Here is the rest of the segment I posted earlier this week:
The first trip turned out to be a scouting mission. I’d reason to believe I’d find women like I’d seen at the station. I needed to find them. After only a few blocks south I began seeing lone women standing in the haze of a June dawn. They stood peering left and right, arms folded. Their dress varied drastically, from sweatpants and sloppy ponytails to skirts and bright makeup. Each looked sick, but I wanted to fuck all of them. Skinny, but not dying. Fucked up, but not too fucked up. New enough to all of this to retain traces of what had made them pretty. I could look beyond sores and pimples and see what I wanted to see.
I saw one smile at me. She knew I was cruising. Her smile reminded me of a yearbook photo. I wanted to brush her cheek with my finger as she looked down and blushed. I wanted to buy her something to eat. I wanted her to smack her lips with my cock after she sucked me off. I wanted to hear her say something sweet in a raspy voice as I came.
Something about the spectacle of white prostitutes in this town completely did it for me. Black prostitutes were fine, but they were more common. White chicks hooking in Camden was like some kind of treat. Although I was merely scouting, I was ready to pull over and make this happen with any of them. I found a favorite. She wore tight jeans covered in sequined patterns that looked perfectly trashy. She hobbled somewhat on her three-inch spike heels. The beige top she wore tied in the back and exposed as much skin as it covered. I liked her tight ponytail. I liked her freckles, which I could see from the car. She gave me an over-the-shoulder glance as I passed. We exchanged a confirmation with our eyes. She was offering. I was looking. I circled the block.
As I did, I passed a police officer driving the opposite direction. I’d forgotten this town had police. While I hadn’t committed a crime, I shivered and gulped when I saw the patrol car. I knew I looked suspicious. Nothing I’d be doing in this city at this hour would be wholesome or legal. I wondered if the cop would bother with me. I didn’t know where he was going. I decided this didn’t matter. I made my way back to the bridge and to my side of the river.
I fumed over this. That morning made me crazy a few minutes alone on some side street with one of these girls. They were there, out in the open enough that I figured picking one up would be safe. I beat myself up over bailing on my chance. No, that was a scouting mission. I would return, better informed and more confident. I jerked off all week to my side street fantasy. I could do this. I needed to do this.
Safety. I’d thought about safety only with regard to the law. In my sickest fantasies, I’d let one of these women sit on my bare cock in the front seat of my car. I’d feel her warmth: every germ and microbe in her would slither down my shaft as she rode me. Jerking off to this fantasy didn’t work, because I kept thinking of all the disease I’d have to scrape off me. I didn’t know what they had, but I figured they were more likely to have it than escorts or massage attendants were.
I didn’t need to fuck one. A blowjob would do, but even that seemed like dipping my cock into a bad place. I felt like an asshole for thinking of their mouths as warm cauldrons of filth. I didn’t want stuff growing on my dick, though. Bumps might scare off the pricier escorts. I liked bareback blowjobs. I didn’t like the idea of having an escort refuse me because of unexplained “pimples.”
I’d take a handjob, which still felt risky. I pictured scabby knuckles scraping against my jeans and kept thinking about the unwashed cock that had been in the palm of that hand thirty minutes earlier. From here, I hatched a scheme about telling a girl I had a glove fetish and handing her a vinyl glove before we’d get to it. I worried I might offend her, but also thought the money would silence her protests. I could be kinky, controlling, and safe in one stroke. The image of my semen all over the glove made the choice for me. I bought some gloves and went back across the river the following Sunday morning.
I never used any of the gloves, but I drove back home that morning twenty dollars poorer and with a dark, bold check on my to-do list.