Duncan's Diary (30 page)

Waking up with a hangover is something that I will never get used to, no matter how experienced I am. The pounding beat of your skull like somebody is taking a hammer and playing Taps on your head from every side can be excruciatingly painful. I had fallen asleep in the chair, and it was now early in the morning, but still very dark outside. My guess was in the 4 a.m. range, as I stumbled into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water, and sucked half of it down on the first swig.

I managed to make it to the bathroom and dropped a couple of Advil down my throat as I swigged the rest of the water. I drained the bottle entirely. In a way, it was always better falling asleep in a chair or on a couch. You tend to wake up so very early, which enables you to drink water, take aspirin, and then head off to bed for more sleep. The only issue with alcohol, really, is the dehydration effect. It makes your body feel like you have been stranded in the blazing sun for several days, having forgotten your backpack of supplies.

I woke again at 7 a.m. the second time and, as hoped, felt much better. I still wasn’t operating on all cylinders, but I was definitely clawing my way out of the sand pit. I took a shower and grabbed another bottle of water, downing this one as I let the sprinkle from the showerhead flow down my face to my body which seemed to soak it up like a sponge. I stayed in the shower for close to 30 minutes and, admittedly, was feeling okay by the time the pain relievers began to work.

After watching a movie and spending the morning relaxing, my next step was to get dressed and drive to the city. I would hit a local bar and start the process over again without restraining myself to the confines of my living room. As helpful as the alcohol was, my hidden desire was hoping that luck would pass my way. I hoped to stumble into an opportunity to quench my other thirst, as the only thing more enticing than a drink was the fresh flow of blood from a new victim.

There is nothing like killing somebody to renew your hope in life. Ironic, isn’t it? My hope and energy comes from watching somebody else lose their life. I am like a vampire in a way. I don’t have to actually suck the blood dry from the bodies of my victims, but somehow their death gives me the energy to focus and continue forward down my path. I would not be that picky tonight. I headed to a seedy part of town, close to the strip clubs, in the hopes of finding something that would appease my thirsting lust.

There is something to be said for hitting a bar and heading to the strip clubs in the latter part of the afternoon. Most do not even open until after 4 p.m., so you can’t spend the day, watching breasts flop around on an oily stage. You are regulated to the evening and night for this type of activity. It was still a little early, so I stopped in at a pub, ordered a beer and settled into camp, waiting for the real activities to begin later.

Local bars are so much more enticing than clubs and trendy establishments that encompass the younger generation of San Francisco. Everything has its place, and the overpriced, posh settings that attracted the hip crowds were appealing to a large portion of the population. For losers like me, the bar down the street with the torn seat cushions and an overweight bar-mate is like home--sit me down on a stool that hasn’t moved in 50 years where I can lean my arms on the sticky used bar top. Suddenly, I feel like this is where I grew up.

I sat at one end, admiring the square-box tube TV hanging on a platform at one corner perched above the bottles. I gazed on it as one would an antique. It was fast becoming extinct, with even the plasma TV now going by the wayside as the flat panel was taking control of the market. An East Coast NBA basketball game blared on the set with the Celtics up by a large margin. I was not a big basketball fan, but would watch a game if it were on. Football was my preferred choice of spectator sport, but I also enjoyed a good game of baseball.

Being from Illinois, I was and would always be a Cubs fan, but had navigated toward the Giants having lived out here for so many years. I couldn’t believe the great teams the Cubs were fielding in recent years, and how they always managed to somehow choke once they reached the playoffs. How could a team year after year fold like a wet paper towel every time the stakes increased and the pressure mounted? It was becoming too painful to watch.

There were about 15 other people in the bar. My guess was half regulars and half in for an afternoon drink session for whatever reason.

There was nobody in the place that I would be interested in getting to know any further, so I simply hung out for a couple of hours, had a few beers, and watched the end of the game and the meaningless commentary afterward. There are some sportscasters that are worthwhile to listen to, but most of them are hacks that either couldn’t make it in the sport or were publicity-mongering fools who would speculate on any aspect of the game to try and make a name for themselves.

I, finally, closed out my tab and paid with cash. Someone might follow me or recognize me or trace me back here, so I didn’t want any hard evidence. I was careful not to make a scene or spend too much time talking with anyone. I just sat in silence watching the game and sipping my beer. I remember one of my friends (back when I was married) actually said to me when the split occurred how it was too hard on him to remain my friend, so we no longer associated. Can you believe an asshole I had known for several years of my life and shared some of the most memorable moments actually said to me during my divorce that it was too difficult on him?

He had mentioned one time during our friendship, while I was still married, the reason he never felt close enough to me was my personality. It was the type where I could never go to a bar by myself and comfortably sit and have a beer, talking to nobody that I had previously known. His criterion for friendship was a little warped, since he was an alcoholic, but what an odd way to judge your friends. I should have known then that he was a ball-less hack that was too pathetic to waste my time on, but I continued to associate with him for whatever reason until the demise of my personal union.

I left the bar, sauntered into the closest strip club, and was immediately greeted by several of the working women. They all wanted to vie for my attention, and most importantly, my wallet. I told them that I was taking my time and wanted to cruise through the joint to weigh my choices before proceeding with anything further. San Francisco has an odd foray of strip clubs with most of them having private back rooms that you can utilize for your personal dances. Most of these rooms have some type of closure, be it a curtain or something soft that allows the girls to give you as much of their services as you are willing to pay for.

The first time that I ventured in one, I was a little taken aback as the girl reached into my pants, fondling me as we had just entered the room, asking me if I wanted her to pleasure me in an oral fashion. Coming from Chicago, where you are not allowed to even touch the women in the middle of a lap dance and are required to keep your hands to your sides, it was a drastic change in environment. There were several very attractive women there for an afternoon, so I figured the nighttime workers had already entered, and they were preparing for the arrival of their prey.

It is all about the money with these women. From the second they look at you and saunter over in their seductive clothing, their only goal is to suck as many dollars (and I don’t mean dollar bills) from you as they possibly can. My guess is that a gorgeous woman in an average weekend can easily pull a couple thousand down in tips alone. I wonder if they even make a paycheck from dancing. It would have to be paltry wages, as their true payment comes from the naïve guy who pushes money out before he even negotiates the services.

I have seen my brother-in-law enter one of these rooms the second that we had arrived one evening with a small group of guys as we celebrated my birthday. We all remember that moment—it is a standing joke that we tell and will tell for several years to come. Fifteen minutes later he exited the curtained enclosure, raised both of his hands, and yelled, “I am done.” He, then, left the strip club. He and one of the other guys spent the rest of the evening drinking beer as I and a couple of friends did the more generic women-watching from the chairs spread around the stage. The joke was most likely on us, as I am sure we spent more money than he did and left far less satisfied.

I sat down at a table and scanned the group looking for somebody that might fit my taste. I settled on a tiny brunette that had small, perky breasts and was wearing a purplish-colored piece of silk lingerie. I had to fight off a few girls before she caught me eyeing her and shook her way over to my table. Her ass moved in 10 inches each direction with every step that she took. How do some women shake their ass that way as they walk? Is it a class that some of them take? Did others miss that day, so they are unaware of the proper form to move in that sultry, slinky movement?

She sat down and introduced herself as Cherry, which, of course, I was sure was her real name. I shook her hand and said that I was Dirk Digler, and it was very nice to meet her. She didn’t even smile at the reference, my guess being that she was at most 19 to 20 and probably had no idea who Dirk even was. She asked me if I were up for a private dance, and I honestly told her that I would be, but she would have to put some time in here at the table getting to know me. Since there were few other men in the place she was most likely not going to be losing any money.

I could see her calculating in her mind if it was worthwhile, and she then asked me how much I was willing to pay to keep her company at the table. She could then judge her desire based on the dollar figure. Everything is about money, isn’t it? I had no intention of paying this girl any money, but instead was planning on shoving my four-inch knife through her Adam’s apple, watching the blood squirt out as she held her throat, unable to talk right after I released my sexual explosion all over her gorgeous brown hair.

I stated that if she were willing to talk to me for a while, and then perform whatever act I wanted in the back room, I would take up no more than two hours of her time. I was willing to pay her $500 for this service. I could see her eyes light up a little. There were many women here tonight, and odds were low that she might be able to make that much for the entire night. If I gave her that in one sitting, she could most likely double her intake for the day as the place got more crowded into the later hours of the evening. She agreed, and we started the small-talk portion of getting acquainted.

I shouldn’t spend the time boring you with the details of the interaction, as she stumbled over her facts throughout the conversation. I am unsure of what was true and what “Cherry” simply made up for her regular patrons. She started getting antsy and had now asked me if I were ready to go to the back room. She stated that she would only feel comfortable proceeding with our deal if I were willing to give her some of the money up front.

“Let’s get the party started,” I said, getting to the meat of our transaction so to say. I followed her back, again admiring her ass as it flowed from the left side of the room all the way to the right side of the room, as she walked slowly in front of me. She couldn’t have been more than 5’2” in her five-inch heels, and she probably weighed no more than 90 pounds. But she had a perfect full ass that cried out to be cupped with both hands. She would be termed a spinner, which is a term so often used in the porn section on the Internet.

As I entered the room I had to pay $100 just to reserve it for the 30 required minutes. After handing over the deposit and then giving her the payment she demanded (she would not start without full payment, and I would not give her full payment so we finally negotiated on half up front), she removed her lingerie. Standing completely naked in front of me, she unzipped my pants.

Negotiating time with a stripper/prostitute is an interesting process. I can stay in the room as long as I like. Once she has induced me to climax, her job is done. She will most likely leave, telling me that she is finished, but that I am welcome to remain until my time has expired. They have one goal in mind—to complete the process then move on to the next guy so they can rack up the payments that they are whoring themselves out for to begin with.

She moved with gazelle-like speed placing the condom on me as she worked her magic hoping for a quick few minutes to force me into submission with her seductive ways. As she was going through her routine, I looked around the room. The curtain was well shut and covered both sides of the door all the way across. It would be easy for anyone to open, but there was no way that it was possible to view the inside without moving some portion. I looked carefully for any lights in the walls or ceiling, and saw nothing, so I assumed there were no cameras.

You have to be very careful nowadays as there are several of these places that have installed video monitoring equipment to ensure none of the girls get hurt. This was an older building, and it was not the most upscale, so it seemed to operate in the old-fashioned way with a gumba sitting outside that would kill me if anything got out of hand. I was leaning back on a black leather couch and was thankful that it was not sticky from past experiences. There was a half-full trashcan with paper towels and condoms strewn about it in one corner from either today or recent customers who had attended the party before me.

It was dark enough in the room, and the music was blaring through a black speaker hanging from the ceiling in one corner. It reminded me of those drive-in speakers that used to hang on your window back in the ‘80’s when they were so popular. What a great concept that died out before its time! How could you not love the drive-in movies, and why did that business model not work? Some failed concepts baffled me. She was working up a sweat now, and I could see she was losing patience, but, unfortunately for her, I still had a few minutes to go.

I started telling her how great it felt, making the noises of ecstasy so she understood her job was close to completion. These girls sure didn’t like physical exertion, which seems stupid to even say. It was all about easy money to them. I, then, started to feel the stir of excitement and grabbed her hair with my left hand to help her movements keep the correct pace in the process. With my right hand I had reached into my jacket pocket and flipped open the knife blade exposing the metal from its encasement.