Dirty Daddy

“I tried, but the man was insistent,” Walter says over the phone. “Said he was going to talk to you now. He told me he’d pick you up outside the Carter Jeffries building.”

What the fuck?

How does someone know where I am?

A guy? It couldn't be….no.

I’ll tell you about him later, hun, but I don’t think he would call Walter.

That’s when another limo pulls up. It squeals to a stop on 52nd Street, right next to where I’m standing on the sidewalk.

I’m a bit startled. A bit wary.

Is this the same guy who called Walter?

The door to the limo opens and I can’t see inside.

“Get in,” the voice says to me. That’s it. Just that command. “It’ll be worth your while.”

I sigh. But I’m not worried.

Men. If I can handle one, I can handle them all.

I get in and close the door as the limo speeds away.

Let’s see what kind of fun we get into today, shall we dear?

108

Ethan

“Watch out for the sludge,” Cheryl warns me as we walk past the pedestrian portion of Broadway toward our Times Square setup.

I look down. There’s a green and vile looking stream of ooze running from the sewer grate down the street. Jesus fucking Christ. You’d think the Mayor would actually clean up the city a bit and prevent the sewers from overflowing. But he’s off who the fuck knows where trying to move jobs to China or something. At least that's what the papers are saying.

“Ethan!” Cheryl calls and I snap out of whatever daydream I was in the middle of. I look up at her. She’s at the podium a few paces down.

We’re standing at the corner of 44th and Broadway, and a crowd has already formed.

I look around me. New Yorkers call Times Square the Crossroads of the World. I call it The Last Place I Want To Visit.

I mean, sure you got the fucking theaters. Whatever. Off-Broadway is becoming the avant-garde nowadays. What else do you want? I’ll give you a million fucking other places in New York City you can get it.

You want the flashing lights? Go to fucking Herald Square.

You want shopping? Again, go try SoHo, TriBeCa, or Midtown near Macy’s. Hell, go to fucking Columbus Circle.

But there is one thing that Times Square is known for.

Sex.

Plenty of fucking sex all around here if you just know where to fucking look.

Say, you want to go to a peep show? Well, actually, not much use for ladies at peep shows, but if you know that special man in your life who's not able to get any fucking women, then all he has to do is go over to 8th Avenue and look left, and right next to the fucking Port Authority Bus Terminal he'll have what he needs. Plenty of fucking peep shows there where he can jerk off to a girl in a room smoking a cigarette and fingering herself while little peepholes allow people look in.

Want to buy some porn? You’ll find that all over 46th street. Any kind of fucking porn you want. Tourists walk right by it; they’re so entranced by the fucking M&M’s store and the Coca-Cola sign. They can’t get enough of the NASDAQ building that they totally don’t realize they’re walking by three strip clubs and fifteen massage parlors that specialize in the ancient art of Rub N’ Tug.

Maybe your male friend wants to just skip all that and go straight for the hookers. Look no further than 7th Avenue from 44th Street to 49th Street. These women will stand there day and night walking the streets – you just gotta know where to look and you’ll see. More than likely, they see you. And if they see that you’re a tourist, they’ll blend in so fucking well.