Sweden in the East Village

No matter how lame and gentrified its current incarnation may be, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for the East Village, maybe because the East Village seems to have a soft spot for hookers. It’s a place where arty, weird girls have been funding their projects with handjobs for decades, and even though CBGB’s is gone and was by all reports pretty lame for years before it was gone, the part-time prostitute lives on.

Reading the excellent Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk by Legs McNeil (Call me!) I was amazed by how often prostitution was casually referred to; it seems like almost all our seminal punk heroes dated prostitutes. When you think about it, who’s a better mate for guys who half the time were lazy, broke-ass, drug addicts? Of course, when you’re part of a subculture that prides itself on not giving a fuck about society’s rules, as well as general unemployability, prostitution seems like a pretty natural end to the progression. But it’s not just punk: in artistic NY prostitution is a tradition, from the punk scene to the Dupont twins sleeping with Warhol and other older men for hundred-dollar bills, even Holly Golightly and her 50 bucks for the powder room. In Seattle, Kathleen Hanna and Courtney Love stripped their way to success as frontwomen of their respective bands, even the salons of Paris had great philsophers and legendary painters hobnobbing with whores, women who, having broken society’s sexual strictures, often broke the mold with their robust wits and quick minds as well. Viewed through the lens of artistic talent, prostitution looks more like an amusing quirk than a character flaw, another indulgence, like drug use, of the young, poor, and aimless. And historically, the East Village has been a hotbed of that indulgence.

So it was with a smile on my face that I strode past Tompkins Square park on an unseasonably warm day, on my way to meet a man who wanted me to jerk him off with my tits. A group of students from the nearby elementary school stopped me to ask me if I knew about some horrible injustice in the world. I leaned down to sign their petition, but the head girl had started her schpiel and wasn’t going to stop until she reached her now uneccessary conclusion, “So would you please sign this petition?” Her teacher strolled over and smiled at me and I smiled at them and was on my way, wondering what those cute kids and their cute teacher would think if they knew they had just stopped a prostitute on the way to an appointment.

Patrick wanted me to come over, take my top off, oil up my tits, and jerk him off with them. Twice. Easy enough, right? Yet when I arrived I found that sort of thing is harder to segue into than it seems. Do I just come in and pop ‘em out? Do I chit-chat first, or go in for a kiss? Did he want me to touch him with my hand or just my tits? Did he expect a blowjob?

We sat at opposite ends of the couch awkwardly.

So I took my top off, an ice breaker that has yet to fail me. He asked me to take my bra off, and once unhindered, he rubbed my breasts a little, flicked his tongue over my nipples, then pushed a small bottle of baby oil in my direction.

I squirted the oil into my hand and ran my slippery palm over his cock, feeling very hooker-y. I slid my slick hand up and down him in a few long strokes and he moaned. He gestured for me to get on my knees, which I took to mean it was titty time. I leaned over him and wrapped my D-cups around him, pushing them together until I had his dick in a choke-hold between them. I began to slide them up and down, unsure of whether or not I was actually capable of bringing him to orgasm this way. Adding to my doubt was the fact that now my hands were slippery with baby oil, which caused them to slip around and made it hard to hold my tits together.

I was reassured by the fact that his moaning reached a fever pitch. It was actually hot; he sounded like a 12-year-old getting his first blowjob, almost surprised by his own hyper-arousal. “OH GOD, OH GOD,” he grunted and gasped, and within a minute had spurted cum all over my breasts. I laughed and he passed me a towel to clean up.

“You wanted to me to stick around, right?” I asked, but he told me he was actually running late, so I just collected the money sitting on the kitchen counter. “Is this for me?” I asked dumbly, like maybe it was the OTHER stack of 20s he leaves out on his counter. I felt good. You guys know about me and my tits; they get so excited when they’re invited to the party. Combine the breast play with his enthusiastic reaction, and I was hoping he’d call again soon.

I walked back past the park, no kids in sight this time.