Lone Star

By Trey Edgington

ake and I should have never called for those hookers. It might have been the two-for-one deal the ad promised. I mean, who could pass up a sale like that? It could have been the fact that Jake had all this extra money he was stealing from work and we were tired of the titty bar. It might have been that our fiancées were thousands of miles away and we hadn’t had any pussy in months. Whatever the reason, it turned out to be a retarded clusterfuck.


It was Sunday, and like most nights of the week, I showed up at Jake’s apartment at seven, ready for a night of glitter, fake tits, and overpriced booze. He was sitting at the table, looking in the back of the Dallas Observer—dressed for the titty bar.


“You ready?”


“Yeah,” he said. “No. I mean, wait a minute.”


“You gotta shit or something?”


“No. I was thinking.”




He put down the paper and lit a cigarette, crossing his legs like a psychiatrist or a CPA. “This ad says we could get two escorts to come over for three-hundred bucks.” Air quotes around “escorts.”


“That does seem like a good deal, but also kinda gross.”


“But check out this chick in the picture,” he said, handing me the paper. “You’d pay to fuck her, right?”


“Of course I would, but you’re fucking retarded if you think that chick is coming over.”

He looked incensed. “I know she won’t be coming over, but what if she’s half as hot? You’d fuck a chick half that hot,” he said. “I’ve seen you,” he added, trying to prove some point.


“Yeah, I’d fuck a chick half that hot, but I wouldn’t pay for it.” I lit a cigarette and handed him back the paper.


“That settles it.”


“That doesn’t settle shit.”


“Think about it; we have all this free money, so really, we’re not paying for it.”


This was already making a lot more sense than it should have and I had the makings of a boner in my khakis.


He continued, “And even if it wasn’t free money—which it is—we wouldn’t be paying to fuck these chicks. We’d be paying for the experience of having paid them to fuck us.”


I totally understood him now.


He took a long drag from his cigarette and said, “Like Hemingway in Paris or those dudes in old cowboy movies.”


“Right,” I said. “Make the call.”


Needless to say, I was nervous while he dialed the number. I knew he was too because he tried to get me to call. As it rang, I lit another cigarette for each of us. A few seconds after dialing, he said, “Hello?”


“Blah blah Hooker Hotline,” I imagined the other person saying.


“Um, well, uh, I have this advertisement here and it says I can get two girls for three hundred dollars.” Jake was almost sounding British at this point.


“Blah blah plus tip,” the hooker hotline person said.


“Of course,” Jake said. “How does it work? Do they just come round my flat?”


I smacked him in the head and said, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you want some crazy ass hookers knowing where you live? Retard. And why the fuck are you British now?”


“Right,” he said. Then into the phone, “Is there a place we can come…a bordello, perhaps?”


I looked at him.


The person on the phone said something like, “What the fuck is that? No, you can’t come here. Get a motherfucking hotel room and call back.”


Jake hung up the phone and told me the hotel situation. We left immediately for the liquor store. Having watched a lot of movies and read a lot of books, we figured the kind of hookers we wanted didn’t drink beer. Good hookers drink cocktails of some sort. On the way, we decided that we should buy shit to make White Russians. We also got some Barcardi in case the hookers didn’t like White Russians.


After we got that figured out, we decided to go to some cheap place in Lewisville—a fabulously white-trash suburb of Dallas. It was kind of like we had our clichés mixed up. We both wanted hot, cocktail-drinking hookers, but we also wanted dirty, two-for-one coupon hookers. Maybe we were being realistic. Either way, a cheap ass motel in Lewisville seemed like the way to go.


Texas has some fucked up liquor laws, so it was a bit of a drive from the liquor store to the shitty hotel/motels in Loserville. We barely said two words to each other—both thinking of the wild-ass hooker adventure to come. I was thinking, Dude, I hope my hooker looks kinda like Lindsay Lohan with some Pam Anderson titties. I bet she’s really sweet too, like Elizabeth Shue in Leaving Las Vegas. I hope she didn’t just get gang-banged. That would suck. No. She didn’t just get gang-banged. She’ll definitely have a heart of gold though. She might be working her way through law school. I’ll probably be like her second “client” ever. She loves sex and she’s gonna be really excited when she sees me. She’ll have a few orgasms and think about not charging me. I’ll pay her anyway—just to keep it professional. Anyway, SMU law school isn’t cheap. Also, it would be like cheating on Mandy (my fiancée) if I didn’t pay my hooker.


I was thinking shit like that, and I had a hard-on. I was sure Jake was thinking the exact same shit. We pulled off the highway and in to some place called “Super Budget Good Times Motel.”


“What do you think,” he asked.


“Looks about right,” I said.


He checked us in and we found the room easily enough. I set up the bar on the dresser and went to get ice. Jake called the hooker hotline. When I got back I made a neat vodka for myself and a rum and coke for him. “So,” I asked, “What did they say?”


“She said they’d be here in about thirty minutes and that we had to pay up front.”


“Did she sound hot?”


“No. She sounded fucking disgusting, but I’m sure they get the old, worn-out ones to answer the phone.”


We smoked cigarettes, drank, and waited for what seemed like an eternity, though it was only about forty minutes. Finally, there was a knock on the door and both of us jumped. He stood up, straightened his pants, and walked to the door. I saw him take a big breath and then open the door, revealing the biggest black dude of all time.


“You call for a girl?” the giant black dude said.


“Yeah, sort of. I called for two girls. There’s this coupon—“


“I don’t know nothin bout no motherfuckin coupon. I got one girl here and it cost six hundred.”


“Um,” Jake said, raising up on his toes with his head to the side, trying to see the girl.

“We gots a problem here?”


I was getting kind of scared but was relieved to see Jake reaching for his wallet. He handed the black dude the money, and I was thanking God that Jake brought extra money.


“Aight, you gots thirty minutes and I’ll be back. Don’t try no crazy shit or I’ll fuck you up.”




The giant black dude moved to the side to let our hooker come in. “Oh fuck,” I said. I knew this chick.




About six months earlier, my band played this shithole called the Lone Star Country Club. Total fucking misnomer. It was bad biker bar with volley ball and hot tubs. Nasty hot tubs. We didn’t care; we got free beer and a hundred dollars, no matter how many people came to see us. Anyway, the show was nothing to remember. We didn’t suck. We didn’t do anything crazy. We just played to twenty retards yelling “Skynard” and about ten of our friends. Our bass player and drummer packed their shit and left right after we were done. Fucking useless rhythm section. The other guitar player, Max, waited a while and then told me he had the squirts and had to go home. We usually waited to get the money together, but I understood his problems with shitting at the Lone Star Country Club.


I sat at the bar making story notes on bar napkins. The bartender had the biggest goddamn titties I’d ever seen in real life on a chick who didn’t weigh four hundred pounds. It wasn’t hot really, but it was hard not to stare. She was nice enough and didn’t seem to mind me looking. Then, about thirty minutes til two, shit went horribly wrong.


This cocktail waitress who had apparently just gotten off came up and sat down next to me. The big-tittied bartender gave me a look that I later realized meant, “Beware. That chick is a crazy fucking slut.” The cocktail waitress had been serving herself all night by the look of it and she wasn’t stopping. Her face was okay and her body was okay, but she looked fucking grungy. There’s no other way to describe it. Her hair needed a new dye job, some heavy-duty shampoo, and a lot of conditioner. I was hoping she didn’t want to talk.


“You wanna do a shot of tequila,” she asked, putting her wet hand on my shoulder. “On me?” she added.


“Um, sure,” I said.


Super titties set up the shots with the lime and salt and gave me another look.


Drunk chick said, “We should lick salt off each others’ hands.” She winked.


Fu-King Gross, I thought. I said, “Yeah, maybe not.”


She seemed a little disappointed, but smiled anyway. Her teeth were surprisingly nice. Then she fell off the stool. I helped her up and left my hand on her shoulder until I was pretty sure she wasn’t going to fall off again. This display of kindness on my part turned out to be a bad idea. “Another shot,” she said. Of course, I’d have another shot.


Two shots later, the big-titty bartender cut her off, and that was fine with me. She pouted a little, fell off the stool again, and then seemed to forget the whole thing. Last call came and went, and I was relieved that I was about to get our money and get the fuck out of there. I thanked them both and walked over to the office behind the bar.

As I stood there smoking, I was thinking about the paper I had to write about Byron and how I might have to beat off thinking of those giant titties when I got home. If I wasn’t too drunk. If I was too drunk to beat off, I would write my Byron paper. Right in the middle of that thought, super-drunk chick tapped on my shoulder and then fell into me.


“Can you give me a ride home? My friend got mad at me and left and I don’t have a ride and I don’t know what I’m gonna do.” You would have to speak drunk to understand all of that, but luckily, I did speak drunk. I was pretty drunk myself.


I felt bad for her and told her I would drive her home. She slid her hand down my chest, grabbed my belt, and kissed me on the neck. It was really wet, and I instantly wished that Mandy was there to save me from this nasty chick. Or at least Max.


She continued to tell me about the drama with her friend, basically repeating the same three sentences over and over. Finally, the owner came out and handed me the money. He didn’t seem too happy to see the drunk chick. I put my gear into my back seat and put the drunk chick up front. Getting her in there was much more difficult than squeezing my amp in. At least we were on the way to wherever the fuck she lived.


“So,” I said, “Where do you live?”


“Well I was living with my mom but she kicked me out because of this thing with her boyfriend. Then I stayed with my friend for a while. Then she got mad at me and I moved in with another friend.”


“Okay. Where does that friend live?”


“Lake Dallas, but we can’t go there.”


“What?” For the millionth time, I was wondering how the fuck I get myself into this shit.


“We can’t go there cause I don’t know where it is.” She put her hand on my knee.


I put her hand back in her lap and said, “Are you fucking serious? You don’t know where you live?”


“Do you really want to give me a ride home?” she asked.


“Well yeah. What the fuck else would I be doing?”


“We could go to your house.”


“No we can’t. Tell me where you live or I’m taking you back to the bar.”


“You know, most guys who give me a ride home don’t really want to give me a ride home.” She grabbed my dick.


“I’m engaged. Stop doing that.”


“If you’re engaged, why are you giving girls rides home?”


“If my fiancée was here, we’d both be giving you a ride home,” I said.


“You guys like that stuff, huh?”


“No,” I said. “Jesus, what’s wrong with you?”


It gets a little fuzzy here because I was pretty drunk and very confused. I took her to my house. I was not going to fuck her or even let her stay, but I needed to think. My house was about a mile away from the bar, and I didn’t want to spend any more time driving around drunk than I needed to.


I carried my shit into the house and took her back to my bedroom. The conversation was going in circles. Still. Then, all of a sudden and very unfortunately, my nasty sub-conscious spoke up. “G-Man, tell her she can suck your dick if she’ll give you directions to her house.”


For some fucked up reason, that sounded like a good plan. I was really fucking drunk. “Hey, drunk girl,” I said. “If you give me the directions to where you’re staying, I’ll let you suck my dick.”


“No way,” she said. “I don’t do that. Gross.”


Seriously? I thought. Really?


Then she said, “I thought you were engaged. You’re a bad person.”


You might be wondering why I told her she could suck my dick. Well, she seemed to want some sort of sex, and I figured that letting her suck my dick wouldn’t count as cheating on Mandy. If I ate that drunk chick’s pussy out, on the other hand, that would be cheating. If someone ate Mandy’s pussy out or she sucked someone’s dick, that would be totally fucking cheating. Anyway, I thought it might work, and obviously it didn’t.


After she said that shit about me being a bad person, I said, “Shut up. We’re going.”


“Where we going? I can’t stay here?”


“Fuck no. I’m taking you back to the bar.”


“No,” she said, sitting on the floor with a thud.


By that point, I’d had enough. I picked her ass up and threw her over my shoulder. She didn’t protest as much as you might think. Rough childhood, probably. I put her ass in the car and drove her back to the Lone Star Country Club. The whole way, she was calling me an asshole and a cheater. And a fag. A few minutes later, I pushed her ass out of my car and drove off.


I was too wack to sleep when I got home, so I drank some Jack Daniel’s and smoked until I passed out.




That’s how I knew this hooker who just walked into our hotel room.


Jake heard me say “Oh fuck” and seemed to understand that I was saying more than we just got fucked out of a bunch of money. He knew I wasn’t commenting on the fact that we only got one hooker. He also knew that it wasn’t because she was skanky either. He didn’t know exactly, but he knew enough.


“Care for a drink?” Jake asked.


She said she’d take a White Russian and turned around to look at me. “Do I know you from somewhere?”


“I don’t think so,” I said.


“You look familiar.”


“Yeah, I get that a lot.”


“Anyway, what are you guys up to tonight?”


That had to be the most retarded question I’ve ever heard. We decided to call a hooker or two before taking our grandmothers to church. What the fuck is wrong with you?


Jake handed her the drink, and I was happy to see that he didn’t want to fuck her. You never know with him. He can be a nasty bastard. He took the chair by the window. I was sitting on the other bed. She was drinking her drink and not saying shit. She had a bag on the bed with her, and I was wondering what kind of hooker supplies were in there. Jake was looking at the ceiling.


Jake finally said, “So, what do you usually do? You know, during these, um, things.”


“Sometimes I dance.”


“Do you get naked?” he said.


“Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes I give massages.” Then she looked at me and said, “Are you sure we haven’t met?”


“Yep,” I said.


“Can we see your boobs?” Jake asked.


“Okay.” She lifted her shirt like a shy girl at church camp. Maybe half a second of some struggling-ass titties. Then she looked at me and said, “You’re in a band, right?”


Fuck, I thought. “Yeah,” I said.


“I knew it!” she said, and I wondered why I didn’t lie. Stupid rock star ego or something.


“I hoped you didn’t recognize me because I was pretty drunk that night. I have no idea what happened,” I said. It seemed like the best thing to say.


“Are you married yet?” she asked.


“No,” I said, noticing Jake’s open mouth.


“That’s about all I remember. Maybe tequila.”


Thank the baby Jesus.


After that, the three of us talked about what she liked doing when she wasn’t hookin. She said she wanted to be an actress and she liked singing. Dumb bitch probably liked long walks on the beach too.


A few minutes after this, there was a pounding at the door. It had maybe been twenty minutes. Jake opened the door, and of course, it was the giant black dude. “You went over the time. You owe me another hundred.”


Jake wasn’t as easy this time. Probably a little drunk. “Dude, it hasn’t been thirty minutes, we asked for two hos, we didn’t fuck that chick, and we paid six hundred already.”


“Fine with me. I gets to fuck you up now.”


“Goddamnit,” Jake said, pulling out his wallet.


Our hooker hugged both of us and told us to call back.


When we were sure they were gone, we packed up the booze and went back to his apartment. We both felt way too dirty to go to the titty bar. Instead we got drunk and played James Bond on his Nintendo 64.




I hate writing endings, so here’s a shitty conclusion. You might be wondering what the point of this story is. Really, it’s just a fucked up, true story. More importantly, you might be wondering how or why I get myself into that kind of shit. I get myself into these situations because I’m too lazy to write actual fiction sometimes. So, I do crazy shit like call hookers just to see what happens. How does this kind of shit happen? I really think that once you start looking for crazy shit that crazy shit starts to find you. It sure as shit finds me.




I have an MA in Creative Writing from the University of North Texas. I was a reading editor at the American Literary Review and a selected reader at the Art’s and Letters Literary Series at the Dallas Museum of Art. I don’t actually enjoy the company of hookers, though this is a true story; I’d rather watch bad TV. I am currently shopping my novel Heartdrunk–a fabulous story about booze and girls–to literary agents. I am a ex-drunk, living in Dallas, Texas with my cat Ernest.

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