Tammy the Streetwaler

If the object of the New York authorities were to increase prostitution and depravity, they could not better accomplish it than by their present policy towards the unfortunate class that everybody endeavors to ignore, but who suffer and cause more guilt, crime, and misery than even bad rum can justly be held accountable for.

-- Walt Whitman,

Brooklyn Daily Times, June 20, 1859

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In mid-January 1975, I had been separated from my wife for seven months. She had moved out of our one-bedroom Bronx apartment and left me behind. I kept one of the cats and less than half of the furniture. I also got to keep our blue 1973 Chevrolet Malibu sedan. She was going someplace in Brooklyn with tight parking and she didn't want to deal with that situation.

Our five-year marriage had been stressful for both of us. The only positive aspect of it was that we had great sex. Her only downside in that area was that she never went in for anything kinky. I figured there would be an upside to this separation. Now I could get all the pliable chicks I wanted. Except, I hadn't dated since college and I wasn't ready for the adult scene.

The fact that I lived way up in the north Bronx didn't help. My shabby apartment in a 1920s-vintage building was another liability. The one time a lady accepted my invitation to go there was a disaster. She was in there for about ten minutes and then she left; I never saw her again.

By January, I had passed my twenty-seventh birthday and I was really unhappy with my lack of a sex life. Masturbating to

Penthouse

and

Hustler

magazines didn't cut it for me. In fact, it was frustrating to look at all that luscious pussy I couldn't really get.

One Thursday evening, I got into my car and drove into Manhattan. It was a clear evening and not that cold for the time of the year. I almost didn't want to admit to myself that I might get a prostitute. I had never been with one, and I should have been known that streetwalkers were particularly low on the scale. Maybe I thought I didn't deserve anything better.

I drove aimlessly around for a while. After dark, I pulled in front of a hydrant by a coffee shop on West 38th Street in Manhattan. I was trying to get a legal parking space so I could go inside and have a sandwich.

A woman was standing outside the place. Her long, dark raincoat hid most of what was underneath except for her black high-heeled boots. We looked at each other and she made a gesture at me; I nodded and crooked a finger at her. When she was at the passenger side window, I rolled it down; she leaned over and said, "You've got some money to spend?"

Her dark, almost black hair gave her a Bettie Page look. I was sure from the beginning that it was actually a wig. She had way too much make-up on and it had been carelessly applied. I looked at her reddish-purple lipstick and green eye shadow. It seemed that she had powdered her face so that it looked extra pale. The total effect was perhaps more unsettling than erotic; I thought of Medusa.

For a moment I pondered just putting the car in gear and driving away. I knew I was out of my depth there and I didn't know how to handle it. But I was tempted anyway. Maybe it was just curiosity to see what this lady was really like.

I said, "Yeah, sure, I've got money to spend."

"Good, just so I'm not wasting my time. Okay, sport, open the door and let me in the back."

Why back there?

She lounged across the seat and said, "Drive somewhere, west of here. Just cruise around." I knew from her voice that she was from somewhere in the metro area. Also, I could tell she was younger than my first impression, possibly six or seven years less than I was.

Why isn't this chick in college or something and going on normal dates?

As we pulled away she opened her coat to reveal what was underneath. Her outfit was classic dominatrix, almost all of it black. I wondered if she really ever worked that particular hustle. She wore a bustier or a teddy --

what was that thing called again?

Her skirt was very short, porn star short. Her legs were apart to reveal even more: black lacy panties and a garter belt with straps holding up sheer black stockings tucked into the boots.

She looked out at the passing buildings. I was trying to get a better look at her and still drive the car. When stopped at lights I just turned around and stared at her. She rubbed her crotch and said, "What, you've never seen a twat before?"

After a few minutes, she directed me to a street -- I think it was 59th -- west of Eleventh Avenue. There was a Penn Central freight yard on the right side and an old powerhouse on the other. We parked in front of a tall step-in van that gave us a modicum of privacy, although the street was deserted.

She got in the front seat with me. "So what are calling yourself tonight?"

"I'm Jimmy." That happened to be my real name.

"Okay, I'm Tammy. You remember those movies with Debbie Reynolds and then Sandra Dee,

Tammy and the Bachelor,

and so forth? So Jimmy, are you in a hurry tonight, or do you have some time? I have a package deal for you if you have the time and the cash."

She was leaning in on me and she had lowered her voice. I looked into her strange dark eyes. There was a blankness in them, but I also detected anger and hurt in there too.

I said, "I've got time and money."

"All right, it's a three-part deal. The first is right now, you can have a blowjob for . . ." She quoted a price. "That is a very good price for this city as you should know. For an extra sum, you can abuse me verbally while you do it." She gave a price for that too. For some reason, I agreed to it. I didn't know her, but the idea of chiding her, if that was the correct word, appealed to me.

She said, "Then I'm feeling pretty hungry, so you'll take me for some dinner. The Market Diner would be fine." That place was at 44th and Eleventh, some distance to the south of us.

She continued, "Then, if you're still up to it, we'll come up here again for a very special deal."

"Which is?"

"It will be a surprise. Don't worry, you don't have to take it if you don't want it, but I'll bet you will. Meanwhile, I assume you're ready for part 1, so pay up."

I peeled out cash from my wallet, which she then stowed in her purse. In her next movement, she unbuckled my pants and took them down. She knelt on the floor while I sat behind the wheel, and she used a combination of sucking, licking, and kissing on my cock which was very effective.

I let my role-playing mind roll and said things to her. "Oh, you little fucking whore, you dirty bitch, suck on my hot Italian sausage." It sounded more than a little silly, but I was getting into the spirit of the event. "Yeah, sweetie, leave that purple lipstick all over my cock." Being with a hooker had never been a major part of my fantasy repertoire, but I was able to relax enough to savor the event.

When I came she took all of it into her mouth, and I assumed she was going to swallow. But then she opened the passenger door and spit it all into the street. She turned back and said, "Hey man, you got a handkerchief I could borrow?"

I did, but I also expressed my dismay. "You just spit it out the door."

"So what? You were done with it and so was I. Let's face it, my obligation to your splooge ends when it leaves your cock."

Then she looked out of the passenger-side window and said, "Look at all those condoms out there." There were indeed several used ones on the sidewalk. She said, "This is where the rubbers hit the road. Yeah, there are eight million stories in the Naked City and half of them wind up in the business side of a Trojan-Enz." She seemed to be amused by her own comments. Then she said, "The Market Diner, let's get there already."

In those days of depressed real estate values, the diner could afford to have its own free parking lot even though it was on the edge of Midtown Manhattan. A lot of cab drivers went there though so did many other New Yorkers who were perhaps at loose ends. It had become over the years a New York institution, although not one familiar to most tourists.

Tammy put on sunglasses before going inside. With her raincoat tightly closed she didn't get attention from anybody in the place. She took off the glasses to peruse the menu. She got a western omelet with rye toast and I ordered a tuna sandwich. "Oh no, buddy, if you eat tuna fish the evening ends now." That seemed odd, but it didn't matter that much to me. I had a salami and Swiss instead.

She had a good appetite and ate almost the entire meal. It was disconcerting, however, to see her bring the folk up to that purple-red mouth. Talking to her was difficult too; I had this rather sullen person to contend with. She was willing to listen to me describe myself, most of which was true except for some change of details like that I had graduated from Lehman College in The Bronx instead of City College.

I was reluctant to ask her about herself. What would I say,

why did you become a prostitute?

She did, however, have opinions about why I was a john. The main idea was that college girls, even after they graduated, didn't put out except for a very high price. "Like if you take them someplace like the New Capitol diner, don't expect even a handjob."

How did she know about that diner? It was on Kingsbridge Road near Lehman. I wanted to know what she had been doing there, but I didn't ask.

She went on, "If they're feeling particularly expansive, and they think you might take them to a better restaurant, they might let you give yourself your own handjob while they watch. Or maybe they'll be reading their sociology textbook while you jerk-off and moan about how beautiful they are." Then she switched to the voice of some self-regarding college girl, " 'Please, sweetheart, don't make so much noise, I have an exam tomorrow.' "

I laughed at that, but generally Tammy remained sealed off from me. I thought she might have a colorful streetwalking story or maybe some views about the job itself. But none of that was forthcoming. We didn't order dessert, but she did get a coffee to go. Then it was back up to the freight yards, in front of the same step-in truck.

She had us get in the back seat. As I sat there, she kneeled on the floor facing away from me, lifted her coat and skirt, and lowered her panties. She said, "Now, for a very reasonable price of you can have anal." Again she quoted the cost.

"Anal?"

"Intercourse in the ass. Don't tell me you've never heard of it."

"I've never done it.

"Well, I'll tell you how. You can't just shove it in there." I gave her more money. That also went into her purse; then she took out a small plastic jar of Vasaline. "Get your dick out." I wasn't particularly erect to start but she worked on it for a bit. Then she took more out and smeared it into her own backside.

I said, "Wow, this is really romantic."

"If you want romance get one of those Lehman bitches and take her to whatever the hot restaurant is right now."

"Do women really like this, I mean anal?"

"Some women do I think; for me, I can take it or leave it. If you really want to be a good guy, fondle my pussy while you're doing it so I'll feel something. That way I won't have to count sheep during the whole thing." It occurred to me that hookers probably did have to mentally zone out during the actual sex.

Then she said, "Okay sport, let's get to this already. But listen to me; be gentle going in. Just push a little until it fits. Don't try to go all the way in to the hilt. When you move, go easy with it. If it hurts me, I won't be shy about letting you know."

I pushed my erection against her and she was right; going into her anus was pretty easy. I heard her grunt slightly at the penetration. But she said, "My pussy, you were going to fondle it, remember?"

My left hand held her hip, my right hand stroked her in ways that I had done with other women. Meanwhile, I kept up a slow but steady rhythm. I think I liked it more than I had expected; it was very tight in there. I decided to add some dialogue,

"You little whore, I love putting my cock up your ass. Do you like it?"

"Jesus Christ, you think you invented sliced bread with the way you're going on about it."

I laughed at her dark wit. I suspected, with my hand stroking her, that maybe she did like it too. That thought encouraged me and within a few minutes, I was ready to donate. I felt my role required more talking, so I did, "Take my hot sperm up your ass Tammy, take it, take it!"

A moment later she said, "Ok, I took it." I fell back on the seat to catch my breath; she turned on her side to give me a clinical look. She let me calm down and she said, "You know the problem, Jimmy, is that your cum is going to dribble out all night. What a mess." She opened the door and stepped out. She squatted down and shat my semen onto the sidewalk. I could hear it gush out.

That shocked me. I'd seen women pee outdoors when they really had to, but this was something entirely different. She stood up, shrugged, and got in the front passenger seat, indicating that I should sit next to her. When I was there behind the wheel she reached into her purse and pulled out an object. She pushed a button and a blade sprung open. It was an impressive switchblade knife.

I had never had someone pull a weapon on me before, but I fought back the panic. I said, "You already have my money; that's most of what I brought."

"I also want your car."

Now I was angry as well as afraid. "You greedy little whore, you have no right to do this. You planned this shit from the beginning."

She didn't hold the knife too close to me; she just aimed it in my direction. "Greedy? I've got a debt to pay to some people you don't want to stay indebted to for long. I decided along the way that this was a good opportunity."

"What is it, drugs I assume?"

"You little punk, paying to fuck girls in the ass. Who are you to make judgments?"

I was going to say,

but you offered it,

when I thought of another defense.

"You've bluffing me. You wouldn't murder me right here in the street. And after all, I could report the car stolen after you take it."

She looked at me with something like pity. "First of all, I don't murder people -- well maybe if it were a life or death self-defense and even then. However, you might, I don't know, lose part of your ear, which you could then mail to one of your Lehman girlfriends."

An artistically inclined whore,

I thought,

referring to Vincent Van Gogh.

I said something completely irrelevant, "I've been out of college for five years now."

She ignored that, "As for reporting the car stolen, Jimmy, you're going to do it for insurance reasons. Just don't mention any chick in a raincoat peddling blow jobs. That would be awkward with the police. And I've got some other people out here keeping track of me that you really don't want to mess with." She was sneering at me; her painted face looked horrid. "You're way out of your college-boy league. Now give me the keys and your driver's license."

As I hesitated, she said, "You're getting the license back." She tapped the glovebox, "You've got a notepad in here? I can't hold the knife and take notes at the same time."

I dutifully copied my information onto the pad, and she carefully compared it to the license. She said, "This is my bit of insurance; now I know for sure who you are. That's a long way uptown, but we wouldn't be taking the fucking 4 train for that trip."

Who was "we?" A pimp?

"Could you at least drive me up to Columbus Circle?"

She stared in disbelief. "You pathetic loser, you can't even walk a few blocks in the winter. Here's your license. Now get the fuck out of the car."

I was surprised by how fast I complied. She slid over behind the wheel and started the engine. I was about a foot away, standing in the middle of the street, and she rolled down the window. She patted her hip. "Jimmy, thanks for going easy on my tender little butthole. A lot of guys have no consideration for a girl's heinie."

She continued, "The car will probably be parted out by tomorrow; that's easier than disposing of a whole car. Don't try anything stupid or your balls may get parted out too."

Then she turned on the lights, stepped on the gas and my Malibu was beyond me. I had been about to say more and I yelled it out anyway, "You bitch, you just knew I'd be an easy mark, didn't you?" A couple of seconds later the car was at the end of the block and then around the corner.

It was several blocks uphill to get to the Circle. On this January night, the streets in that area were deserted. I already knew I'd just call in the theft tomorrow and say the car had been stolen while parked on the street.

On the D train, I started to get the shakes as my adrenaline level fell. That had been a very close call.

No more streetwalkers for me;

that was for sure. But surely there were brothels were there was more control over what the girls did.

Or maybe I should just masturbate until I find a nice girl for myself, assuming there still are any of those around.

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