$45: A Mr. Nova Adventure

Mr. Nova won’t pay for sex. It is not in his nature. I tried to do it (once) when I was 17. In fact, I actually handed over $100 to a prostitute in Atlantic City who looked good—but smelled like a strange combination of feces and sperm. But I couldn’t get Little Nova up for the dirty whore. My wanker doesn’t like the fact that I have to give up hard earned money for a piece of low-quality ass. Hell, with my ego, I believe these sluts should be paying me!

That being said, I have a tale to tell involving the crazy world of prostitution. I was hanging out with a coworker one chilly night (sorry, no one from Laststory.com), drinking beer, shooting pool, and scouting out potential Friends With Benefits. But it was one of those nights where I was more in love with alcohol than with getting laid. So I dropped my “attack strategy” and went straight for the booze. You guys know what I’m talking about—getting blown in the bathroom of a nightclub is always fun, but sometimes a fella just wants to binge-drink himself into oblivion. But unlike me, my coworker was all about getting some pussy that night…

“It’s been 5 months since I had some snatch, Mr. Nova! What do I do?”

“How bad do you need to get it?” I asked. Of course, I asked him this question from a distance; I was afraid he might start humping my leg if he got too close.

“My balls are so swelled up I can feel them pulsating in my boxer shorts! I got a Woodrow just looking at that chubby girl bending over to pick up her purse. I want to go in the bathroom and whack-off! I gotta relieve the pain!”

“That is gross, dude. We gotta get you laid.”

I took it upon myself to help this unfortunate soul out. Five months is a long time. Hell, Mr. Nova gets cranky after five days. I made it my mission to pass some of my power onto him.

It didn’t work out so well. I tried to reason with him.

“Now, don’t expect to get laid tonight. We might be able to find a real slut, but most likely we will have to settle for some backstage Betties for later use. You know what I mean? We’ll lay down the groundwork tonight and maybe you can get some nookie next weekend.”

“Fuck that,” my co-worker said with determination. “I need some pussy tonight!”

“The bitches will sense your desperation. You must show patience, young Skywalker.”

I felt like Obi-Wan telling Luke not to go off to Bespin to save Han and Leia. But the muthafucker wouldn’t listen. The Force inside him was pushing him to the dark side. And by dark, I don’t mean ass.

He tried to bag several girls. He offered drinks and favors. He talked up his skills as a gourmet chef. He promised the world. But it didn’t work out. The girls accepted the free drinks and then blew him off.

We went from club to bar, from rave to strip joint. Nothing worked. He was finally drunk and disillusioned enough to quit. We hopped into my piece of shit Nova-mobile so I could drop him off at his apartment. On the way back he saw a prostitute working her corner, sticking out her tits at the other cars and scratching her skanky ass.

“Stop!” he shouted, suddenly coming alive. “Pull over!”

Like a Mexican crossing the border, he bolted out of my car and sprinted over to the whore. A minute later they were both coming back to my vehicle. They hopped in the back. She had her hand on his thigh the moment they settled in.

“Mr. Nova, we gotta go to this nice girl’s apartment.”

I asked where she lived and she gave me the directions. She was alright looking, except for the nasty scar on her cheek. Probably from a former pimp.

We got to her apartment building. It was a seedy section of town. We went upstairs to the 4th floor. Her place was a fucking mess. He paid her the money upfront. She seemed happy to get some loot.

“Mr. Nova, do you mind waiting for a little while?” my coworker begged.

“Nah, I’ll just watch some TV. Go bust a nut, slugger.”

I had to sit there for ten minutes, listening to her scream as my coworker let out five months of aggression. I could hear a few things the prostitute was screaming.

“No, not there! I am too stretched out for that! Just fuck me you bastard! That’s right! Shit, let me get another condom!”

He just kept yelling at her: “Take it! C’mon and take it you dirty slizz!” I’ll be honest—I don’t know what a “slizz” is. I just know that if anyone calls my Mom a slizz, I’ll beat their ass.

After he was done he came out of the room with a big goofy grin. “Sorry, Mr. Nova. She is too tired to fuck you.”

“It’s alright. It really is.” Hey, I didn’t even want to fuck her. It’s not Nova’s style to bat cleanup after one of his boys. Either I perform first or not at all.

On the way home I asked him how much he paid to fuck her.

“$45!” he replied, laughing like a James Bond villain. “What a cheap bitch! Good fuck, too. Damn I needed that!”

The next day my coworker told everyone at the store what he had done the night before. He felt relieved to get over the five month dry spell. I thought he was crazy for being so proud, but when I thought about it, I saw the logic behind the insanity. When you think about how much you would spend on a date… $45 would barely cover drinks and appetizers, let alone a movie and a full-course dinner. Plus, there would be a chance you wouldn’t even get laid! $45 bought my coworker his dignity—without having to deal with the emotions, commitment, or any other crap like that. It may not be the Nova-way to regain pride, but for some it works.

Just wear a fucking condom, you sick bastards! You don’t know where those whores have been!