“total pussy.” My first impulse on this night, when a teenage girl invited me to a motel, was to tell her I was excited to come hang out, but she was too young to have sex with. But I realized that was a non-starter. If I didn't want to have sex, her pimp would take her away. She would think I had no interest in her, or disapproved of her lifestyle. And I would never see her again. So I decided I would try to talk my way through the visit, and only have sex if I had to. But when she said “get comfortable” there was no second way. I was either going to take my clothes off, or she would think I was a cop or on some kind of rescue mission. We would both be out the door in 60 seconds. My skin turned white as I sat on the bed. Like the German guy said, I was a total pussy. I vaguely remember two other things, then next thing I remember, we were having sex. For some people sex is a social ritual, of approval or domination. For others it is a hedonistic fix, or an impulse which they are driven to pursue without any introspection. To me, sex is smoke in the air. You can’t take it to the bank. I only have sex with someone I am willing to have a child with. Even then, only with the possibility of pregnancy. To me, sex with a rubber is not even sex. And that is how I found myself, looking down on the white-cheddar stick figure of a naked teenage girl, with me also naked. Emaciated to where she was almost decrepit. And no sign of a police sting, or any other narrative to save me. She was as compliant as a rubber doll. She was too compliant, trained to do whatever I wanted. I am sure if I told her to call me “Captain Primo” she would have. I am not a hedonist. But I had psyched myself up for this. I had resolved to give it my fullest energy and enthusiasm, and act like I enjoyed it. I planned well ahead to play the part like she was the greatest thing to me since sliced bread, to not let on that I had any hesitation or found anything wrong with this. But I just wasn’t into it, it was a hard act to play. There was a mirror next to the bed. A long time ago, a girl named Carrie told me her boyfriend got turned on by looking in the mirror while they were having sex. So I looked in the mirror, with a hope that seeing myself having sex with this perfect blonde teenager, would tum me on like it was supposed to. What I saw was a balding, wrinkled, 43-year-old man, wearing a rubber, hunched like a cat over the limp submissive body of a flawless teenager. It was disgusting. Even for the sake of learning about this girl, I could not stand the sight of a Saturday-night joyrider, in a Miami hooker motel, with a rubber. I could not be that person. But I anticipated such an impasse, and brought an extra $750. I brought the extra cash, with the full expectation that it would somehow be separated from me, or held in front of a jury to prove I came to buy sex from a teenager. I put that expectation aside, because it was worth it to find out who this girl was. After a while there was no other way it was going to work, so I said to her “$1000 if I can take off this rubber and just cum.” She said "You have it on you? You are SURE you have the money?" I told her she knew from earlier in the evening that I was good for it. She said okay. I felt my skin touch the skin of a real-life hooker. A hooker who texted me earlier in the night how she could meet me after she was done “runnin and eamin” in Miami. This was also something I anticipated, and pledged to put out of my mind. It was a risk I was willing to take, without ever letting on my true feelings about it. Her body felt like a bag of tiny bones against mine. Within a minute or two without thinking, I blurted out “imagine that.” I just had sex with the limp 95-pound body of a brain-damaged teenage hooker, in a cramped mirror-covered second-floor room of the Starlite Motel in downtown Miami. And I completed the project, according to plan. When I expressed my disbelief out loud with those two words, she had no idea what I was talking about. As I walked out the door, she said “I had fun, you even made me laugh a couple times.” I won’t mention the two pillow-talk jokes that made her laugh. What was important, is that I spent $1000, and put on a convincing act that I liked it. Her pimp would definitely bring her looking for me the next week, assuming she lived that long. I would have another chance to find out who she was, her real name and phone number. They were hooked on the sugar. My I-3