I always wear a fleece that says Esprit de Corps, a team I was on, and learned from my Marine ex that it’s a morale saying for them. That’s what we called our team playing trivia night once; ah nice wholesome times.
Last Saturday, I had a beer at the Rick’s Cabaret “front bar” which is outside the actual club. I was visiting my Boston buddy who bartends there and catching up, when some dude approached me about my fleece.
“Why does your sweater say that?”
“It’s a team I was on.”
“You know what it really means?”
“Yeah, it’s a Marine thing; my ex told me.”
Fast forward a half hour and I’m verifying he has the hotel room to himself for a while and off we go.
Fun enough. Whatever. Fall asleep for a couple hours and suddenly his marine buddies are banging on the door and next thing I know, I’m naked under a sheet with five shitfaced hoorah motherfuckers talking shit. No physical aggression but it was ugly.
Mr. recipient of blow jobs who played nice until the deal was sealed, pulled the worst 180 ever in my extensive hookup history.
All of a sudden, him and the pals are telling me to hurry up and get the fuck out. I’m half drunk and half asleep; I can already tell they’re not kidding and feeling pretty dirty. I’m too out of it to think more than vaguely that this is a truly compromising situation.
I start to find my piecews of clothing as the guys ignore me to talk Marine shit with some random corps guy they met out and about. At one point, one says, “Hurry up and fuck off before you get fucked up the ass.”
That got me alert. I stayed calm and vainly slammed the door, as if they gave a shit I wanted to helplessly display my anger.
So, the point of this is, I’m providing yet another cautinary tale via my own stupid antics. The point is also that I got lucky and it didn’t get real in there. At least not physically; verbally for sure.
I’ve never had something that bad happen to me at work in 3.5 full years in the sex industry. It’s true what people say; random hookups are no less risky than “paid” hookups. They can be far worse. Verbal assault hurts, too, but thank God I dodged the rape bullet. Assuming they actually would have done something that horrible.
Fuck the dead hooker jokes and “Daddy raped you” jabs. I’m so used to turning down propositions at work, I forgot agreeing to random hookups as a civilian actually comes with risks. Just because I’m not being lured with money doesn’t make it safe to fuck a dude I just met at a hotel room occupied by four pumped up, obnoxious marines. I was legitimately scared for a moment there, and there’s no other time in my life I was scared of an actual rape, versus date rape gray areas.
I talked to my guy friend about the bad taste in my mouth that left, given my usually favorable opinion of military men. I had fucking gone to the World War II Museum that day, for Christ’s sake; I was feeling as patriotic and thankful toward military as ever. My friend suggested this glorified fetish of mine it’s just a phase, implying I’ll wind up with a hippie writer type. But dude, I hate hipsters.
I think I’ll lay off wearing my Esprit de Corps fleece on Bourbon for a while. I don’t even feel like reading the rest of Generation Kill until this incident is further behind me. I tend to think of guys who deployed as poor little puppies who aren’t treated right when they get home, but those guys certainly had zero humility.