CHEAP SEX

Just like the real estate boom of the real estate boom of the last few years is driving people out of New York because they can’t afford it, the high cost of sex is driving me out of women’s butts.

Women have learned to drive up the market price for pussy and it’s forcing working stiffs like me out into the cold.

Women don’t like me to begin with. Maybe it’s my cheap discount store deodorant, or my K-Mart designer jeans.

In order to cut down on unproductive dates, I invented a portable estrogen test so that I could find out in advance if a woman was ovulating before I spent all my money entertaining her. I would wait until she spat out her gum or put out a cigarette, then I would go to the bathroom and put the butt in the little plastic tray. If the goo turned blue, it meant that she wasn’t ready to have sex. In that case, I would go back to the table and tell her that my grandmother had just died and abruptly call off the date.

If the goo turned red, however, that meant that she was horny. In that case I would return to the table with flowers and blow my whole check on her.

This technique was wildly successful for a while. I even made money selling my little estrogen test to other cheap, horny men.

The problem is, the word soon got around. Men started talking up the test to other men, and women who got stiffed started complaining to each other. Now, when women start thinking the results are invariably bad for men, and the girls developed a counter-strategy of getting cigarette butts and used gum from their horny girlfriends and leaving them around for the men to pick up. The men would seize the bait, rush into the men’s room to test it and when it glowed bright red they would run back to the table and spend their whole week’s pay on the women, who would then thank them with a handshake and go home by taxi.

The men, not realizing that they had been outsmarted (again), would come back complaining to me that my estrogen test was a fraud and demanding their money back. I even got beat up a few times.

So I went back to my little chemistry set and developed a cologne that was irresistible to women because it contained the active ingredient that the U.S. Treasury puts in the ink they use to print money. I started marketing this to men, and soon all the men were walking around smelling like freshly printed hundred dollar bills. This drove the women crazy, and they were throwing themselves on their backs the minute the guys walked into the room.

This time, however, it caught the attention of the Gay Liberation Front and its diabolical leader, Christopher Crystalballs, who was a mad scientist dedicated to turning all men gay. He broke into my laboratory and contaminated my cologne with an ingredient that made you smell like a guy’s butt when you put it on, and the worst thing about it was that it wouldn’t wash off.

This drove the women away in droves, but it attracted gay guys like flies, and you couldn’t wash it off. This time men were coming back to me and not even demanding their money back, but just beating me up.

By now I had had all the entrepreneurial drive beaten out of me. So I just went back to trying to figure out how to get laid on the cheap. I found a place in Jamaica, Queens where you could get laid for just five bucks. It was called Ahmed’s Halal Butcher, where they slaughtered sheep and goats for the shish-kebab vendors who sell food from the hot dog stands on Sixth Avenue. For five bucks Ahmed would let you have sex with the animals before he slaughtered them, and for another five bucks he sold you a couple of pounds of lamb chops for a souvenir.

The only problem was, you had to invest $89.95 for a pair of fisherman’s hip boots to wear when you were having sex with the animals. You were supposed to wear the hip boots and then put the animal’s hind legs in, so it couldn’t run away.

I found this to be too expensive, beside the embarrassment of wearing the boots on the subway on the way to and from my “dates.” Anyway, I would prefer to have sex with human beings if possible. Then I remembered an old Spanish proverb that had been taught to me by my grandfather:

“Si tu no tienes chavo para comprar una mujer, el maricón puede ser tu mejor amigo.”

Translated into English, it means, If you don’t have money for a woman, a gay guy can be your best friend.

I went down to Ricky’s Costume Store and bought a rubber mask of Hillary Clinton. Then I went down to Chelsea and hooked up with a gay guy. Then I laid the guy facedown and put the Hillary Clinton mask over the back of his head so that it was facing up. Then I jumped on the guy.

I was happy, the guy was happy and Hillary Clinton was happy.

Shit, in life you have to make compromises!

Tags:   None

© All rights reserved.

Posted on 3/20/2007 ( Permanent Link )
Read 428 Times
 Send to Friend