Lita Horticulture

Lita Horticulture is a prostitute, though that is not actually the most interesting thig about her.  She also writes for  Fuck those guys.

November 9th we will lie beached, exhausted, our civic ejaculate foam on the waves,

and turn our heads from what walks out of the water. Why do we give any shits? Why do we participate in this contentious sham? Your civil liberties are toast either way, and so probably is the environment and any hope of a sane foreign policy. But what’s that piping up, below my bleeding heart and my polluted lungs? It is a squalling, politically contested baby bag. I want to continue to be Not Pregnant, Not Mommy, despite the facts of sex and the perfidy of condoms. Republican appointed Supreme Court = no abortion, Democratic appointed Supreme Court = yes abortion. Does this mean I should vote Democrat? 

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BEAUTY TIPS FOR lazy sluts

Papa Was A Rolling Stone inspired me in strange ways as a kid. I don’t remember much more of it than the first stanza, but that’s enough. Papa was a man, he didn’t come home much, and it could be assumed that he was having fun wherever he was hanging his hat. My nine year old take on this was: be Papa—fuck being the person writing a whiney song about Papa.

The arrival of hormones 5 years later synthesized with this lesson, and I arrived at a Grand Unifying Theory: Sex, yes please. It took me about 6 more years to realize that fucking leads to yelling unless you make it very clear that you are a stone and plan to roll. The only downside is a bit of slut-shaming, which is the marmite of bummers: inexplicable, but one may simply choose not to eat it.

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I walked into a hotel yesterday needing something to wear because of a disgusting accident.

Don’t ask me what happened, that’s not important, make something up. As I’ve been doing for years I found my way to the nearest fancy hotel and told a story about a lost coat. I scrunched the corners of my eyes to indicate warmth and trailed my sentences to indicate shared class and experiences. I described my item as, “black, about to here, business casual, YOU know.” This has never failed to glean me a garment, usually much nicer than anything I would actually buy.

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He hired me to do A smoking session

I was sitting in the computer lab at school, nervously toggling between my work email and a paper. I didn’t know what a smoking session would be exactly, but I smoked at bars. I worried that my fingers weren’t long and slender enough.

He looked like a San Francisco leather daddy when he opened the door, so I immediately felt safe. Squat and muscular, clipped bald. He asked if I wanted water. I played with his chocolate lab. The dog was excitable but well trained. There was no feeling of sex at all.

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In search of clitoris

I tried to rampage my way through a breakup a couple years ago. Pity for me, I did it in New Orleans, where half-decent casual sex with a guy over 5’6 is well-nigh impossible to find; When I moved down here with a male friend he couldn’t shut up about all the great chocha that was getting catapulted at him, and I quickly figured out why: women here are fucking gagging for even competent dick.

Fast forward to Spring 2013. I pulled myself out of my hole, put on a series of dresses, and played nice with the first three likely-looking assholes who smelled tear blood in the water. Not one of them made me come. None of them even tried. I wondered if I was in the 1950s, if they considered female orgasm a myth. I thought I had gotten bedbugs from the first, because sunlight revealed a bedroom so dirty I started to psychosomatically itch. Another never touched my clit, after three times repeating that it was the best head he had ever had. I’m not sure if he knows what a clit is, as when I rubbed it myself he looked confused. The third one I don’t remember at all; at that point I was despondent. I do remember that when I asked my slutty female friends for referrals they sighed, considered, then allowed that they never got any good strange either. They pointed out that if I was going to have a lot of shitty sex, I should try to get paid for it.

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Your Friend Rocco

I can’t remember if it was 2 or 3 hours, but I remember that the hotel was old and in a confusing spot, the sort of place people had hotels when there wasn’t yet a tourist industry: people just needed a place to sleep when they were away from
home. He was tall and thin and young and obviously ok. We air kissed and I sat on the couch. He sat in the chair at the farthest other end of the room. He seemed nervous. When he did some coke and didn’t offer any I was relieved. I hate being high at work but there are times when you can make a lot more money if you do the drugs. Nancy Reagan had no slogan for that.

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Job Satisfaction

I met Matt January of last year. I had rented a month in a lightless front apt on 9th street. The amount I paid to sublet it was outright absurd and I was overjoyed to be there. It snowed and snowed. I was training for a half marathon and I would go on runs so cold my head ached, leaping around puddles. The apartment was steam heated and dark and had exactly one good poster that was off-center at the foot of the bed. I stared at it. I loved it. That was the month I finally felt the city would let me stay.

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When I was a scared and stupid college student, I took a lot of shit clients

Using misery to obviate shame, probably. 

This one was very young, which set me off. Late teens to early 20s. Bony, huge raw cheekbones, translucent hair. I outweighed him for sure. He paid close attention to my body as I walked in and settled on the bed, judging my looks prior to paying. I am not offended by this: indeed it’s the only context in which I find such a gaze acceptable.  This sort of man tends to feel indignant about inhibition and self consciousness though, which feels like a set up.

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He comes in and he’s huge

and my body says no.  We sit on the low couch and I talk and I watch him and when I smile he smiles and when I lean in he leans in and I ask him a few lateral questions and he’s surprised, but he answers. Sometimes it’s just that the situation scares them,  and what I’m picking up on is fear. I start to feel ok. We kiss and I get naked. I don’t know how I feel about my comfort with nudity. There’s a relish in it. Sexy Maurice Sendak, though that’s a blasphemy. 

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I had to make a rule. It was my only rule really, “No murderers” seemed too hard to enforce.

The catalyst for the rule was this guy Paul someone. If I could remember his full name I’d use it, even though that is cruel and could backfire on me, but he annoyed me so hard. His initial email, while long, was chatty and winning and included a lot of compliments, and I am as vain as most, I think. I looked forward to meeting him. It unnerves me that I’m still so interested in people.

Paul brought me a paperback book. He sat and talked with me on the bed. There wasn’t anywhere else to sit in that apartment; it was a loaner. He was hipster skinny and antic, dressed like an attractive academic. He worked for a textbook company. He was married to a Polish woman and he didn’t feel sexually appreciated by her. They had two children and she was teaching the kids Polish, which he couldn’t understand. He felt alienated in his house and as if he had missed his chance to be young and wild, as they had married when he was 23. I made all the face noises of sympathy. His hand gestures became a little frantic. Occasionally anger, scary anger, popped through, and immediately after he sought to justify his position, to underline his vulnerability, to achieve victimhood again. He repeated the same story three times. I feel that if anything presaged this employment it was that I had sex with a 24 year old when I was 17 to get him to shut the hell up and stop whining.

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