Waiting for the Whore Train to Arrive

One of my recurrent fantasies has me moving to a small town, like a really quaint Americana place that doesn’t exist any more & probably never did.  It’s a ridiculous ambition, because everything I love in life is part and parcel of big city living.  The interesting people, diverse ethnic foods, cool shops, great cultural scene, etc, wouldn’t be present in my imaginary small town. 

But that hasn’t stopped me from using craigslist to browse random small towns around America looking through the “real estate for sale” section.  One of the most compelling arguments in favor of small towns is that I could buy a home five times the size of my current one for the same amount of money I spent on my couch.  But, being who I am, any visit to craigslist usually ends up with me in the whore section, browsing the whores to see if there’s anything unique or special about small town prostitutes.

Oddly the one thing I found is that there’s a certain population minimum required in order to support a thriving craigslist prostitute economy.  Most of the really small towns I looked at didn’t even have any local talent, but the scant few ads I found were by touring professionals, booking appointments in advance.  It reminded me of a documentary I saw about doctors in Alaska who travel to rural wilderness twice a year and everyone schedules their checkups & non-emergency work at that time.

Unless you count working for corporate America, I’ve never done business with a prostitute, but I can imagine the night before the whore train pulls into town how feverishly excited the local population of small town Johns must be, and how the temptation to masturbate or stick your penis in that one tree that is shaped kinda like a woman has got to be unbearably compelling, but you can’t, you can’t waste a good shagging when an actual big city prostitute is a mere 24 hours away.

So I guess you could describe my feelings about small towns as “conflicted.”

This story is tragically sexy & disgusting

I’m going to violate two jonsonblog rules in this post - I usually stay away from stories about kooky news items, because there’s plenty of room for that on the internet, and I usually stay away from stories about women I would have sex with, because my wife reads this blog & she has easy access to pointy objects for stabbing me.

But when I read the story of Jaileen Soliman (yes, you read that right; Jaileen), I was moved to comment.  If you’re unfamiliar, Jaileen is a 25 year old Floridian woman who was arrested in mid November while living in utter squalor with her 3 children, all home schooled, 8 cats, a pit bull, a pot bellied pig(!), a bird and a constantly rising tide of filth including human & animal waste. 

But the real issue here is the dichotomy between my brain & my penis on how we analyzed this story.  My brain feels sorry for the kids, and for the woman, who is clearly not right in the head, although not so much for the pot bellied pig, who was probably more in his element than any pig in America, and is now very angry at Social Services for fucking up a good situation.  My penis, on the other hand, is trying very hard to convince the rest of me that having sex in a living room filled with human waste would not be that high of a price to pay.  See, Jaileen is super hot.  Like, at the very least stripper hot, certainly “pedophile Junior High Teacher” hot, and possibly even legitimately hot.  Add in a flounder index that would unquestionably be off the charts, and my penis makes some interesting points.

Sadly Jaileen, it will never work out between us.  You are currently in Jail (oh the irony!), you have a 10 year old even though you are only 25, and your cooter is quite possibly a petri dish full of biological weapons that even the worst tyrants would be too shamed to loose upon an ususpecting public.  Meanwhile, I live on the other side of the country, and I’m married to a woman who may stab me in my sleep tonight after she reads this.

I like to daydream about the life we could have had, Jaileen.  You and I walking hand in hand along a beach somewhere, pausing only to poop in public and then make out right near that poop.  I guess I’m just a romantic at heart.