I recently received my first phone number as a server and saw cocaine on the back of a toilet seat — all in one night.
The patio was technically closed though it did not discourage two gentleman probably in their late 40s from seating themselves. Displeased by the club atmosphere upstairs they opted for something more quiet and laid back.
Drinks in hand they sat themselves down and proceeded to talk and laugh obnoxiously loud for quite awhile. It was from the older of the two that I would get my very first phone number.
As the night wore on two of their friends sat down to join them. One with eyebrows so manicured and dark it looked like he applied them with a sharpie marker.
The second man embodied, in modern clothing, everything I would have imagined a man being like in the 1600s French court.
After a few rounds of drinks they lacked any class or volume control and any sense of tact.
Besides the frequent “compliments” and invitations to their homes for the evening I learned that it’s males like this that give the rest of the sex a bad name.
Yes, they tipped sufficiently, even generously but was the money worth the constant harassment about whether my chest was real?
No. I’m sorry, my price is far higher than that.
More-over the whole affair solidified my resolve in never becoming a call girl, despite my recent obsession with Diary of a Call-girl.
If these are the men with money, I’ll graciously decline and work harder to make my own.
I will add that supposedly the one who gave me his phone number, was very well-endowed. At least according to his friends…
Worst of all, the largest of the fellows … the most lewd and drunk? I believe the Marquis De Sade probably resembled him in real life. Alas, I refuse to picture him as anything less than fantastically handsome like the great Geoffrey Rush.
Then again, how reliable can a story be when they can’t even spell her name right? Besides, isn’t there that theory that everyone in the world has a twin?
