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1:34PM - Sunday January 11, 2003 The owner was an asshole. He was a 60-something, tracksuit wearing, bling-bling sporting, ugly, overweight fucktard. He ran a chain of massage clubs across the Maritimes, and he would drive around every once in a while in his big-ass RV to check them out. Accompanied by his equally ugly, bling-bling and tracksuit wearing common-law wife, he would make our lives a living hell for a week at a time. He never liked me. But that's okay, 'cause I never liked him, either. He'd drop by for visits, and if a girl was amenable, he'd give them $50 clear to fuck him upstairs. All the while, I had to dodge calls from his common-law wife, or outright lie as to his whereabouts. Asshole. Also, when I got fired, he wouldn't give me two weeks notice. He made the manager tell me for him, and I haggled one week of work out of her so I could pay my rent, and then she phoned me the next day and told me he didn't want me coming back. Nice, eh? Nicole was the manager, and she was also a prostitute. She was really wuite beautiful, and the other girls hated it when she worked the floor because she would get the lion's share of the customers. The only men she owuldn't see were Middle Eastern men, and that's because she was dating one and didn't want anyone he knew or any of his family finding out what she did, One night she chewed my ass because I rang the bell for the girls to come down and she thought one of the guys was Middle Eastern. The thing was, he was Italian, and he'd been in on my shift before so I knew for sure, but she still wouldn't believe me and ragged me out but good. The end came for me when she caught me letting one of the girls go out on an outcall in the middle of January in her street clothes. I'd been told by someone else that that was allowed if I cleared it with the customer first. In fact, I think some of the customers appreciated the street clothes because it looked less like they were having a hooker to their hotel rooms, you know? Also, it's fucking cold and icy here in January, and it's not good to walk around in stiletto heels and abreviated dresses, even if it's from cab door to cab door. The whole thing made sense to me. Anyway, Nicole caught me doing this, chewed me out but good, and not too many days later I was fired. For treating whores like human beings, I was fired. I didn't have any recourse because George never put me on the books because he never liked me. There was nothing I could do. I was left feeling really bitter and angry, with no money, and no refence. I refused to even frop the key back, one of the day secretaries eventually came and got it. I never wanted to go back to or think about that place again. A year or more later, I got a weird call from the whorehouse security/alarm company, about midmorning when they opened up. The girl who'd taken my place had fucked up the security code and the alarm had gone off and I was still the contact. I'd heard that she'd gotten her old job back (read: my job) from the day secretary, and so knew her name when they gave it to me. I could have been a bastard and told them I had no idea who the hell it was, and that I hadn't worked there in over a year, and to take me the fuck off the list. As it is I said she was okay and I guess she got let in okay. Looking back, I think that may have been the more bastard-y action. I mean, she could have been using the name of my replacement just to get in and steal or something. Anyway, that's the last I really heard from the whorehouse, and I was glad. That is until one of the girls who I dind't really remember called me up and was telling me she was going to take my bellydance class and tha she was into Wicca now and that Adrian was the one who'd ratted me out and fucked me over at the whorehouse. What. Ever. Never saw her again. The End
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