A large majority of our government employees, both male and female, are prostitutes. Money is their motivator. Fear is their master. They have no respect for public service. Their objective is enrichment at any cost. They are harlots. We can call them American harlots or American whores. But they are not American. They are just harlots and whores.
Everyone owns a whore house. The Russians own a whore house. The Chinese own a whore house. My friend Brady said he wanted to save a beautiful young girl he met on the border at boys-town. She did too much coke and puked on his dick. Once we were back across the border I told him through his tears at breakfast I said, Brady, what is your name? It’s Brady, he replied, his eyes puffed and watering. I reminded him how such a fine tradition it is. Your grandfather owned a whore house. Why would you want to suffer similar miseries in this good life? Can’t you see all the pain it creates? I told Brady straight out. You already own a whorehouse.
He stared at me dope eyed. Slobbering over his plate like a sultry sick beagle. I told those two young girls I loved them. Whispered it to them as we left so fat Mexican pimp daddies couldn’t hear it.
I was there to protect Brady. Keeping him safe as he disappeared into back rooms making sure he made it back to the bar room. And all the way out the doors into the comfort of our trusted cab driver.
Ladies would come out to hustle him into the backrooms. Professionals I waved each away one at a time. I sent him off with a sparkling smiling lover precious enough for even me to fall in love with. One time he popped out from the back and sat down with his girl at our table. Do you want some Coke? No, buddy, thanks I’m good here with my shot of tequila and the constant traffic of border working girls parking on the barstool behind my head then being signaled back to work within five minutes by bar daddy.
It’s all I did all night sit in front of the bar at my little round table. Like clockwork. All women to me would sit on the barstools behind me at the bar and spread their precious legs behind my head. I would whiff and sip tequila throughout the night while Brady had his fun. I had made sure he got the best of the house. Ten shots later I swaddled back into the cab to our trusted driver and off to breakfast on our side of the border.
Everyone owns a whorehouse. Those two young girls in boys-town own a whorehouse. The cab driver owns a whorehouse. The cleaning ladies own a whorehouse. My Masseuse owns a whorehouse. And a damn fine one at that. Everybody that doesn’t know they own a whorehouse wants to own a whorehouse. Because it’s all everyone ever wants. Love. Or the image of love in the flesh.
The desolation of buying and selling love. It’s a miserable life, Brady. You would want none of it. Girls get pregnant, hearts get broken. Dozens of torn dirty sheets tears are cried on and the smell of booze, blood, sweaty genitals and death.
The pain of a new wrinkle means one less customer. One less trapped rat. One less dirty wrinkled peso. Or the dull numbness of love. Or no love.
You own a whorehouse, too. As big as the Chinese, or the Russians, or the French. Or female genital mutilation.
I see Natalie Wood on the dance floor and I can’t walk away.