The Happy Hooker: My Own Story

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AUTHOR’S NOTE: The events in this book actually happened. The people actually exist. Only the names have been changed, and we genuinely regret any inadvertent similarity between these fictitious names and the names of real persons.

Almost from the moment we were herded into the crowded cattlepen of a prison cell in New York’s infamous Tombs, the jail-toughened black hookers gave us nothing but misery.

“Hey, bigshit madambitch, bet you ain’t got no black cunt turnin’ tricks in your high-class fuckin’ house!”

“Yeah, bet your midget-dick rich white johns can’t buy no licorice from your candy store!”

“This queen bee of the hookers here, she afraid the black stuff gonna rub off all over her beeyootiful white sheets, ain’t ya, honey?”

The hassling began bawdy, became ugly, then menacing.

“You there in the red-white-and-blue Saks fuckin’ Fifth Avenue dress – don’t bend forward so far, otherwise ah’m gonna tear it off and eat you up!” Five minutes more and there could be a bloodbath, with us sure as hell the losers. There were seven of us, twenty of them, and common contempt of these street hookers for us, the expensive call girls, united them. In the hooker hierarchy, we were the aristocrats, they were the serfs, and jail, by God, was the great leveler.

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