IT'S NOT WHAT YOU THINK

I had visions of being brought up on rape charges for a situation I had absolutely no control over. Per my client’s instructions, I was given the general descriptions of two women and where to pick them up. At first I was uncertain as to what these men were celebrating, but after making the twenty-five minute trek to their inner-city bungalow, an unsanctioned frat house off John R (not too far from Wayne State University), and after receiving their unusual request, I knew that if I refused—my chances of getting paid would vanish. So off I went, instrumental in their plans, searching for two biker chicks, hoping to score some big money by the end of the night.

I had absolutely no difficulty finding them. They stood on a desolate street corner near an abandoned house smoking cigarettes under a liquor store’s half-lit neon sign. From a distance they looked like your average Detroit hustlers, desperate to drum up a little cash for whatever vices made them tick. As soon as they saw the limousine, they picked up their duffel bags and approached me. We exchanged pleasantries, including complaints about suck-ass late-night work hours. “Remember to get the money up front,” one said to the other. Something I hadn’t yet learned myself.

Turns out these Wayne State frat boys were having a bachelor party and were eager to pass the hat around for the intended strip show. After counting the gwop, and shoving it into a duffel bag, these women placed a chair in the middle of the room for the bachelor. He quickly sat his drunken ass down.

I didn’t see much after that. As the clothes came off, the frat boys whooped and hollered, tightening their circle around all three. “Back off motherfuckers,” one stripper yelled. “Quit grabbing my tits,” the other one complained. I started getting nervous; the frat boys seemed too aggressive. “What’d you bitches expect?” one frat boy said. “We’re paid in full.”

Luckily, the strip tease didn’t turn uglier. The drunken frat boys backed away, clutching their long neck beer bottles like pacifiers while these biker chicks flung nunchucks over, around, up, and under their shoulders, arms, and legs. I did receive my money that night; however, the best tip came from these women when I gave them a ride home. “Don’t ever get yourself into a situation you can’t handle,” one of them advised.