2.10 am in Waikiki
Once upon a time in Havana, Shanee had a crazy itchy rash. Nothing venereal, but certainly concerning. She was biting her lip and rocking back and forth like a thing possessed. So I went out into the Havana night at 2am to find some alcohol to knock her out with, as the only respite we could imagine at our disposal.
The Prado of Havana is an interesting place at 2am! I had only been propositioned by one enterprising lady of the night until that journey. Cuba has the most beautiful population of anywhere I have ever been, and the prostitutes were a good sample. ie the hookers wuz hot and frequent.
Last night, stumbling home drunk from Senior Frog’s (this series is called mapping the limits of the soul after all!) after an evening of song and dance and dollar drinks, I met a couple of the most beautiful ladies I could have hoped to make the acquaintance of. They were super friendly, giggly smiles all the way. I should have known when conversation started with “Aren’t you coming with me?” that something was up! But, as the man who dated a girl for six months without noticing that she was not in fact a natural blonde, I was oblivious until the matter of payment was broached. When I mentioned that I did not have the requisite $200, conversation sadly stalled. I always find it strange that company can be a commodity; it is at cross-grain to my soul.
Sometimes I think I would pay the money, not to have sex with these people, but just to hear the story these people must have! How do you find yourself first having sex for money? Do you fall into it when you drop out of school? Is protection in some way necessary? Is it as miserably degrading as I assume it is? Or as a really pretty lady, is it in any way empowering to have people willing to pay anything to be with you? This must be a really complex thing, and I would like to delve; or in reality would I rather not know? Would this be a clear case of flying too close to the sun? Is this a sadness that burns when it touches you?