GFE-Girlfriend Experience
REASON, v.i. To weight probabilities in the scales of desire.
Ambrose Bierce (1842 - 1914),
The Devil’s Dictionary
It didn’t make any sense. I just lost my head and let all my planning go to shit. I guess you call it an addict’s mind, the horses of desire dragging the sullen saint inside of me, etc. But in a few minutes I wasted the most fascinating research that I have ever conducted, and made a completely foolish decision. For weeks --whenever I shouldn’t be-- I had been searching for the perfect escort. In minutes, I gave all that up and made a date with the first girl I could get to meet me.
The rain had just stopped. I was driving around procrastinating. Months of paperwork had piled up and I had one night to put it all together. Stacks of folders packed with documents sat mildly organized in my car’s trunk. After going through all them, it would be hours of work before I could even start on my reports. I was a mess; instead of working I was stopping by a few bars, then a strip joint and now looking for my favorite old restaurants. I saw Rick’s on Riverside looking open. I smiled and let out a burp. Rick’s serves cheeseburgers with fried eggs and chili on top for people who want to die immensely. I pulled into the drive-through ordered my burger with the works and then waited forever. I was looking around my car for a pack of cigarettes that I lost a week ago when finally the food came. I opened the paper hiding the burger quickly and began eating. I took bite after bite overwhelmed by how hungry each bite was making me.
As I was eating, I wished I could get some “specialty” coffee shop coffee, not the black water called coffee and served to the blue collar at donut shops. I think I started drooling; I ate faster and faster until so ravenous that chili spurted from my hands across my beige shirt forming a magenta isthmus connecting my nipples.
I had to go home.
I parked and walked to my front door. The lights were off but through the window I could see the cast of Taxi on the television in the mirror over the fireplace. Reverend Jim was taking a driving test with help from the rest of the cast. My roommate was asleep on the couch. I opened the door and knocked something, this spurred the cat scurrying across the wood floor into the wall. I stood silent for a second and my roommate didn’t wake. I turned the TV off and navigated through the floor. I stepped between a trail of empty cereal dishes crusted with dried milk remains and spoons tucked inside. I went through the kitchen turning off lights all the way into my room. I turned my computer on and went into the bathroom to wash my face.
Despite the pleasing lighting in my bathroom, my face was a disappointment. I look old now. All of sudden like someone’s boss or a confused cousin. I’m almost thirty and I haven’t become anyone special or really responsible. I have more money than I ever thought I would but beside that my life is pale. A poor imitation of what I spent my youth imagining. But who knew about anything back then.
I never could have imagined how lonely I would get at times, how the people around me would suffer unjustly or how much anguish comes with a life as 9-5 employee. How could I have imagined this? I thought I’d be lucky to ever own a Playboy. Now I am all grown up with a high-speed connection to all the porn ever known to man, woman or transsexual.
When did you first discover computer porn? If you have known about the sluttery and kinkery that exists on the Internet for over a year, you are probably disappointed by now. Tell the truth. You may have looked at your first computer porn in public, at a friends’ or work? Somewhere you shouldn’t have? Of course you’ve seen the sickness: pop stars giving head to half a dozen headless men, sex with animals, sex with stuffed animals… You cannot stay away from the porn. It pops out like acne, the more you fight it the faster it appears. It seems that every link on the net eventually leads to porn and/or a “one-click” shopping cart.
In retrospect, I got into the net porn pretty late… round ’98. A friend showed me the Pam and Tommy Lee thing and I pretended not to be too interested. But over the next three years I feasted on a steady stream of porn that would have damned all of Utah. Still I was OK for the most part. I tried to intellectualize porn. Pants at my ankles; ass on my folding chair; I’d wonder, does porn satisfy the urge to escape or be a voyeur? Or does it just help people to jerk off? I knew I was scum but I more or less kept my wits about myself and focused on being a decent human being. Until… until I discovered a website that took over my life. Computer porn had been a distraction but never an obsession. This was different. I became completely swallowed up in the idea of this new site. Most of the time I was able to keep it out of my head but it tested me. I wished I were Christian because then I could chalk it up to Satan or his demons tempting me. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to go to confession but I knew it wouldn’t work. “Father forgive me for I have sinned.”
“Are you Armenian?”
“What Father? I am trapped in desire…”
“Greek?”
“Why Father?”
“I’m sorry you just look too…. This isn’t going to work.” An altar boy’d escort me out.
The site changed me. It changed me in horrible, lustful ways, but it also surprised me. For the first time in my life I became a good student, always paying attention, always wondering what I could do with this new information. I thought my expertise would be Physics or Economics. Not escorts. How could have I imagined any of this? A job I hate; a roommate I hide from; and an irrepressible fascination with finding the perfect hooker through web-based databases.
I washed my face and doused my hair with water. I look younger with my hair wet. Feeling a bit better, so I stepped back in my room.
Why, why, why can’t they make computers that boot up faster? It’s like a fucking TV warming up… five years from now no one is going to remember that this shit existed. I paced while the computer finished booting up. Finally it was alive and ready for business. I sat down and by instinct opened EroticCheck.com. EroticCheck is really a powerful tool in the hands of a deviant like me. Men, known on the site as users, visit escorts, known on the site as providers, and then rate them. These users fill out a form that places the experience in the database. They describe the provider’s physical appearance by using pull-down menus for categories like "pussy." You can describe a "pussy" as "shaved," "partially shaved," or "hairy." Breasts are described in two categories, size and appearance. I like it when Users call breasts "Youthful" but I also really enjoy the label "Hard." These Users are connoisseurs of plastic surgery. With the basic membership I don’t get the complete reports on how much any individual sex act or experience costs. But I saved twenty bucks and leave a little to my imagination. Basic membership on EroticCheck.com also gives me the ability to view reviews in girls in my area and search them in a variety of ways. This search ability is the sweetest element of EroticCheck. Want a "Provider" with "youthful" breasts in the 323 area code? 43 results. Want her with a "partially shaved" pussy? 29 results. Each result is a provider with her own particular profile. The profile features a link to the provider’s web page, which is an ad they have placed for their services. A typical ad says things like: "If you are looking for a 25-year-old very open-minded escort and sensual massage provider then look no further. I am 5’ 6" 110 lbs, 34 B-24-34 all natural, no tattoos no piercing classy woman from Bulgaria. I never rush and it’s always me that you are going to see. I am always well dressed and discreet. Call me day or night. Out-Call also available. See also my girlfriend Shelby, if two girls is your thing. " Users rank each provider by their looks how well they performed in numbers from 1-10. They also add comments. The comments range from caveman uttering to pure literature. One may read: "Nothing like the picture in the ad but gave me blowjob without condom, so good." The next maybe: "Up late near LAX. Bought new sunglasses, keep putting them on and off, looking in mirror. Mr. Happy has taken over and now in charge. Funds are low. Happy and I have a full tank of gas, 1/2 a pack of cigarettes, it’s dark out, and were wearing sunglasses. (At least I am). I wasn’t going to see an unreviewed Provider again this time. Been burned too many times...the Check to the rescue! Searched Reviews based on what I could afford and Shelby was only one to pick up after 5th try to other providers on my search list. Had I known her looks and charm, I’d have called her first." Users also use fantastic acronyms like DATY meaning Dining at the Y or Licking a girl’s pussy I got the cordless phone and started searching. I wanted to stop myself before I made contact but I’m out of control when I am depressed. It is almost like I am possessed. My soul is in a game of basketball with my demons; and my demons are winning again. I’m the Washington Generals and my demons are the Globetrotters. Having anyone (a friend, co-worker, Sky Marshall) around me is like being in the presence of God, safe from familiar spirits. As soon I am alone, the demons emerge and trap me in a state of drastic need while they are spinning my morality on their finger. It’s not fair. It’s like they have brought the damn ladder on the court again and the referees are not calling anything. Suddenly I need to chase sin down like the coyote chasing the roadrunner. It’s like my forbidden needs are my only possibility for satisfaction and it’s like EroticCheck is playing point guard for the demons. The whole point of the EroticCheck.com, besides making money for the creators, is to give some accountability to the unregulated, shadow industry of Escorting or selling sex for money on a slightly legal basis. The people who use these providers are generally in pursuit of the ideal "girlfriend experience” (or criminal urges so horrible I can’t mention them). The site defines a Girlfriend Experience as an experience where the provider provides a level of intimacy that you would normally expect from a girl friend. In a "girlfriend experience"(GFE) the whole dynamic of paying for sex, affection and attention is forgotten or suppressed from the payee’s mind.
The provider is so good and accommodating that it seems like she actually likes her client and wants to please him just for that reason. A "girlfriend
experience" does not include trips to parent’s houses, demands to lose weight, spend more money or time or any of the trying aspects of having a girlfriend. It’s just the gravy, just the frosting, and just the satisfaction. None of the commitment. It’s bizarre what a fucking expert on escorts I am now because of this site. It made me cocky; I knew I could find a GFE. EroticCheck has a page listing "new reviews” by area code. Over the past weeks they have not been able to post reviews quick enough for me. My constant surveillance of the site resulted in a few favorites. "Ana" in West LA has "hard" boobs and her dog is pesky but harmless. "Nelly" in the Valley offers incall and according to her reviews is an almost a guaranteed GFE. "Darla" has huge boobs and is near in Pasadena. She loves to talk while giving an almost therapeutic massage. I called them all. Only "Darla" answered and I woke her up and was told to call back at a decent hour. I searched for new providers. The only answers I got where too far away or, as I found out quickly, too expensive. Finally "Deborah" in Downey seemed reasonable. I called. "Is Deborah there?" "No, she’s off tonight," a voice said. "But I work tonight. My name is Denise. I am available." I searched for her on the same third party site that hosted "Deborah’s" site. She was there. That seemed good enough. RIGHT HERE. Right here is where I should have searched her on the Review. I would have found nothing, a perfect indication that I should fucking get a clue and stop the madness. "Well, do you do incall?" I asked instead. "No. I don’t have a place. You don’t have a place?" "I have a roommate." "Sneak me in." She was so nonchalant. Why did this sound reasonable? I imagined explaining to my roommate the situation. Would I tell her I met her at a bar after I told him I was going to work? "No. I can’t. Just can’t." "Come on. You sound nice. I like you. Rent a hotel room. I’ll give you fifty bucks off," she said like she wanted me to super-size it. "I don’t know." She told me that full-service was $250 and well worth my while. Finally she said, "Why don’t you find a place and call me back." I hung up and stared at her picture on the screen. She was cute but white as the Simi Valley. My demons called a time out. After briefly conferring they declared the idea of renting a hotel room the best they had ever heard. They started mapping the whole play on their twisted clipboard. I called her back. "OK I’ll get a room but don’t take anyone else. That wouldn’t be fair. I’ll call you back in a fifteen minutes." She agreed. I shot past roommate and into my car. I realized almost immediately that the main street near my house is filled with hotels perfect for meeting a hooker in. The only problem was choosing one. I chose "The Welcome Inn" for obvious reasons. The teller looked at me like I was a complete idiot for renting the room at two in the morning when checkout was eleven. Maybe I was a trucker dying for sleep, maybe my wife had kicked me out… Who was he to judge? Maybe I was just meeting a hooker of my choice. So what. I called "Denise" and told her that mission was accomplished. I gave her the address and heard her using Mapquest to chart her route in the background. "Let me call you back to verify this," she said. The phone rang. I should have pretended to be someone else or made a joke. Be myself. But I just said, "Hi it’s me." "OK cool. I’ll be there soon." The wait began. I
paced for a few moments and then turned on the TV. About fifteen minutes later a second call came. She was driving. "What nationality are you?" she asked, suddenly my friend. "Um. American," I said. "No. Where is your family from? I’m Italian." "Um," I hate this question. "I guess I’m Jewish then." "OK cool. I’ll be there soon." I nodded, looking at myself in the mirror. I’m on a strange phone talking to this strange girl. Then she was gone. Dial tone. Maybe I would miss work tomorrow. Maybe this girl would be my soul mate. She would stay for the hour. We would joke and laugh. This would be one of her first times, doing the whole thing as a lark, part of her Ph.D. dissertation. She would walk in; look at me, laugh and say, "Why did you do this? Why would you ever need to do this?" But, that would never fucking happen. Not only won’t this girl like me but I’ll never be able get a decent girl again. I’m an idiot; a desperate idiot living on the top bracket of the "Stupid Tax," paying 40-50% of my income on stupid shit I don’t need or shouldn’t have to pay. Things like drugs, late fees, lost rented videotapes, library books, etc… I wish I wasn’t such a self-hating Jew; I hate that about myself. Actually, I’m hardly Jewish. I wish I wasn’t so Nitschezian; I wish I didn’t ascribe to a logic that could justify anything. I figured that the logic of justifying everything was at least honestly dishonest. Not dishonest and faulted like all other logic. Better to be a monster, than to be nothing. Really, this is just another thing to do and to know about. But I wish I didn’t know about it; I wish I didn’t know that the potential for sublime satisfaction is available in the back of printed weekly’s, on web sites, dangerous city corners… Why is desire so ephemeral and twisted? Why am Ia fucking saint after I cum. Preachers fuck little boys, I thought as I kicked my legs out like a parachute had opened and jumped on the bed. Oh, Priests do, I mean, I thought. Everyone does bad shit. It was my mantra, the chorus of my mid-priced-hotel-waiting-for-a-hooker sutra. Everybody does bad shit. At least this wasn’t subtle bad shit. I was just being bad straight-out, no subtlety involved. I started flipping channels. There was a hard-core pornography channel. I looked at it and thought about jerking off but the porn was so strange. It was shot on digital video and looked nothing like the porn we all know. Nothing like the classic porn from the San Fernando Valley--just miles away from where I lie—that dominates the world pornography market. Sweet SF Valley porn, so familiar and bizarre. This porn looked like it was filmed in Boston or Ontario, Canada. These girls were tanned like the sun was a GE fluorescent light. They probably had never even been to the Valley. And worse was the way that this unknown hardcore porn channel was sandwiched between ESPN and a shopping network. It made it feel so wrong. It was too available. That’s when I realized I was the target market for this porn, some fucking looser and a hooker. I flipped and found a documentary about John Lennon. I left that on and jumped out off the bed. Ritualistically packed I my pipe and smoked my pot. High, I looked in the mirror. Everything was better. I better get some work done, I thought. And so I started. I looked at my stack of papers and for the first it felt manageable. I flipped papers and I was rolling for the first time in months. The time flew and my pile decreased, and before I could realize it enough time passed that I began to wonder if she was going to come at all. I tried to get back to work but couldn’t. She heard I was Jewish, assumed I would be too cheap to get any money out of and turned back. I tried to call her again with no answer. Then I called again. After ten rings, a woman answered with the worst Mexican accent in the world. "Heylow?" "Um, is Denise there?" "No. She go about a half hour ago." I paused. The accent faded, "Are you the one she is coming to see?" "Yeah." "She’ll be there soon. Don’t worry." I smoked some more pot, started flipping channels and tried not to worry. On CNN I saw the words "Child Prostitution" over the anchor’s shoulder. "A government report on Child Prostitution released yesterday has cast a new light on the sex trade. Their fathers, brothers, or others that are close to them introduce most child prostitutes to selling sex for money. The typical customer of a child prostitute is a married, white man in his forties…" I flipped the channel. At least I’m not married, I thought. I remembered a story I heard on my local NPR station or read on the net about a husband that went to seek satisfaction from a whore and found the whore to be his wife. This took place in Germany. To me it means that they are either stuck together forever or both on the run. How humiliating. Now that I think about it I heard the same story three or four times. The wife could still find a lover probably, but the guy was kinda fucked. In one news item everyone in the world learns that you go to whores. In addition, they learn quite definitely that your wife is a whore. Difficult position. Let’s hope this news didn’t end months of speculation by pasties close to the case. All of a sudden though I had just eaten, I wanted a Six-Dollar Hamburger. It is all over TV and print and genius in that is only four dollars. It’s like getting a two-dollar tip for eating a hamburger. You can’t afford not to eat a hamburger at these prices. Brilliant marketing. Some escort should advertise her self as the $600 escort, and then only charge $400. She would probably get a huge tip every time, if she were good. A knock on the door. Fuck, she’s here. Fuck, this is happening. I stepped to the door and stubbed my toe on my laptop in my backpack. Perfect timing. I tried not to laugh or whine. I opened the door. There she was. Deep breath. My first reaction was that she was ugly, pale and twisted looking. I hated the expression on her face. She was dressed like she was Gothic but poorly. Her hair was thin and disheveled. I was supposed to be almost ten years older than her but she looked ragged. Very feminist for a prostitute, I thought. Nothing like the nineteen year old, blond, pert hooker of my fantasies. "Are you going to let me in?" she asked. I did. She sat down in a chair near the bed. I sat down in a chair that I hadn’t noticed near the television. I didn’t talk. She stared at me. I tried to remember what her picture had looked like on her web page. She was growing uglier. She crossed her leg and started jiggling her foot up and down. Finally she spoke. "Well," she said. I tried to imagine us together in pictures, in photo booths making a laugh out of the whole thing. But the lighting could never be right. She’d always make me wish I were elsewhere. "Ahhhhhh, um," I said. "I don’t think this is a good match." "What do you mean?" She was bitter, as she was unattractive. "I just don’t think I can go through with this," I said. "What the fuck do you mean? I came all the way out here." "I know and I am sorry. What can I pay you to get out of this?" "$250. Cut the crap. You are going to pay me what you said. I came all the way out here and I better get my money." God, this was escalating fast. I was getting unbearably nervous. "What’s the problem with me?" You are pale, sour and lifeless looking, I thought. But that came out as, "You look like you are on drugs." "What?" You look like you are on drugs and I am just not into that stuff," I said. What the fuck?" she asked. "Are you a cop?" I paused, tightening with anxiety. My papers sorted across the bed. "Are you a cop?" I’m not a fucking cop. Are you a cop?" Like hell I am. No. No I am not," she said. "Listen, let me use your phone." She stood up. "No." I didn’t know why but I was sure that her using the phone was the worst idea I had ever heard. I wanted to tell her that I was sick, about to die, anything for sympathy. "No. No. Please sit down. Let me explain this to you." I paused some more and tried to think. I just wanted to calm this all down and not let this get anymore dramatic than it already was. "Let me explain this to you. The problem is that you look like my sister. That’s it, I’m being honest. You look like my sister," I tried to be calm. "You look like my sister. Do you mind very much? I cannot go through with this. How much can I pay you to get out of this?" "$250," she said. "You saw my fucking picture on my website. You knew what I looked like. This is fucking bullshit. I’m using your phone." She stood up. "No," I said. "No. No. No." I remembered something I read in Maxim or FHM or one of those Frat-Lit mags about how to get out of a situation exactly like this. Ask for more than she would ever do, it said. Ask for anal. "OK. You figured me out." I paused and looked deeply at her. "I’ve been beating around the bush. I want anal." "What? What?" Her tight gray lips pursed and she looked infuriated. She stepped for the phone and picked it up. I freaked out, opened my wallet and grabbed $260. I stepped towards her, put it in her hand and said, "Here." Right then there was a knock at the door. She had been too fucking loud; it was the manager or the cops I was sure I was busted but without hesitation I opened the door. Standing there was one of the cutest young girls I have ever seen. She was about 5’4’’. Her skin was a creamy bronze and her hair was blond like a sunset. "I’m here to see my girlfriend to…" Before she finished the sentence the girl I had ordered burst past me out the door. She grabbed the cute girl and they ran down the hall and out of the motel. As they did, a girl, probably "Denise," yelled out, "FUCKING FAGGOT!" I needed to yell something back. I couldn’t just stand there victimized and not strike back. They were almost out of earshot, so I yelled the first thing that came to my mind, "TRICKERS!" "YOU ARE NOTHING BUT TRICKERS!" I watched them disappear and couldn’t move for a second. I quickly imagined these two girls. One so ugly, one so cute, both trickers roaming LA and robbing horny fools. I wanted to follow them and make a documentary of these two brave, tricky little heroes. I imagined how my face might look in that documentary. Then I wanted my $260 back. But what was I going to do? Follow them? Try to beat up some girls and whoever may be with them with their knives, guns or AIDS. I’m glad I didn’t. I walked back into the motel room without shutting the door, jumped on the bed, looked to the ceiling. From deep inside I laughed. I imagined worse situations like me in boxers chasing a hooker down the street or being chased by a hooker in her boxers. Or mine. I laughed and hated myself intermittently for about thirty minutes before I finally got everything together and went home. My roommate was asleep in his room and even the cat was snoring. Through the darkness I walked into my room. My computer was on. I undressed. I’ll sleep for an hour, I thought. But then I’ll work. And I knew would because now I had no choice. The screen saver gave way to the desktop. I opened my browser and located EroticCheck.com. I found my provider’s profile and began filing my review. Skipping pussy and chest because I hadn’t seen anything, Wait I could describe her breasts. Small. I finally got to the comment section and wrote my summation: A true girlfriend experience. What a dick I am. I fell asleep in my chair. I dreamt that my roommate was in the kitchen writing my name on the walls and telling me over and over that I needed to move. In my dream he knew I was going to jail. That or I was going to be on the next Space Shuttle. I tried to scream and couldn’t; he just smiled and kept writing. I woke suddenly as light was breaking. I could hear my roommate in the kitchen. I decided to see if I could get in on his coffee. I walked in the room; he looked at me like I was madman. "Where did u go last night?" "Um. I just needed to watch TV and smoke so I checked into the Welcome Inn." "That’s insane.” He stared at me. “You should have just woke me." "No," I said. "It’s no big deal." "Well next time try the Islander Inn. I want to see how it is for my parents when they visit." I nodded. "Sure.”
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