Peaches and Cream

I have a little problem.

Well, to be honest, it's more than just a little problem. Some might consider it to be a huge problem.

I am addicted to prostitutes.

I have been pretty much all of my adult life, since I first walked out of the front gate at Lackland Air Force Base in Texas and saw a pretty young girl sitting on the hood of a car in front of a massage parlor. When I glanced over at her she had slipped her shorts aside and exposed her hairy vagina, and I had followed her into the massage parlor and shelled out $30 to fondle her breasts and get a blowjob that lasted all of about two minutes. Don't be too judgmental - I had just completed six weeks of basic training in the Air Force and had a little bit of pent up emotion, if you know what I mean.

I was not a virgin, but I had lost my virginity about a week before I went in the service to a girl I was deeply in love with. She had entered my life at the end of my senior year in high school, split me up from my high school sweetheart who I had been dating for two and half years, and made me fall helplessly in love with her. By the time we took each other's virginity, we were engaged to be married. She called it off by telephone during my last week of basic training, breaking my heart and leading me into the arms of my first prostitute.

I had done a lot of fooling around in high school, lots of touching and fingering, and an occasional hand job or blow job, and I had even experimented with gay sex in a relationship that lasted on and off for three years. I'm sure you understand when I say that it's hard work getting laid. Searching, finding the right person, the inevitable pursuit, spending money, and all the other bullshit associated with hooking up with a partner who may or may not have sex with you at sometime in the near (or distant) future.

Prostitutes just seemed like an easier way to get what I wanted when I was 18 years old. I could skip all the steps except the spending of money and have my needs met pretty much whenever I pleased.

You can find a prostitute anywhere in the world. Sometimes they're available in significant numbers right out on the streets. Other times and in other locations they are a little harder to find, but you just have to know where to ask and someone can usually steer you to the small town hooker who can take care of your baser needs.

I spent the next four years at a couple of different locations in Europe and there were more than enough prostitutes to go around. Outside the front gate of the Air Force Base I was stationed at was a quaint little place called the Annabella Haus. It had a bar in front with scantily clad waitresses and porn on the big screens, and then you could go out back to the hotel, where the prostitutes sat outside their rooms. You just walked around until you found one you liked and into the room you went. For the right price, you could have just about anything you wanted. Luckily they had a pretty high turnover of girls; otherwise I would have run out of new partners.

Not far away was the Lisa Bar. It wasn't a strip club, but when you walked in the Vietnamese girls practically raped you while you bought them small glasses of colored water for $10. They worked hard to get you into the Champagne Room, where for $100 you could have sex with a beautiful Asian girl, or even two, if you had the dough.

If you just wanted a quickie, you could drive down Forty Mark Strasse and pick out a prostitute hanging out on the side of the road, usually smoking a cigarette. She would hop in your car and give you a fast blowjob. Or if you were feeling particularly flexible and had a little extra cash, you could fuck her in the back seat of your tiny European car. Forty DeutscheMarks was about $32 when I first arrived; by the time I left, it was $18 due to the rapidly changing and favorable exchange rate.

There was a Red Light District in every major city in Europe. Some, like in Amsterdam, were famous and even the tourists wandered around ogling the beautiful girls sitting in their windows waiting for the next customer. Others, because of some ridiculous law or another, were more difficult to find. But eventually, I always found them.

I had sex with hookers in almost every country in Western Europe. I had a few girlfriends, but nothing that lasted. Hookers never said no, never wanted to chat about how your day was, and never insisted that you engage in "the pursuit" before they agreed to climb in bed with you.

But I'm straying from the intent of this story. By the time I returned from Europe, I was addicted to prostitutes. I ended up in Las Vegas for awhile, where you could spend a whole night with a streetwalker for $50 or spend your life savings on a high class prostitute who charged thousands of dollars per hour. I tried some of both and everything in between, but although I had high class desires, I was on more of a $50 budget.

After a couple of years I transferred to Miami, where my salary finally approached high-class levels. You could find high-class hookers in Miami, but there were also a lot of the $50 variety as well. Northeast 79th street from Interstate 95 eastbound to US1was a treasure trove of streetwalking hookers who were usually more than enough to satisfy my basic instincts.

I tried marriage. Met a beautiful Cuban woman working in a bar I frequented. She was going to law school during the day and working the 7:00pm to 3:00am shift at the cocktail lounge I frequented. We started out flirting, moved on to more substantial conversation during slow times at the bar, had what we thought would be a one night stand, and ended up married about six months after we met. She was amazing in bed before we got married. After we spent $30,000 on a wedding and $25,000 on the honeymoon, she lost interest in sex and especially in the amazing blow jobs she had always been willing to give when she was busy reeling me in.

Driving home late one night after spending most of the afternoon and evening in a bar, I cruised down 79th Street and spotted a beautiful blond with huge tits and tight red shorts and couldn't help myself - I circled the block and pulled up next to her.

"Want a date?" She asked when I rolled down my window. I wasn't interested in just a blow job. This girl was young, gorgeous, and a rarity on 79th Street - white. I don't mind black hookers at all. I have fucked hundreds of them, but on that night that white girl caught my eye because of the color of her skin. In that area the prostitutes were mostly black, and I had subconsciously decided if I was going to shatter my marriage vows, I wanted to do it with a white prostitute.

I asked if she had a place nearby, and she indicated the run-down building she was standing in front of. She asked if I was a cop, and I assured her that I was not. "Forty for a blowjob, a hundred to suck and fuck," she said, chewing on her gum loudly.

"Suck and fuck," I said and she opened the door and got in. We drove around the corner and parked and she led me into the "hotel" as she called it, and I admired her perfect ass as we walked up a flight of stairs. The stairwell was filthy and smelled of piss. She led me through a door at the top of the stairs that turned out to be a bathroom. There were three stalls in various states of destruction as well as three busted urinals on the wall. It was no cleaner than the rest of the place but there was an old leather sofa cushion on the floor which turned out to be where she plied her trade.

We took care of the finances, and she squatted down in front of me as I leaned back against the one remaining intact sink. She unsnapped and unzipped my pants and pulled them down, along with my boxers. I was already erect, and she smiled up at me and spit out her gum, and then took my cock in her right hand and wrapped her lips around it as she cupped my balls in her left.

She gave great head, and I had to stop her several minutes later before I came. She moved over to the sofa cushion and lay on her back, hiking up her skirt to reveal that she was not wearing panties. I shuffled over to her with my pants around my ankles and knelt on the front edge of the cushion. She reached down and guided my cock into her shaved pussy, which was surprisingly wet. I eased my cock inside her, she started making the obligatory noises, and I came about five minutes later. It was the early 80's then, and the fear of AIDS hadn't quite forced the streetwalker community into widespread use of condoms yet.

I stood up and she held out a hand for me to help her up. I pulled her to her feet and she pulled down her skirt and kissed me on the cheek. I pulled up my pants and boxers and gave her a $20 tip. I turned to walk out as she went to the broken mirror and began adjusting her makeup.

I went down to my car, circled the block, and parked about fifty yards away on the side street beside the hotel. She came outside a few minutes later and took up her station on the corner. About a minute later, someone else had stopped and soon thereafter she was leading him into the hotel. I sat and watched for almost two hours and she led eight different males into her love shack during that time period. I had decided after I left her the first time that I wanted to have a second round, so I had waited and watched until I was fully recharged. After she came back out and resumed her station, I pulled up to her and rolled down the window again.

"Want a date?" She asked in a bored voice, not even recognizing me. I said I did and we went through the same ritual and a few minutes later I was handing her another $100 in the dirty bathroom upstairs. There was a small pile of crumpled up Kleenex on the floor that I hadn't noticed before. I turned to the sink to wash my hands only to discover there was no running water. It was then I figured out why she had been so wet before - she was simply wiping off the outside of her pussy with Kleenex after each customer. The inside? Well, you get the picture.

She spit her gum out again, took my hard cock out of my pants, and gave me another outstanding blowjob. After a few minutes she stopped and went back to the cushion and lay back just like before. I once again shuffled over to join her, knelt, and she was soon guiding my cock into her even wetter pussy. I thrust forward into her, and she closed her eyes and laid back. I said I wanted to kiss her, and she informed me that would be another $10. I had to pull out, retrieve my wallet and pay her before we could continue. I re-entered her cunt and leaned forward to kiss her and she said, "Not on the mouth."

I kissed her cheeks and her neck while I fucked her, and I came about ten minutes later. Once again I helped her up, dressed, and gave her a tip after she kissed me on the cheek. As I was walking out she said "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

I drove home, feeling dirty physically and mentally, and kicking myself in the ass for cheating on my wife. When I got home I stripped naked, threw my clothes into the laundry hamper, and climbed into bed next to my sleeping wife. I fell asleep feeling sexually satisfied, but deeply unhappy.

All this is still not the point. You haven't yet met the title character of this story. All that has come before was simply to convince you that I actually have an addiction. In any other addiction, that night would have probably been labeled my "rock bottom," at which point with the proper help I could begin climbing out of the nightmare I was in. I haven't yet managed to find a cure, although a lot of years have passed since then.

In the morning, my beautiful Cuban wife woke me up screaming at me and hitting me. I stumbled out of bed and into a corner, standing naked and trying to defend myself from the 120 pound monster she had turned into. She was so angry she was screaming at me in Spanish and I couldn't understand what she was saying. I did understand the language, but she was screaming and talking really fast so I had no clue why she was so upset.

She finally held up my white boxers and showed me a red stain. "There's fucking lipstick on your fucking boxers, you fucking prick," she said in English in a slightly less loud voice. Then she pointed at my crotch and screamed, "And you didn't even bother to wash your dick, hijo de puta!"

She stormed out of the house with my boxers and my shirt, which I found out later via her lawyer, also had lipstick on the collar. She had even had the presence of mind, before she turned into the satanic creature that had awoken me from a deep sleep, to take pictures of my lipstick-covered cock and the lipstick on my face. My lawyer advised me to settle quickly and she got just about everything.

So, many years and hundreds of hookers later, I was once again driving down 79th Street to the small apartment I had been living in since my divorce. It was almost 6:00am and I had been drinking since I got off work at midnight. Most of the hookers had called it a night, but those who were still out didn't appeal to me. I cruised up and down 79th Street a couple of times and then decided to head home.

I turned onto Biscayne Boulevard heading north. There was a Laundromat on the right-hand side about three blocks north of 79th Street. As I passed it I glimpsed a perfect ass in a miniskirt bent over in the parking lot. I slammed on my brakes for a better look, and the girl stood up and looked over her shoulder at me. She looked beautiful, and I immediately pulled into the parking lot. She stood back and waited while I eased up next to her and rolled down my window.

"Hi honey," she said in a slightly husky Hispanic accent, "you looking for a date?"

"I am," I replied.

"You're not a cop, are you?" She asked.

"No, not a cop," I replied for perhaps the thousandth time. "Just looking for some company."

"Well," she said as she opened the door and got in, "you're in luck. I was on my way home. If I hadn't had to stop and fix my shoe, I would have been gone already."

"I feel lucky," I responded, and she laughed, pulling the door closed behind her.

I took a close look at her while the interior light was on. She was very pretty and looked amazingly like the Hispanic actress Rosie Perez. She had curly, brown hair that hung just past her shoulders, brown eyes, high cheekbones, and big dimples. Her skin was light brown and what I could see was flawless. She didn't have big tits like Rosie Perez, but the short glimpse I'd managed of her ass and legs when she was bent over fixing her shoe had revealed they were perfect. She was wearing a pink mini-dress with no straps and when she sat in my car the skirt had ridden up just enough to show me the tops of her sheer black stockings. Black garter straps held the stockings in place and I wondered what the rest of her lingerie looked like as my cock swelled.

"You're gorgeous," I said and she laughed again.

"Thanks, handsome," she replied. "My name is Peaches."

She held out her hand and I shook it. "Mike," I lied.

"Well, Mike," she said as she reached a hand into my crotch and smiled when she felt my erection, "unfortunately, my roommate is already home so I can't invite you back to my place. I can offer you a blowjob for $60 and if you like it, maybe you can track me down tomorrow night for more."

When I said that sounded good, she told me to turn right out of the parking lot and gave me directions to a secluded cul-de-sac with no streetlights. I pulled over where she indicated and shut off my car. I leaned my chair back and she got on her knees and unsnapped and unzipped my slacks. I lifted my ass and slipped my pants and boxers down to my thighs. I was rock hard and I placed my hand on the back of her head as she lowered her face to my crotch, licking the head of my cock. She then wrapped her lips around my cock and started to lower her head, but then sat up.

"Almost forgot," she said with a smile, "cash first.

I reached down to the back pocket of my pants and did not feel my wallet. I tried the other back pocket and no luck there either. I started to panic and began fumbling in all my pockets, only to discover my wallet was not there. Peaches sat back and watched as I searched frantically. I pulled my boxers and pants back up, and then got out of my car so I could search the floorboards. Peaches was not happy about the light coming on while I looked, and told me to hurry.

My wallet was nowhere to be found. I looked at her and asked, "Did you take my wallet?"

"Fuck you," she replied. "I didn't take it."

"I just had it," I said, now convinced she had taken it when she had been groping me on the drive from the Laundromat.

"Well, I don't have it," she snapped, and opened her small purse to prove it wasn't in there. Then she pulled down the front of her mini-dress to show me it wasn't there, exposing her small breasts and huge nipples. Then she hiked up her skirt to show me it wasn't in her crotch either, revealing very sexy black lace panties and matching garter belt. She had a little nature trail of curly hair on her flat stomach that started just above her belly button and disappeared into the top of her panties.

I was hornier than ever, but I had no money. I apologized for accusing her, and asked if I could drop her off somewhere. She rearranged her clothing as I got back behind the wheel and started the car. She gave me directions to a group of rundown apartment buildings and told me to drop her at the curb. She stood there waiting for me to drive away before she turned and walked to her apartment, presumably so I wouldn't see where she lived.

I was so angry I couldn't stand it. I was extremely horny and had been thrilled to run into her so late. She was much better looking than the average streetwalker, and from what I had been able to see she'd had an amazing body. The brief period of time her full lips had been wrapped around my cock had convinced me that she was worth the money.

I drove home; still not completely convinced she hadn't somehow lifted my wallet. I thought about the hassle of losing my wallet - all the calls I would have to make to cancel credit and debit cards, get a new voter ID, and a trip to the dreaded Department of Motor vehicles for a new driver's license. And I hadn't even gotten a blow job. I was definitely not happy about the way my night had ended.

When I arrived home I made a pot of coffee and started calling my credit card companies. I had canceled two of my three credit cards when I remembered the last time I had seen my wallet was when I paid for my expensive drink tab from the bar. I decided to postpone making any more calls until the bar opened and I could call and see if I'd left my wallet there. They knew me pretty well and I thought that if I had left it there I had a good chance of getting it back intact.

I crawled into bed and jacked off, fantasizing about Peaches' perfect ass.

I woke up just after noon and called the bar. Sure enough, I had left my wallet on the bar and they were holding it for me. I told them I would be in later to pick it up, and then I planned my night. I would go to the bar about 8:00, have a few drinks, and then go looking for Peaches about midnight.

I spent the day, which was Saturday, cleaning my apartment, paying some bills, and went for a run in the early evening. After a shower I dressed and headed to the bar. I collected my wallet, very thankful that Peaches hadn't stolen it, and spent the next five hours drinking with my usual crowd. When I realized the time, I paid my bill and headed out. Everyone was surprised that I left so early.

I cruised up and down 79th Street for the next three hours looking for Peaches but never found her. I even stopped and asked another hooker if she knew Peaches.

"I can be Peaches for you if you want," she replied, "but I don't know anybody by that name."