The Whore of Babylon

Elaine Boosler is one of my favorite comedians, and she used to have a routine about coming home after a one-night stand, wearing the same black dress, and mother’s shielding their children’s eyes while they watched her do the walk of shame like the Whore of Babylon.

All of us have done the walk of shame, but depending on where you live, the level of shame varies quite a bit. In the city, the only onlookers who warrant your concern are the homeless people, and chances are some of them have showered more recently than you have. Most of them also have a hat to cover the headboard bump in their hair. How many times have you said, “Why didn’t I put a hat in my purse?”

If there is room for last night’s underwear, there is room for a hat.

My mother dated Seymour at around the same time my father dated Devera. Then by some strange crossing of stars, my parents were married and Devera and Seymour were married within two weeks of each other. Through the years, we always heard the story of my mother’s hose ending up in Seymour’s glove compartment after a wild night of drinking. Due to the ickiness of anyone’s parents’ sex life, I never asked any of the involved parties to elaborate.

There was also the story of Mother and Devera driving one car while Dad and Seymour drove behind them. Mother looked in the rearview mirror and Dad was driving, then she looked again, and Seymour was driving. Those were the days of bench seats; but still, the visual was disturbing for any number of apparent reasons.

But again, I digress ….

Back in the day, I did any number of walks of shame, but that was back in my twenties. Remember your twenties? You could be out all night, come home, get one hour’s sleep, shower, dress for work, and put in a double shift then do the whole thing all over again the next night.

Then you turn thirty, and your body betrays you immediately. All of a sudden you need to get to sleep. You are still working the same job, but for the first time in your life, you say, “I have to work in the morning.”

Your potential repeat casual sex partner, whose name you still have not requested and wouldn’t have remembered anyway says, “Didn’t you have to work in the morning last week?”

“Yes, but last week, I was twenty-nine years old.”

“Oh, happy birthday … how about a quicky in the parking lot?”

Unless you own a Nash Ambassador (the car that turns into a bedroom), I have no possibility of doing it with you in a parking lot. I have always been too tall for the back seat, and don’t even try the front.

When I did the walk of shame, it was in an apartment complex. Nobody cared or noticed what time I came in or left. This has advantages. You never have to explain where you were or whom you were with, and depending on your closeted status, you don’t have to change Bob’s name to Betty.

The disadvantage is that on the off-chance your one night stand was the best sex you ever had, no one is there to ask you where you were last night, so you can tell him about the wild fabulous sex you had while being tied to a bed and tickled with a feather duster.

Do you know what S&M would be for someone like me with Joan Crawfordish OCD? Tying me to the bed and rearranging my furniture.

I once had a trick who moved two items on my coffee table while I was in the kitchen getting us drinks, and when I sat down, I put them back where they were without saying a word. I’ll bet he was scared at that point – probably thought I was a serial killer. I get that a lot.

When I think of the tricks whom I invited to my home or vice versa back in the days before the Internet and cell phones, it is a wonder I was never robbed. Actually, it isn’t. Whenever I got lucky, I made sure to tell a friend, have the friend make a mental picture of my latest conquest before we left the bar, and reminded that friend to call me first thing in the morning to be sure I was alive.

For those of you who do the internet pick-ups, be sure to have the person you are hooking up with call you, so his number is on your cell phone. Then write the number down and put it in a place where the coroner or detectives will find it.

And you thought you wouldn’t learn anything today.

My tricking days are long gone. Sometimes I feel like Shelly Winters, who said after a life of debauchery and sleeping with every well-hung leading man in Hollywood, “I am done with sex,” and from age fifty-two to the end of her life, she no longer had relations. However, after reading both her autobiographies, I think her vagina was just tired. 

When we put my father in an assisted living facility after the onset of Alzheimer’s, he became the Casanova of the senile set. While his mind was gone, his body was that of a man twenty years younger, and he was the only man in the place who wasn’t in a wheelchair. He did more women than a sex addict at a sorority reunion. He also had the advantage of not having to remember their names, and if he did one twice, it was a whole new experience. My brother nicknamed him “Yencing Matilda.”

When he died, every woman in there sat shiva, and it wasn’t even a Jewish facility.

There is no walk of shame in a nursing home either. His mother, Grandma, also had Alzheimer’s, and she had a boyfriend who used to wait for her in her bed. They were introduced every night.

In a mobile home community, things are a bit different. All of us know each other’s business just by seeing whose car is parked out front … and for how long.

For example, Ms. K has a boyfriend who owns his own plumbing company. His truck is out front all the time, but one morning, there was a Chrysler 300, and Mrs. M said to me, “Well, looks like she picked up a new one.”

I immediately thought about how I would handle explaining a strange car in front of my house all night.

When I was dating Mr. Wrong (and no, I still have not heard from him), he stayed overnight after the second date. When he left, he texted me that two of my neighbors across the street were watching him from their windows.

I knew who, Mrs. M and Ms. K.

I also knew someone would ask me something.

Before she did, I had to wonder how this would affect our relationship. Mrs. M is Esmeralda’s dog walker, who is also a devout Catholic and a good friend now, but I knw nothing of her politics. Her husband is crazy about me because of my old cars and my love of gadgets that sell for only two easy payments of $19.99, and as you know, straight men are one of my demographics, but Mrs. M is not a middle-age Jewish woman, my other demographic. However, she has been to a party at my house when it was full of queens and dykes, and she fit in just fine. But this would be the first time she would encounter gay sex on her block. Or would it?

Mrs. M came over within fifteen minutes with the excuse of having a smoke behind my house, so her husband wouldn’t catch her. I still cannot believe he doesn’t smell her Marlboro Lights on her person.

“Did you and your friend have a good time last night?”

“Yes, we ate dinner at this really nice Asian restaurant then saw a movie.”

“We were wondering if those are ski racks on his truck?”

“Yes.”

Imagine if I answered, “Yes, we fucked all night. It’s a wonder I can walk the dog this morning!” Don’t you wish you could do that just once?

Apparently, she wasn’t freaked out at all. And when his truck no longer appeared in the hood, she didn’t ask any questions either, but there is something curious going on because …

This past weekend, a friend of mine drove quite a distance to see a play with me, and I told him to stay overnight since he wouldn’t get home until after 2:00 am if he drove back.

The next morning, we went out to breakfast early then came back to my house before he left.

Fifteen minutes later, I was taking Esmeralda out for her second walk, and Mrs. M drove around the corner and pulled up next to us and asked, “Did you have a good time last night?”

While there were no details worth sharing besides seeing a play and having dinner, do you think she was just hoping to get something juicy? Or is a Gay Jew in a Trailer Park something she never before encountered?

Next time, I’ll give her all the details. Unfortunately, I am so boring in bed, she might wish she never asked.

If you are a whore, or was, or wish you were, follow me, get on my email list, tell your friends.