Tables for One: dinner whoring, my way
We’ve all tried it at least once. God knows it’s how I learned that there’s no such thing as a free meal. Dear, dear, the indigestion directly linked to the boredom and anxiety, the coming home late and exhausted with my smile muscles hurting and my brain numb.
No, dinner whoring (see The Post’s article on it here) was too much like work for me. I turned to a different kind of whoring after that close brush with my “inner callgirl.”
Restaurants became my whores. I’d come home alone, tired, selfish. Men? Who could be bothered? One more person to deal with, no thanks. No, what I wanted was to pay someone to serve me, not ask me any questions, not try to get close to me, or ask that I pleasure them in any way. On a night like that what a girl really needs is a good… restaurant.
I discovered the selfish pleasure of going to a restaurant alone. It’s the best three-way ever: me, the waiter, the chef. I choose what I want. I can order (not ask for or negociate) more. I don’t have to be entertaining or beautiful! I don’t have to budge from my seat, it all comes to me. And all they want in return is money.
I had bitches all over the city, in two cities. I had the Thai place in Paris, the Tibetan, the bistro. Hell, I had two Thai places in New York and could go to one when I was tired of the Tom Yum at other and wanted something a little spicier (I didn’t even have to be faithful!)... When I walked in the door of any of these places at 9pm, they were always happy to see me. No: “Honey, I had a hard day, can you cook?,” no lazy slob trying to get me to suck his dick first (I left him at home).
Of course, now I’m on a budget. I frequent cheaper whores now, along the lines of Gray’s Papaya at 72nd Street, and The Rice Bowl. Cheap and cheerful.
Dinner whore turns tables.
