What I expect from MY $5,500-a-night-hooker.

(Midnight – promoted by ek hornbeck)

Well, the sex thing, of course.

But not just “sex”… rattle-the-teeth-loose-from-my-jaw, curl-the-hair-on-my-head, cover-

the-sheets-in-every-known-human-liquid, eyes-rolling-back-in-my-skull, lungs-emptying-

of-air, screaming-exclamations-to-a-God-I-previously-didn’t-believe-existed-sex.

Then, with THAT formality out of the way…

…I expect you to be able to recite the entire cannon of e.e. cummings… in Cantonese.

I expect you to be able to make the world’s most perfect, dirty, Bombay Safire Gin

martini with an infinite supply of olives.

I expect you to quote, from memory, the number Pi to the 383rd digit in a way that

I never get bored and finally understand why I was required to take calculus.

I expect you to rail on bout the superiority of “on-base-percentage” when compared

to the antiquated “batting-average” and be able to speak at length, and with passion,

on how the designated hitter is a great American travesty.

For 22,000 quarters I expect you to be able to answer the sadistic geography question

in the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle.

For 55,000 dimes I expect you to have a solution for the third act of the screenplay

that I’m supposed to have finished three weeks ago. I’ll expect said solution to be so

brilliant as to garner me an Academy Award nomination. I’ll expect you to give said

solution freely and then never speak of it again.

For 100,000 nickels and 500,000 pennies I expect you to have surgically implanted

outlets to recharge my iphone and laptop so that, seconds after our eighth coitus,

I’ll be able to simultaneously log into the internet using two technologies.

I expect you to be able to tell me… within three degrees Celsius… the next morning’s

weather… in any one of ninety-eight cities.

I expect you to call every woman who ever resisted my charms and explain how they

missed an opportunity of a lifetime. (I expect you not to laugh as you do this.)

I expect you to be able to build a life-sized, automated replica of a prehistoric Mastodon

for my child’s science fair and expect you to look REALLY FUCKING HOT even while

wearing the protective asbestos mask and plastic gloves.

Most of all, for 940 times the minimum wage, I expect you to casually remind me that its

fucking idiotic to set-up rendezvous over cell phones, while moving money from secret

bank accounts to obvious shell corporations.

Sadly for him, Elliot Spitzer’s $5,500 a night hooker came up… just a wee bit short