The day I found out my girlfriend was a drug addicted prostitute

yeahbaby

I joke around a lot here at Drunk and Jobless, but I’ve had my fair share of sad and fucked up events. One that stands out is the day I found out a pretty lady I was seeing fucked dudes for money… and was apparently very good at it.

The first time we talked was on a Friday afternoon, three or so years ago, when I was working through lunch interviewing girls for a classy magazine called 100% Home Girls. Her photos showed she was hot as hell, and when we talked on the phone she was funny and smart. In eight years of working for porn magazines, I only once got in touch with a girl after calling here, and this was that time.

I sent her a message on Facebook a day later, and she got back to me while I was getting epically drunk at some shit nightclub I don’t remember the name of. I ended up calling her at about 4am, we talked for a few hours, and agreed to meet up in Sydney the next night. I couldn’t believe my luck.

This girl was everything I wanted, physically – I like small girls with long dark hair, and it’s up for debate whether that’s a throwback to a girl I once promised to marry, or something to do with my mother, which is a possibility due to all the weird issues I have with women. She was as beautiful as anyone you would ever hope to meet in a lifetime, the sort of girl who could make your day by just walking by, and she was with me.

We only saw each other a few times, but I fell like a tonne of bricks. She was sometimes hard to get a hold of, but when I was able to spend time with her, I was fucking stoked. I thought it was weird that she always had two phones on her, took Xanax, didn’t really have a place to live.

One afternoon she told me she wanted to go to the zoo, so I organised it for the next day. I organised food and meeting times, went to bed early, even if it was a little hard to sleep. I woke up before me alarm hit, and headed down to Sydney, then fronted up outside her place. I rung the bell, and waited.

And waited, and waited. I called her phone, but nothing. I sat in the street with my little bag full of sandwiches and drinks, and after an hour or so, I went back to the train station and headed home. I ate my sandwich while the world passed by, and that was that.

I spent the afternoon at the pub, and after 10 or so beers, the girl sent me a message. She apologised for standing me up, and said she had something to tell me that might change the way I felt about her. I might be stupid, and completely naive when it comes to women, but I knew what she was going to say.

She told me she was a prostitute, and was working to pay for a methamphetamine habit. The night before we’d agreed to go to th zoo, she was fucking some dude all night, fucked off her head on drugs, unable to sleep because she had some married man’s mongrel inide her. She’d fallen asleep around the time I was rocking up at her place. I went out that night, got drunk enough that I passed out in a bush.

It was hard times after that. I was embarrassed, I felt fucking stupid for not noticing the obvious signs. A while ago I wrote a book called Red, White and Bruce that nobody bothered to read, and it was about a handsome journalist (who could possibly be the inspiration for that?) who fell in love girl with a girl who turned out to be a hooker. Read it, it’s good. And then this came along, with almost the same narrative.

I cut off contact immediately. I was so sad that this girl, who I saw as smart and talented and funny, only saw herself as a pussy that could make money. I was sad that old men fucked her and only saw someone who wasn’t their wife. I saw a lot in her and valued what she believed in, thought it was the best thing in the world that she wanted to spend time with me. I went on a website where dickheads review the prostitutes they’ve fucked and read stories about old men coming on her face. She cost $650 an hour. It was fucked.

Thankfully, I never fucked her, or I would have had to cut off my penis and throw it in a fire. So, basically, I was one of the few dudes who wasn’t banging the girl I was seeing. That makes me feel like a fucking man.

As some consolation, I was seeing a former gymnast at the same time, and she also rates as one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever been with. Sometimes, when I’m drunk, I look them both up on Facebook and reminisce on the time I was seeing two women so hot I almost had to wear gloves to hold them. And then I think about how they’re both living happy lives without me, so I go and play some PlayStation.

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