It was early summer, 2000. I lived in the usual shit hole apartment, here in Portland, this one at 264 State Street, off a busy thoroughfare and in the heart of the worst neighborhood in the city. I had just been fired from yet another crappy job, this one working at a group home for mentally ill folks in Cape Elizabeth.
I had been fired from the group home because I had tried to question one of the residents about his criminal past, trying to see if he was a danger to staff and the people who lived in the house. In my memory, some of the other staff were spooked by this thorougly creepy guy and were wondering if he was wanted. I figured, fuck it, I'll ask him if they don't have the balls. He was a little guy and didn't frighten me. So I called him into the staff office and asked if he had committed any crimes he hadn't told us about, if he had any warrants, whatever. He looked pretty scared by the whole situation (he was probably diagnosed schizophrenic, I'd guess, but he was coherent enough to know what I was asking, I think) and mumbled something quietly that I couldn't make out. The phone rang, I turned and answered it, and the guy was out the door in a flash. I didn't think much of what I had done until I arrived at work the next afternoon. I was handed an envelope, inside which was a handwritten note, I remember, from the twenty something female supervisor who ran the place. No one had asked me what had happened, but the supervisor had spoken to the resident and decided to fire me. The note went on for a couple of pages, discussing all the things I had put the resident through and how inappropriately I had acted. It caught me by surprise, but the group home was a study in dysfunctionality, both for staff and residents. That afternoon I called up the two women in charge of the agency that ran the group home. They supported the woman who fired me. That was it. I was done.
But in my mind there was something larger going on. A few weeks prior, I had applied and interviewed to be the director of the group home and would have, had I been hired, been in charge of the mousy young woman who fired me. (And I would have canned her sorry ass in a minute if given the chance, I knew, and believed she knew, as well) They hadn't hired me and then, within a few weeks, fired me. I believed there was some type of conspiracy at work, how big I didn't know, that was trying to make me pay for all my past behaviors: striking the young man at my prior job, receiving disability benefits from the government despite being perfectly healthy, my being lazy, ugly, and mean. I found out thorough telephone research who was on the board of directors of the agency, but was afraid to call them up and complain about my termination because I might be getting myself into more hot water, I thought. Hell, the governor was probably involved. I was, I knew, the biggest creep in the state of Maine and powerful people wanted to do me harm.
At the time, I believed my cell phone and landline were being monitored by some guys who lived directly upstairs from me on State Street (They had, I was sure, some kind of device that let them listen in to my phone conversations. A call to my phone company, who assured me that was not possible, was no help in easing my mind.) and there were cameras in some of the other apartment windows in the surrounding buildings who were watching me and my place 24/7. I remember looking out the large bay window of my small dump and wondering why I couldn't see the fuckers, but figured that behind every drawn curtain was someone, standing there, laughing and leering, waiting for me to turn away so they could go back to what they were doing: watching me. During the worst of it I bought heavy rolling blinds to put in the windwows. My idea was that the watchers couldn't see through the blinds, and I'd be safe. The blinds went up and I, as usual, was pretty drunk, and remember the phrase "Infra-Red" seeping into my brain. The blinds were useless. Of course. The cameras had infra-red lenses. The people watching me could see right through my laughable attempts at privacy. I was hurt but not surprised: I'd been through worse. Any effort at privacy was going to come up short. I deserved it.
My checking account had about $500 in it. My main and most reliable source of income for years had been a Social Security Disability check of about $900, but that had stopped the month prior to getting fired, after I told the government that I had been working fulltime for a year or so. They stopped the money from coming my way and told me I owed them about $20 grand because I had been working as well as receiving benefits. Double dipping, so to speak. It was confusing but I remember walking in to the Social Security office off Forest Avenue and volunteering to be arrested. I thought I'd be safe in jail, that my life had been a waste anyway, so it was time to pay my debt to society. The kind clerk told me that that pretty much never happened, that I should just make some kind of payment plan with Uncle Sam, which I eventually did.
With little money, no income, no job prospects, no friends, no girlfriend, no social life, I was fucked. I called my Mom and told her I was in trouble and needed to move in with her into her small house down in Kittery (again). She was calm when she told me it was OK; that I could move back in. I had nowhere else to turn.
I figured I would blow the last couple of hundred bucks in cash I had on something nice while I spent the rest of the month in Portland. As long as I could afford the moving truck to bring my stuff to storage in Saco at the end of the month I had no reason for money. So I scheduled a massage at some place down in the Old Port. The old woman who did the work had no idea how scared I was as she kneaded and rolled my back, shoulders, and hamstrings. I was scared because I had never had a massage before and thought the women working there were all hookers looking to give me a blow job for an extra couple of bucks. But that didn't happen. It was just a massage.
I hadn't touched a woman in a couple of months at this point, and given the desperation I felt there was no time to search the online personal ads. That had been something I'd tried for years and it always turned out disasterously. No. I needed a pro. There were adult ads in the free local weekly paper. I looked up one of the most promising sites advertised and found the photo of a woman who looked kind and friendly, despite her ridiculous attempt at a sexy outfit. Calling up the number listed to book the appointment was easier than I thought. I had never done anything like this, but found it pretty straightforward and simple.
The woman was on time for our hookup at my place. As I caught her eye through the window of the entrance to my building she smiled at me (probably pleased that I was the same age as her). She was cute. Blond. Normal looking. Just another pretty girl like any that you'd see on the street. She came in and used my phone to call someone and tell them that she was in and things were OK. I played some music and she gave me a lap dance. It had been a long time, since Christeen, that a woman had given me an erection like that. She finished her dance and sat down next to me. We made conversation, and she took off her clothes. She talked about wanting to be a porn star but needing a boob job first. Her boobs were small, it was true, but me being terminally nice, I told her about how she should be proud of having a body men paid money to see. She told me about the guy she had seen just before me that night: that he had eaten his own feces in front of her. I laughed and was grossed out, but quickly analyzed the weirdness of the statement, and thought that she was just testing me to make sure I wasn't a freak. I wasn't. She asked me to take off my clothes. I did. She took out the smallest vibrator I had ever seen and started using it. I got the sense she wasn't really into it, and that made me feel better: she wasn't full of shit and faking it. Man, what a tough life she must have, I thought. She put her left leg over mine. I sensed that this wasn't part of the usual deal, and that maybe she felt comfortable. She encouraged me to masturbate and again, I laughed. "That's not me. I can't do that. I'll just sit here and enjoy things." I was flaccid, but not embarrassed. She was fine and good to be with. A few minutes passed where she continued to use the vibrator, me sitting there, still not getting hard. She talked about the bars she hung out at, encouraging me to go there to meet some women. Nothing more was going to happen, and it was time for her to go. She dressed quickly, professionally, while I sat there naked on my couch. She said "Goodbye" from the doorway without turning back. I slumped down on the couch and sighed. I had spent most of my savings on a lap dance and not much more, but I didn't regret it. It was my first experience with this type of world, and it was a good one.
About a week later, just before moving down to Kittery, I sent an email to the woman through her site. I told her I was "saving my pennies for the next time." I never heard back from her.
