Tabatha Deans

Bringing Integrity to the Written Word




            Actually, she’s not technically a hooker. I don’t think. Let me explain.

            With temperatures hovering around 100 and a window-mount air conditioner that really can’t compete in the challenge of keeping my 300 square feet cool, I popped over to Hamburger Mary’s for a late afternoon cool-down of a beer in an air-conditioned atmosphere. Happy hour beers are only 2 bucks, and a group of people had been indulging for a while by the time I arrived, and had commandeered the stage for some impromptu karaoke.

            I watched them sing and dance as I happily sipped my beer, and half-way listened to the conversation going on between the big woman next to me and the bartender. He was flamboyant and outspoken, she wore all black, half her head was shaved while the other sported shoulder-length hair, and the tattoo on her back proclaimed “Hate it all.” Nice lady.

            The bartended brought me another beer, and we began a conversation of idle chit-chat. I told him I lived next door, and the woman in black immediately took an interest in me.

            “Next door? At Cityside?” She asked.

            “Yeah, actually.” I was surprised she knew the name, since the building has been bought and sold twice since I moved in just over a year ago, and with each purchase comes a new name.

            “I live there.” She said.

            Then I kind of recognized her. I had seen a big woman in the hallway a couple of times, once when she was trying to catch her cat before it ran down the stairs.

            “Oh yeah, you have a cat.” I said. “Which unit do you live in?” I characterize my neighbors by their apartment number of course.

            “I’m in 22. You?”

            “37. I’m kind of the veteran of the building. I think I’ve been there longer than anyone else. Except maybe the drunk in 34.” We chatted about the neighbors, including the anorexic, the male tramp, the business woman and James Bond. She told me the second floor houses several lesbian couples, which, in retrospect I had seen, but only individually, so I didn’t realize several of them lived together. The woman in black was one of them, but currently without a partner, and “trying to find herself.”

            I told her I was a freelance writer and often worked from home, and she became excited as she told me that she too, often worked from home, and we should totally hook up for coffee sometime.

            “Oh really, what do you do?” I asked.

            “I’m an exotic masseuse.” She said. I immediately pictured her giving a massage with a big, green, exotic bird perched on her shoulder. She apparently saw the curiosity in my eyes, because she quickly elaborated.

            “I give massages. Naked. You know, with a happy ending.”

            Oh, I’d heard about those kind of massages. Although I couldn’t quite comprehend a large, mean-looking lesbian having a thriving practice giving men happy massages. It kind of seemed like it would go against her nature. But then, again, I guess it was just a job for her.

            “Yeah, we’ll definitely have to get together for coffee,” I said, as I ordered another beer.


June 29, 2012 - Posted by | Uncategorized

1 Comment »

  1. Wow… your adventures! Thanks for sharing. Never a dull moment in your life. Love it!

    Comment by Christine | June 29, 2012 | Reply

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