic dies in the city once the final prayer is over. 

We took a cab over to McDonald’s. There was nothing on the radio. The cab driver didn’t speak. 

At the restaurant, as I was eating my burger and my friend was eating his nuggets, I told him everything he wanted to hear so he wouldn’t feel like he wasted his money. 

I fabricated all the positions I went through, all the techniques I used, but when he asked me how it felt to not be a virgin anymore, all I could say was: “I really wish we could’ve got a discount on those broads. Does your mom coupon?”

And so, I finished up my fries, dapped him up, and we went our separate ways. Him on the path of honest truth, and me on the crooked path of deceit. And on the way home, I stopped to buy some milk.