\u00a0Gary Gladstone<\/span><\/p>\nI can list four hookers I\u2019ve bumped into in my lifetime. As I write these memoirs, one sticks out especially in my mind. She is hooker number three.<\/p>\n
In 1967 I\u2019m 32 and the rare Manhattan resident who actually keeps a car garaged in the city.\u00a0 It\u2019s expensive but efficient for my fast-occurring photo assignments.<\/p>\n
Even though I\u2019m a six-foot-five, 200-pound guy, I love tiny sports car and today I\u2019m squeezed into the front seat of my little convertible English Sunbeam Alpine roadster. There\u2019s barely enough room in the cockpit to keep up with the tasks of steering, accelerating, braking, clutching and shifting the stubby gear shift in the city\u2019s stop-and-go traffic. When I\u2019m parked, the car is so low that if I hang my arm out the window, I can touch the curb.<\/p>\n
I\u2019ve learned from experience never to drive with the top down in the city because Manhattanites like to test their marksmanship by tossing trash or cigarette butts into open sports cars stopped at red lights. So despite the fact that the day is warm, the top remains up and both the windows rolled down as I weave my way southbound on Second Avenue towards Greenwich Village.<\/p>\n
I cross Fourteenth Street, the dividing line between the upscale Gramercy neighborhood and the down-and-out saloon and pawn shop area, which has lately been sprouting porn stores with their painted-over windows.<\/p>\n
At Thirteenth Street I stop for a light and notice, as usual, a scattering of \u201cworking girls\u201d wearing high heels that jack up legs covered with colored mesh stockings rising up into tight and skimpy hot pants. Their stretch tank tops, undersized and overfilled, are decorated with big beaded necklaces and unseasonable scarves. Some of the girls are standing in doorways. Others are perched on the edge of the curb, arms cocked in a half-wave as if hailing a taxi.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m tapping the steering wheel counting off the seconds, waiting for the light to turn green. To my left I see one of the curb ladies, a very rotund smiling black woman, step into the street and start to totter in her spike heels across the avenue towards my car. She\u2019s waving at me and shouting, \u201cI\u2019ll be right there. Now don\u2019t you run away!\u201d Her colossal hips are barely contained by bright form-fitting furry red shorts that are bouncing up and down as she bounds towards me. Everything is moving on her body except her Jackie Kennedy hairdo, which seems solidly attached to her head. She\u2019s smiling a juicy, red-lipped smile as she navigates the crosswalk toward my little car.<\/p>\n
I think about ducking out, but there are pedestrians in the road so I can\u2019t go forward yet. Besides, I\u2019m mesmerized by this onrushing mass of bobbling flesh in fuzzy pants that stops inches from my face and begins talking to me breathlessly. \u201cHere I am. Now let me show you somthin\u2019, honey.\u201d<\/p>\n
Instinctively, I raise my left foot to press the clutch to shift and escape. That\u2019s when she turns her back and presses both cheeks of her huge bottom against my open window frame, completely blocking the view to my left. Then she wiggles back and forth and squeezes her cheeks all the way through and into the car. My left arm is pinned against her bottom and my knees are pushed to my right, crammed against the floor-mounted gear shift. Now, even though I can step on the clutch, I cannot move the shifter. A small part of me wants to laugh at the idea that I\u2019m actually trapped by a giant ass.<\/p>\n
She turns her head and out of the side of her mouth says, \u201cWhaddya think of that, honey? It\u2019s goin\u2019 wherever you want to go.\u201d<\/p>\n
This attack from the rear is so sudden that I blow my horn, but deep down I know there is no cavalry coming to the rescue in this neighborhood. My left arm is still stuck so I reach with my right hand to the window crank and start to wind the window up. The rising edge presses into her bottom and I keep cranking.<\/p>\n
She screams \u201cWho-eee! Don\u2019t do that.\u201d<\/p>\n
But I persist, using the back of my trapped left hand to push against her butt while cranking with the right. Finally, she pops out and staggers a few feet into the avenue as I snap the car into gear and charge away. Looking in the rear-view mirror, I see her waving at me with her left hand and tugging at the back of her shorts with her right.<\/p>\n
Years after this escape, I smile thinking of this entrepreneurial working girl and how she stood out from the others. I imagine that if we had ever hooked up, the laughs would have been the best part.<\/p>\n
##<\/p>\n
\u00a9 2016\u00a0 Gary Gladstone<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Save<\/span><\/p>\nSave<\/span><\/p>\nSave<\/span><\/p>\nSave<\/span><\/p>\nSave<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"\u00a0Gary Gladstone I can list four hookers I\u2019ve bumped into in my lifetime. As I write these memoirs, one sticks out especially in my mind. She is hooker number three. In 1967 I\u2019m 32 and the rare Manhattan resident who actually keeps a car garaged in the city.\u00a0 It\u2019s expensive but efficient for my fast-occurring … Continue reading Hooker #3, \u201cWoo-eee! Don\u2019t Do That!\u201d<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-60","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-memoir"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p7zCq3-Y","jetpack-related-posts":[{"id":1288,"url":"https:\/\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/index.php\/2020\/05\/10\/three-poems-in-quarantine\/","url_meta":{"origin":60,"position":0},"title":"Three Poems In Quarantine","author":"Gary Gladstone","date":"May 10, 2020","format":false,"excerpt":"\u00a0 Oh My Darlin\u2019 Quarantine\u00a0 This morning I punched my shirt I sleep in two long-sleeve tee shirts I\u2019m old and chill easy The inside cotton seems to have forgotten How to slide out of the other \u00a0 I\u2019m late and need to hurry No time for gentle unwinding Let\u2019s\u2026","rel":"","context":"In "Poetry"","block_context":{"text":"Poetry","link":"https:\/\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/index.php\/category\/poetry\/"},"img":{"alt_text":"IMG_2422[1]","src":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/05\/IMG_24221-300x225.jpg?resize=350%2C200","width":350,"height":200},"classes":[]},{"id":641,"url":"https:\/\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/index.php\/2016\/11\/17\/she-fled-him-down-the-days\/","url_meta":{"origin":60,"position":1},"title":"SHE FLED HIM DOWN THE DAYS","author":"James Crafford","date":"November 17, 2016","format":false,"excerpt":"(with a nod to Francis Thompson)\u00a0 \u00a0 She ran She fled \u00a0 He was Maleness to her He was Strength He was deep sexual Lust \u00a0 She ran from him She rented a cottage near Misquamicut Beach* And stayed there the entire off season \u00a0 He was Intellect to her\u2026","rel":"","context":"In "Poetry"","block_context":{"text":"Poetry","link":"https:\/\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/index.php\/category\/poetry\/"},"img":{"alt_text":"","src":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/11\/nov162016-485.jpg?resize=350%2C200","width":350,"height":200,"srcset":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/11\/nov162016-485.jpg?resize=350%2C200 1x, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/11\/nov162016-485.jpg?resize=525%2C300 1.5x, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/11\/nov162016-485.jpg?resize=700%2C400 2x"},"classes":[]},{"id":204,"url":"https:\/\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/index.php\/2016\/07\/10\/pitter-patter\/","url_meta":{"origin":60,"position":2},"title":"Pitter Patter","author":"Joe Lobel","date":"July 10, 2016","format":false,"excerpt":"THE PITTER PATTER OF JAKE\u2019S PAWS ON THE HARDWOOD FLOORS, SHOCKS ME BACK TO REALITY FROM WHERE MY MIND REVIEWS THE KALEIDOSCOPE OF ENDLESS IMAGES THAT WEAVE THE YEARS OF MY\u00a0 LIFE TOGETHER IN TAWDRY FASHION. THE COUNTLESS BIRTHDAY PARTIES, CHRISTMASES, EASTERS AND RELIGIOUS BENCHMARKS ALL ASSIMILATE INTO A MAZE\u2026","rel":"","context":"In "Poetry"","block_context":{"text":"Poetry","link":"https:\/\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/index.php\/category\/poetry\/"},"img":{"alt_text":"note 4 july1016 126","src":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/07\/note-4-july1016-126-300x169.jpg?resize=350%2C200","width":350,"height":200},"classes":[]},{"id":866,"url":"https:\/\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/index.php\/2017\/04\/17\/write-right-away\/","url_meta":{"origin":60,"position":3},"title":"Write Right Away","author":"Christine Bexley","date":"April 17, 2017","format":false,"excerpt":"\u00a0 \u00a0 My best writing? Right about now. Unless it was earlier. I write when it\u2019s not convenient, when I have four thousand other things that beg my attention: wash the dog, clean the shower grout, sleep-dammit-sleep. The echoes of every great writer holler through the hollow halls of my\u2026","rel":"","context":"In "Prose"","block_context":{"text":"Prose","link":"https:\/\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/index.php\/category\/prose\/"},"img":{"alt_text":"OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA","src":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/04\/P1010370-1024x768.jpg?resize=350%2C200","width":350,"height":200},"classes":[]},{"id":1102,"url":"https:\/\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/index.php\/2019\/06\/23\/the-caregiver\/","url_meta":{"origin":60,"position":4},"title":"The Caregiver","author":"Jeff Ginsburg","date":"June 23, 2019","format":false,"excerpt":"\u201cI\u2019m done resting Ethan, how \u2018bout you?\u201d I whisper. We both feel soft after practicing yoga and our hour-long, turning-within meditation technique. We\u2019re still resting on the large\u00a0mat that covers half the floor of our studio apartment. Two years ago while learning this technique, we met and three months later\u2026","rel":"","context":"In "Fiction"","block_context":{"text":"Fiction","link":"https:\/\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/index.php\/category\/fiction\/"},"img":{"alt_text":"Jeff- Caregiver","src":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/06\/Jeff-Caregiver.jpg?resize=350%2C200","width":350,"height":200},"classes":[]},{"id":84,"url":"https:\/\/wordpress.talesfromthelake.org\/index.php\/2016\/04\/10\/necessary-things-and-other-ramblings\/","url_meta":{"origin":60,"position":5},"title":"Necessary Things and Other Ramblings","author":"L Dewender","date":"April 10, 2016","format":false,"excerpt":"Driving home after dark, chapped- lipped and thirsty. Too tired to wrestle with my bag for the lip balm tucked in a side pocket, so I open my mouth wide and stretch my cheeks back, brandishing an excited killer clown face. 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