Warning: some sexually explicit content below.
Glen has a friend from Germany who speaks nearly flawless -- if heavily accented -- English, though, on occasion, he messes up some of our irregular verbs. He doesn't conjugate them improperly, but rather, he simply uses the wrong one. He confuses the verbs "to make" and "to give" fairly consistently, and often with humorous results. For instance, he'll say something like, "She gave me a really good dinner last night: we had sauerbraten and spaetzle and, buddy, it was delicious." He's also just as likely to say something like, "Buddy, I asked her to make me a blow job, and, wow! she made me a blow job!"*
So. On Thursday afternoon, I was doing my typical hatin' and complainin', and even though that takes just about every ounce of energy I can muster, I heard a car pull up alongside our house, though all of that hateful noise in my head. I poked my head out, and didn't recognize the car, and my guard shot up: for a few years, we had a constant flurry of drug activity on our street, and I figured it's just a matter of time before it starts back up. But the driver cut the engine -- drug buyers, I've learned, seldom do -- and so I assumed maybe one of our neighbors had a visitor. I went back to hating and complaining, but I didn't hear the car door slam. No one got out of the car.
So I went outside and saw a man's head in the driver's seat, and what I assume to be a woman's head bobbing up and down on his lap. She was making him a blow job, and she was wearing a trendy hat. It was not quite 5 p.m. There were kids around, and the ice cream truck was around the corner. I stood alongside the car and glared at the driver; I was infuriated -- which is different than my usual hating and complaining, because infuriation, for me, is a not a familiar sensation. It's blinding: it burns away all rational thought. So I stood there -- stupidly, I admit -- watching this lewd act (and later wondering if that makes me a bit pervy), without a real idea of what else to do, since this was a first for me. I waited for someone in the car to notice me, and just as I was about to kick his blue Cadillac, the driver saw me. And when he did, all I saw was fear on his face. I was so blinded by rage that didn't notice any of his features except his fear. The blow job maker and her trendy hat came up, and stayed up; I could see that she was calm and composed; comfortable, even with getting caught. He started the car and tore off.
I stood in the street, hoping the driver could see me in his rear view mirror. I had my phone, and even though my hands were shaking, I actually managed to queue up "Police" on speed dial, but I figured there was no point in calling, since Mr. Blow Job and his Blow Job Maker would be long gone before dispatch could even answer the phone.**
I have a difficult time maintaining a heightened state of pissed-offedness, so after a bit, I was able to resume my usual, lower-level hating and complaining. And because I cannot banish the nasty thoughts, I considered for a moment that maybe the john was one of our visiting dignitaries. But I quickly dismissed that; after all, the visiting dignitaries have rooms at the Marriott: they wouldn't need to find a quiet side street in East Trenton. And most of them did not drive a souped-up ghetto sled to Trenton. Right?
Now, we do live in Trenton, so we do see some prostitutes from time to time, but we've never had one at our side door before -- that we know. My journalism teacher in college said that Trenton was, at least at one time, the transvestite prostitute capital of North America. And I do recall loads of hookers along the Greenwood stretch when I was in college. So it seems, at least from our perspective, at least until Thursday, prostitution in our neck of the woods isn't as blatant as it used to be. So, we did some reading online on the hookers in Trenton. We googled terms like "Trenton" and "prostitute" and "crack whore" and "transvestite" in different combinations, and found quite a bit mentioned about the industry on alt.sex.prostitution. However, a lot of it is old -- most of it is pre-2000. And none of it mentions trannies at all.
Despite the lack of information on trannies, it's an interesting read: one contributor offered up a very detailed ward-by-ward review of a number of hookers, along with their strengths and weaknesses, and some helpful instructions ("If you get a girl, most likely, she's going to want to score drugs before she has sex with you. Make sure she leaves something of VALUE in your car if she asks to exit the car to buy drugs. Don't fall for the "I'll leave my jacket with you" routine, because those things don't mean much to a drug addict. If she leaves her purse, and it has stuff in it, then you're probably alright.")
The same writer also said, "Incidentally, I moved up north because Trenton is a drug infested city, and I got tired of seeing so much decay. I also got tired of the girls wanting to do drugs in my presence, which can be dangerous if you should happen to get stopped by police and she has drugs or a pipe in her possession. I also started to develop a reputation there, and had to leave to escape the 'girls' knowing me in public."
It baffles me when the mayor, or someone like LA Parker, calls involved citizens "complainers" or "haters" (or, in the case of LA, "racists"), when, in that post on alt.sex.prostitution, there is a perfect example of a former resident -- one who was probably a real racist -- who took and took and took from Trenton, and in doing so, had a direct role in the decay of the city. Prostitution and drugs have always gone together, and for him to feed those women's habits (whether or not he's having sex with them) is, at best, not very helpful. Residents and business owners see this activity, and they want to leave as soon as they can. Visitors see this activity, and it makes them not want to come to our restaurants and other businesses. And the johns, themselves, see that there aren't any places to even grab a coffee after a "half and half," and wind up leaving too.
With so little industry in Trenton, I've thought a lot about whether or not my response to the john and blow job maker outside my house was fair. The very practical part of me thinks that -- while hoochie in Trenton is dirt cheap, as I learned on alt.sex.prostitution -- a bit of commerce in this city can't be a bad thing. After all, if this guy had $5 to spare for some fellatio, maybe he's got a bit more cash for some treats at one of the bakeries? It's an icky thought, I know, but I remember back in the late 80s and early 90s when all of the restaurants were booming, and there were whores galore along Greenwood. I'm not implying a direct relationship; only saying that the economy was pretty good then. So, discovering some oral sex next to my house might a sign that the economy is improving. But, even so, there's no way a john is going to choose MY residential street when there are abandoned homes and factories aplenty in our fine city.
NOTE: Coming tomorrow -- the Sunday Funny.
* I think part of Glen's friend's confusion with the verb "to make," stems from the English term "making love." If we make love in English, maybe, in the mind of a German, we make blow jobs, too? It's just a guess.
** And potentially give me attitude.
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