bastards? You know I love you and want the best for you. Question is, how much do you love me? And how far are you willing to go for both of us to get on top?”
“Charlie, I’ll do anything in the world for you!”
“You mean it?”
“Certainly I mean it. Tell me your plans and you can count on me.”
“Would you fuck for me? Will you turn tricks and hustle your ass for me?”
“If that’s what you want me to do, Charlie!”
Hell, I was geared to spend days trying to convince her to turn out. Twenty minutes after we started our conversation, Sandy was willing—almost eager.
The first trick she turned just about broke my heart. I remember waiting in the parking lot of the apartment house where it was happening. I was going through all kinds of head trips—telling myself what a dirty bastard I was. I wanted to charge into the apartment, break the door down and beat the hell of the guy whose money she was taking. I wanted to apologize to Sandy and tell her I loved her too much to ever think of her having sex with someone else. I wanted to tell her I’d keep bringing home the money for us to live on, that she was mine and mine alone. I hated myself, and most of all I hated all the guys I had ever been in jail with. I didn’t blame myself as much as I blamed all those guys I had listened to while doing time in reform schools and prisons.
When Sandy came hurrying back to the car, I couldn’t look at her. I could tell she was in a big hurry and I thought it was a desire to get away from the place where she had just performed—for me. When she got in the car I finally looked into her face, expecting to see tears and perhaps some of the shame I had been experiencing. Instead, she was flushed with excitement, all smiles and proud as she thrust three twenty-dollar bills in my hand. “All right, Charlie,” she said, “we’re on our way! It was fun—there ain’t nothing to it. The john wants to see me again next week, same time, same place.” I didn’t tell Sandy what had been going through my mind and to this day, I don’t believe she understands why I didn’t enjoy her handing me the money.
That night as we had sex together, I found myself wondering if I was making it as good for her as the john had. I was a victim of the same feeling every time she turned a trick, and it was a long time before that feeling left me. But what the hell, wasn’t it my choice? And after all, isn’t feeling sorry, ashamed or inadequate just a frame of mind?
So okay, now I’ve got a girl working for me. A young inexperienced broad that don’t know any more about milking a trick than a choir girl. Yet I’m on Sunset Strip playing the part with all the other pimps. Though I’m acting like I know it all, I’m listening to everything said. I learn that just the bed money isn’t anything. I mean, the mark knows he’s paying to get his nuts off and has agreed on the price. If the girl just screws him, the price mentioned is all she is going to get. Listening to the seasoned pimps, I found the girl has to have more talent than just fucking or sucking. She has to learn her trick and know how to reach him emotionally, get him involved so that he feels he isn’t just a trick, but a special person. It’s also important that the girl isn’t into the business because she wants to be. The john can be made to feel like the girl is forced into prostitution by obligations, like an emergency operation for one of her children, a dying mother, or other things to make him sympathetic. Pretty soon the trick isn’t fucking the girl but feeling sorry for her. Out of a sympathetic heart and a desire to show what a wonderful fellow he is, he pays more.
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