I need to find a sex worker bad. It’s not for me, I promise you; it’s for a friend. My partner, Rupert. Mr. Fluffernutter, if you’re nasty, which in this case wouldn’t be a bad thing.

He’s been a little off lately, and I believe I know why. No, it’s not what you’re thinking. He just needs a little female… gaze? Perspective? Wait, I got it—audience—to get him out of his funk. We tend to perform for the rougher sex, and there’s little joy in Broville.

I’m finding that there’s a huge chasm between needing a sex worker and finding one. I miss the time when you could stroll Hollywood Boulevard and run into a Julia Roberts, Melanie Griffith, or Laura San Giacomo. Them were the good ole days when affordable, attractive prostitutes were on every corner. Nowadays, you pay by the teeth and through the nose.

Why a sex worker? Getting laid is a mystical cure-all for anything that ails you. Depressed? Just get laid. Car won’t start? Just get laid. Diagnosed with testicular cancer? You got it—just get laid. And what’s even more magical than sex? The laughter and love of a courtesan.

I tried the Yellow Pages, Google, ChatGPT, and the Walmart men’s room, all to no avail. Finally, a peer pointed me to an app, HOKAY and my prayers were answered. Thank God the future is now.

So, I’m just waiting here patiently at a Motel 6. Six sounds suspiciously like sex—how did I not see that before? It’s a nice room though. There’s a TV, decent bed, and a Gideon’s Bible. Makes you wonder if there’s a Gideon’s Quran.

I open this Bible to check for trigger warnings when a knock comes. “It’s showtime,” I whisper to Rupert, who is stiff as a board. “Don’t worry, buddy; this is just what you need.”

I open the door to find a twitchy woman haloed in an LED luster—looking anywhere from 25 to 45, based on angles and shadows. She’s wearing a cardigan, ripped jeans, and a beanie. I guess in her line of work, clothes do not maketh the sex worker.

“Please, won’t you come in?”

She steps in, scans the room as if there might be a Bible in it for her, then turns and pins me with her gaze. “Like I said in the DM, it’s 75 for the hour.”

“That’s fine.” The show’s only 45 minutes anyway.

She fishes out her phone. “How you wanna pay? Venmo, Zelle, Stripe, Payoneer, Square, PayPal, or Apple Pay?”

“What, no Bitcoin?”

She waves a hand in my face. “Get the fuck outta here with that blockchain digital currency bullshit.”

I pull my phone out. “Venmo works. What’s the name?”

“Agnes Rosamond.”

I knit my brow. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, why? Not a good enough hooker name for you?”

“Sex worker,” I correct.

She shakes her head. “Whatever. Next time, message Sue Nami.” She points to the suitcase on the bed. “You from outta town?”

“No, that’s Mr. Fluffernutter’s.” I rake my fingers through my hair. This part is the sticky wicket. “He’s actually—”

She takes a step back and holds out a hand like a cop. “Nope. The deal’s for you and you only. I don’t do duos.”

“Technically, it’d be a threesome.”

“Technically, you can go fuck yourself.” With that declaration still hanging in the air, she heads towards the door.

“Wait!” I shout and move to cut her off. She reaches into her bag and whips out a taser like an amalgam of Doc Holliday and Nikola Tesla. I raise my arms as I leap back. ‘This isn’t a sex thing.”

“Here’s a tip: never tell a hooker, ‘this isn’t a sex thing.’”

“Sex worker,” I mumble.

She shrugs. “It has the opposite effect that you’re looking for.”

I freeze, staring down the barrel of her taser. Finally, I say, “Listen, I just want you to watch Mr. Fluffernutter’s show.” I glance at the suitcase. “He’s been off recently—not getting the same reactions. It’s like we lost something—chemistry, maybe. I just figured a fresh set of eyes might inspire him.”

“Well, that’s the weirdest request I’ve gotten this week,” Agnes says, then motions the stun gun at the bathroom. “He in there?”

“No, there,” I say, nodding to the case.

“Fuck you! You’re about to get a shock to the balls and not in the pleasurable way.”

I crack a smile. “Just let me show you.” I move slowly over to the bed.

“Alright, but keep those nuts where I can see ‘em.”

I lift Rupert out and sit on the edge of the bed. Agnes’s jaw drops. “What the shit?”

He’s sporting his Sunday best—a white tuxedo—and I fix his top hat to his head. “Agnes, meet Rupert Fluffernutter. Say hello, Rupert.”

“Hello there, Agnes. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

With the taser still trained on my privates, she utters, “You gotta be fucking kidding.”

“I have not yet begun to kid,” Rupert states proudly. What a ham—I can already tell that he’s loving this. There’s a kind of energy coming from him that I haven’t felt in a long time.

“I thought maybe you’d pull out a dildo or a butt plug. Hell, even a chainsaw would’ve been less bizarre than that… thing,” Agnes says, now aiming at Rupert.

I consider explaining how wood is a poor conductor of electricity when Rupert says, “Basil here said it’d be either a therapist or a hooker—”

“Sex worker,” I interrupt.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say you probably don’t have a psychology degree?”

“Out on a limb, I get it,” she says with a chuckle.

“But I bet you’ve stayed at many a Holiday Inns.” Rupert says, and she laughs while lowering the stun gun. It’s at that point I know he’s got her and that the magic is back!

– F.G. Keel