Credit in the Straight World 

by ZAI J. 

Selling my body can be the best part of my week and the worst part of my week. It’s the worst when a fat shithead from Seeking Arrangements insults my looks, pointing out a pic with visible cellulite because he doesn’t like my prices; it’s also the best when I meet a chubby safe-feeling metal guy from Milwaukee that likes to eat ass. I got an extra $100 out of him in the heat of the moment for allowing him to do that thing I previously said “no” to, and as he hurriedly Venmo’d me the extra cash I felt like the baddest bitch on the planet. Like I just negotiated some celebrated merger, or took my company public or some other high-profile shit. But it’s just me and my own knowledge of a job well done. 

I leave the hotel in River North feeling mostly elated with a dash of shame. I definitely ate half an edible, took two shots of tequila, drank one glass of wine and did two bumps of cocaine to get to this place—and something has me imagining an over-educated mental health professional who hasn’t been properly fucked in years pathologizing me for sex addiction. Most of the time I’m pretty self-confident, but I think the gummy may have just hit which has me super in my head, contemplating where I went wrong and how I ended up such a pervert freak. 

It’s a Sunday, it’s the golden hour, and the first 85 degree day of the season. The best time of the year is trickling in, and this city is truly insane (drunk) when then warm weather hits. My drive home from Pilsen to the north side last night was somewhat harrowing. I saw two women barely make it across a busy street, walking against the light laughing and stumbling to the ground. Aggressive and drunk drivers were on every road. I witnessed several near collisions as I attempted to merge onto 290 around midnight; the next day learning there was a fatal accident in the exact same area of 290 that I saw this shit-storm brewing. Roughly eighteen hours later in the hotel district, it feels like it’s all starting up again. I’m surrounded by a flood of moving people eager to wine and dine themselves into oblivion and I’m OK with being one of them, I’m already half there. 

Inspired and starving, I flock to the restaurant on the corner—a fancy naturally lit Italian place. Italian is my comfort food, and I always allow myself some kind of reward after whoring. I enter the establishment and ask if I can sit at the bar. As I saddle up to an empty seat I am greeted by a cute young bartender with a curly mullet. “Is this a rock n’ roll mullet, or an out-of-touch suburban mullet?” I wonder. Cocky from hot sex and cold hard cash, I am in flirt mode, calling everyone baby: “Thank you, baby for charging my phone” to the cute young hostess, “Thank you baby for the martini” to my bartender. I peruse the menu’s familiar dishes feeling classy and knowledgeable. Even though everyone is a foodie these days, my connection to the cuisine as a well-fed Italian American allows me to pretend I’m a wholesome family gal for a brief moment. 

I order a Caesar salad to accompany the martini, and I briefly wonder if this bartender could be “the one.” But I immediately recover from my cinematic delusion, chuckling to myself at the concept. It’s slow so I chat him up anyway, asking questions about where he’s from, what neighborhood he lives in etc. I’m not impressed by anything he says, decide that he is dumb and it’s time to move on. 

Two well-dressed middle-aged men take a seat at the circular bar, a few feet from me. I heard them discussing their post-dinner options, clearly out-of-towners. “You should check out Second Story Bar, it’s a legend.” I blurt it out to them. As soon as the words left my mouth though I realized I was mistaken, they are not gay men, but colleagues in town for the restaurant convention. “Oh wait, never mind you’re not gay, OMG!” They gave me a weird look and returned to their conversation. Clearly the time is nigh for me to shut the fuck up. 

I eat my salad assessing the evening wins, high not just from substances but also from hundreds in my wallet. I did a really good job of playing “dream girl” for metal boy. If not “dream girl,” then definite “groupie slut” or whatever kind of fantasy he was seeking. While pre-coitus in the makeout phase I noticed his Alice In Chains shirt on the chair. “Let’s listen to that!” I requested pointing at the shirt. “You like Alice In Chains?” he asked. “Yeah, I’m a rock n’ roll girl,” I replied. “Yeah I could tell,” he said. I kind of lied. I only know that song “Rooster” and I’m not that into metal. But that’s not why we are here. I’m a little fucked up so I keep interrupting our makeout to gab. At one point, I made the mistake of calling “Layne Staley” “Alister Crowley” and we had a laugh over the mix up, as both icons are arguably “METAL AF.” Even if HE doesn’t think me a dream girl, I think me a dream girl. Blonde, busty, and capable of rock music references. 

I feel good about these qualities but angsty over my inability to put any of them to use in the “straight world.” I work a square job in research that doesn’t pay shit even with a Master’s degree, pursue a relentlessly disappointing career as a musician and then this. Truthfully, it always felt inevitable that I’d eventually put my promiscuity to good use. Knowing that I move through the world inciting a desire to bang brings me a sense of empowerment, closely linked to the creative parts of myself. The part that loves attention, loves to perform, yearns to be recognized for my ideas. But both the creative self and the sexual self can also be my weaknesses, at times leaving me feeling insatiable, out of control, isolated, and jealous. I don’t know how to fit the pieces together. I don’t know how to stop feeling like a mediocre member of society. But this is a problem for a different day. Today I made some bread, untaxed and answering to no one. 

I snap myself out my existential ponderings and make a mental note to look up the summer convention schedule. The restaurant convention is my reason for today’s River North rendezvous, and if I keep my eye on what is coming, I can better estimate the possibility for lucrative job opportunities. Less time spent in loops of never-ending text exchanges, less time spent answering stupid questions, less time trying to suss out the level of motivation for a meet up, less time figuring out the entire plan for those that do want to see me. Men are mostly incompetent at making plans and it’s a lot of fucking hand-holding. Convention men are usually a sure bet, and they usually stay in nice hotels. Plus, these guys are often smart which makes for much better foreplay. 

Increasingly drunk, I order raspberry sorbet for dessert, which I realize when it arrives I don’t really want. But it’s treat time so I make myself eat at least a little bit. As I slice off pieces of the sorbet, a thought pops into my head “Do I hate myself?” But it’s only passing because I quickly decide that I rule. When I get the bill, it arrives with some sort of business card “Is this bartender finally hitting on me?” But no, it’s just a restaurant promotion thing. Get your mind out of the gutter, babe. I try not to pay attention to the numbers on my receipt. Treat time. 

I leave the restaurant, it’s still bright out. I walk around the corner to get my directional bearings and realize there’s a CTA entrance conveniently before me. I consider my choices. I could take the train, which might be amusing since I’m kind of fucked up right now. Current Uber prices are over $30. But then I remember every time I try to use my Ventra account it won’t work (despite a ridiculously long customer service call with a warm Southern lady to try and resolve the problem, to no avail). I’m in white booty shorts, the seats are always dirty, and the red line permanently smells like bong water which tends to make me feel nauseous. Also, treat time. I order the car. 

It’s going to take over five minutes, so I walk back around the corner to the front of the restaurant, taking a seat on the bench meant for customers waiting for valet. Feeling relaxed and happy in the warmth of the setting sun, I hear many accents happening around me. A man passes by repeating the word “Chicago,” alternating his emphasis between the vowels: “sheeecago,” “shecagoooo.” How beautiful it is to be alive. An Asian lady in a pretty sundress sits next to me as her husband remains standing to watch for his car. A particularly rough looking crackhead shuffles by, shouting declarations to no one in particular (as they tend to do). “Sad” I mutter. “Yeah,” agrees the sundress lady sympathetically. “Winning is LOSING! And losing is WINNING!” the cracklady asserts. “You know, she’s not wrong,” says sundress lady’s husband, looking down at us on the bench. 

My car arrives. I sit quietly in the back seat. Earlier in the afternoon on the ride to my date, I was quite nervous. That didn’t stop me from engaging in conversation with the older African man driving me. I learned he’s from Eritrea, a country colonized by the Italians. I learned about Eritrea’s climate, the topography, the languages spoken, the dominant religions, a little about their government and most importantly the food. “I bet the food is amazing” I told him. He overshot the hotel, and we got stuck crossing the river the wrong way. I had to get out my GPS to help him find the best route back to the hidden hotel sandwiched between another building and the Marina Towers. I didn’t mind though, as he was delightful to talk to. I made a mental note to visit Eritrea one day. Later I find out it is not advisable to visit Eritrea according to global standards for non-essential travel. Something about landmines. 

More subdued on the ride home, I watch the sunset over shiny buildings. I feel romantic and a bit sad, recognizing the sensation of loneliness creeping up. I went out with three men from the non-paid apps over the past six weeks and all three of them ghosted me. It kind of infuriates me that people can’t just be honest, but I know the problem must also be me. I fuck them too fast or I don’t fuck them at all, or I say things like “men are trash at any age” when asked how dating has been going for me. It’s his fault for asking? It’s been since 2012 that I’ve had a boyfriend which makes me slightly obsessed with finding one. But that’s not the whole picture. I’m also “half gay” as I like to say, so my relationships for almost a decade were predominantly queer. Still, can finding a boyfriend really be that hard? 

As I walk into the front door of my pink-painted condo, my exuberant 14lb terrier wags for me with the entirety of his body. I get him ready for a walk, singing an improvised blues song, the only words being, “mama’s a crazy person.” I decide to take him on an extra-long walk to stave off the loneliness. The temperature still warm, I feel light and free. The 19th century greystones, flanked by flowering trees and green bushes fill me with a sense of calm. I look affectionately down at my dog happily trotting along. A friendly breeze rolls through. My pup lifts his head in the air, snout pointing up, taking in the wind ruffling his black locks. 

Later that night I dream I’m attending a play at an ornate turn-of-the-century roundabout theater. The stage is red, the walls are gold. The usher taking our tickets is a young version of my father, long hair hippie-style. He is yelling at me. He is yelling at me in front of everyone in line. I yell back at him defiantly. I find my seat. There is a whole row reserved for me but no one comes to join me in my row. The play I came to see is not a play. It’s an award ceremony for members of the audience. A faceless voice calls out names. Audience members are being recognized for mystery achievements. I wait patiently for my name. But it doesn’t get called. There is no reward.