Note: this story was first posted on Jack Be Quick on November 9, 2004.
The first time I ever paid a women for sex, it was out side a Cardinals game in St. Louis. I was passing through and she did a good job of looking young and vulnerable. Hell, I even held the door for her as she climbed into my Chevy conversion van.
We drove to the outskirts of the city and parked under an overpass, a John Deer dealership on one side and a row of Bible-thumper billboards (Are you Saved?, Do You Love Jesus? Abortion is Murder, and on, and on) on the other.
She said, “What do you want, baby?”
I said, “Show me something I’ve never seen before.”
She took off her shirt, giving me just a glimpse of her perky breasts before turning around, kneeling, her back to me. There, tatooed in living color across her whole back, was the Dali Llam’s face. When she moved her shoulders just right, his expression changed.
His Holiness did not approve of the situation.
I took the girl back to the stadium, paid her fifty bucks, dropped her off, then pondered the art of specificity as I headed for Miami.