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Prostitution in Honolulu: How I tried to use Ambesol to solve a problem

I was a hooker who did not like the sex. How to solve this problem?

What do I do?

I do not know why I failed to embrace the sex that was a necessary part if my job, but I never got used to bedding strangers. nolulu in the early 2000’s, I liked when male drivers pulled over to the curb of Kukui Street and looked at me with admiration when I got into their vehicles. I loved being chosen. I will even go so far as to say I came to need the affirmation that I was a pretty lady. Yes, I really was. And I knew it because people told me so. But I was not simply chosen to be pretty. My looks offered a promise, unspoken but loud. The promise was sex and in order to get the money I had to go through with it. At first I tried stalling, talking, distracting. But I learned it was quickest to get it over with. Years later someone told me when he met me, I had the body of a sexy soccer coach but I laid in the passenger seat stiff and perfectly still, clearly waiting for things to end. I had no idea my unhappiness was so obvious to others. I did not want to feel unhappy. I did not want to feel anything. The realization that I wanted to be numb sparked a brilliant idea. Ambesol! Thetemporary remedy for toothache was the answer. I would put it on my personal area and I could get through the time as if I had not done anything. Ambesol effectively numbed me. I failed to consider that the product would numb him too.

“Something is wrong. I don’t feel anything,” said the one and only client subjected to my experiment.

I feigned puzzled innocence. “I don’t know what you are talking about. Maybe you could explain…?” I let my voice trail off as if unable to put into words the strange idea that there was a lack of sensation. Whoever heard if such a thing?

“Did you put something on? I smell some kind of menthol. You did use something! It’s not going to start burning is it?” The client was angry and suspicious.

I had committed to my lie and I made my voice rise to match his tone in volume. “Here! Take back your money!” I flung the two twenties and a ten at him as he zipped up in the driver’s seat after getting off of me on the passenger’s side of the car. I could tell he was too upset to let me keep the money so I thought it wise not to try. My policy was to avoid being hit no matter what and from the look on his red face as he complained about his blue balls, that I was in danger. “I am not going to be accused of…I don’t know what!”

I scurried out of the car and slammed the door in an angry huff, grateful I had chosen the nearby parking garage that lacked security cameras for the rendezvous. I hated walking long distances on tired dirty feet shoved bare into scuffed high heels but my temper resulted in unsuccessful encounters more often than i cared to admit. I was used to walking when I was not offered a ride back.

Was I sorry about being deceptive? No. I was at least self aware enough to know I had been lying because I had met drug addicts who never took responsibility for anything, and everything was someone else’s fault. Yes, I lied but I forgave myself because I was trying to make the distasteful more palatable. My fake outrage turned to genuine anger over my inability to get dope at that moment. Dope was the underlying factor in all events and emotions and I was truly annoyed that I did not have even $20, enough for a so-called “paper” or a single serving of dope. Months later I would learn how to disengage my mind through the effective use of dissociation, thus removing my true “self” from a situation in which my body was used, by me and by men, in pursuit if our respective goals. Menral disassociation was better than Ambesol at keeping my nonparticipation a secret from the client. Or so I thought…

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