Short Story: "Whore House", by Felipe Oro (based on a short story by Gerardo Sanhueza)

I found this picture googling. I couldn't find the artist so as to ask him for proper permission. This story is based on a great short story by Gerardo Sanhueza, which you can find HERE (spanish only) —FO.

Whore House 

We were a couple of lads disappointed of life, love and our ex-girlfriends; especially our exes. We tried to make our way as the soap opera heartthrobs we thought we were, but all we got was to go back home alone, drunk off our asses and with no money. It was then that a single thought struck my head as a divine revelation: “Why don’t we go to a whore house?” So we gathered some money and by the next weekend we were walking down the red-light district. 

     It was a gloomy neighborhood, scarcely illuminated by a few lamp posts and some cracked neon lights outside the dives. Even though the air was cold and dry, most people were barely dressed, as if the only thing they wanted to do was to rip them off as fast as they could. Some whores were outside the hovels. Most of them wore a satin sheen top with mesh leggings and rolls and rolls of fat were leaking out. Many were smoking a joint and their eyes were red and irritated. A few had babies on their fat arms and most seemed very sad and weary. 

     It definitely wasn’t what I was expecting. I wanted to get the hell out of there as soon as I could. I looked at my friend for help, but his reaction wasn’t what I expected: the guy was already bound by the illusion of the cheap flesh and the dim lights. Then he nudged me in the arm and pointed to an eerie cabaret among the shadows. 

     It was a tacky place as everything in that district. A hideous imp was at the entrance, glaring at us through his gelid blue eyes as we approached the entrance; the eyes of someone who has killed. “Ten bucks with a drink” —said him with a nasal twang. We handed him the money and he let us in. 

     The place was bigger than we thought. It was a large place with a fake velvet carpet on the floor and round tables and chairs scattered around. There were more people than I expected. Some looking at the pole dancers, while others chit-chatting at the tables with a half-full drink. But most of them were at the private sector, and that’s where we headed. 

     We sat on one of the large settees at the back of the pub and a couple of prostitutes appeared in no time, groping and rubbing their bodies against our groins. My first reaction was fear. The prostitute I got looked to me as an almost exact replica of Jabba the Hutt from Stars Wars. She was a giant meat loaf smelling of —and maybe stuffed with— semen and alcohol. I tried to get up, but her weight was overwhelming and, even worse, I noticed a boner —mine, hopefully— pressing against my pants. Then I looked at her face and it wasn’t anything like Jabba’s. She had suddenly turned into a strange beauty. No that she suddenly transformed into something she wasn’t; it was me who noticed something which is usually unnoticeable. It was her passion, or maybe the place or the atmosphere. 

     "I’ll give ya a blow-job for three bucks." 

     «A professional blow-job for just three dollars! —a voice said in my head—. God, how I love this woman! ». But then I remembered my ex, who was probably in bed with someone else at that very moment. She was the same as this woman: a whore; but more treacherous, since she wouldn’t tell you the prize. 

     "Let me think about it —I said, hesitant." 

     She shrugged her shoulders, licked my cheek and went away to smoke a cigarette. 

     My friend wasn’t finished yet, so I went to the bar for my drink. 

   A long time after that, when I had known of better places and better prostitutes, I’d still talk with that guy. I heard him inside, scared and excited with his gorgeous Hutt on the lap.