Dead Trick in Ho House
By: William, Dollar Bill
Tags: Sex, Sex Work, Crime, Death

Dead Trick in Ho House

In a she male ho house at that!

Yep! We all gotta die some time! But Lord, please don’t take me while I’m busting a nut in a she male ho house! This particular prayer was not answered for the unfortunate guy featured in the following. May the luckless guy’s trans-chasing soul rest in peace!

Note: This was written 15 years ago.

…………………………………………………………………………………

Yes, I know fooling around with the sex-for-sale set is all a lot of fun and games — that is — until you have a heart attack right in the middle of all the festivities and (God forbid) die in of all places…a she male ho house! Of all the indignities for a closet case!

I can just read the headlines now. JOHN SMITH, DEDICATED HUSBAND AND FATHER OF THREE, DIED YESTERDAY OF CARDIAC ARREST IN A SHE MALE BROTHEL. Talk about posthumous humiliation!

Well, normally, I don’t ponder such morbidity. I’m just not that fucked up of a guy. But recently, The Grim Reaper grabbed one of us in a she male ho house, giving me the thematic material for this thoughtful essay. Here’s how this issue’s study in the surreal went down:

I have a client, a decent and honest she male, who suddenly began acting very mysteriously about a month ago. “Don’t call me on this phone,” she panicked one deadline day. “Call the girls on the commercial line.”

And so for three or four weeks, I didn’t see the boss (very uncharacteristic) and traveled to a different location to arrange for their ads. Finally, after about a month, the madam appeared in person to give me the scoop:

A customer had died after his session. And the girls, instead of calling the police, simply panicked, threw him in the hallway, and closed the door, hoping that nobody would figure out that just maybe — he was a trick from the whore house on the fourth floor.

Now, this is a tough spot to be in. Any person would freak out at the specter of someone dying in their apartment. But when it’s in a location filled with lawbreakers who are at once illegal aliens of the transgendered persuasion — what’s a girl to do?

Well, I know that you clear everybody out of the apartment — and hide anything that might hint at what you’re doing in there. Then you call 911 to say that a friend died in your apartment — and nothing more!

When the cops arrive, their only mission is to take care of the deceased — and not to call in the vice squad or immigration authorities to hassle the girls even of they figure out what the place is about. Often (as in almost always), working girls don’t understand that the police are specialists — and that the guys who take care of dead bodies aren’t the same cops who bust hookers. Mostly, they really don’t give a shit if you’re blowing guys for a living. That’s beyond their purview.

But the girls aren’t aware. All they know is there’s a dead guy on the kitchen floor. So push him out the door, right? Bad move, girls! Naturally, once the body was discovered, the police were summoned whereupon they knocked on every door and sooner than later realized that the guy was a dead trick from the building’s trans ho house.

Actually, this isn’t the first time I’ve heard of something like this happening at a brothel. It’s actually the third! Some individuals are more pragmatic than were these girls.

In the old Corporate Treasures, an eleven bedroom/three-story brothel on 33rd and Second Avenue, a guy died many years ago. The security guard, who was a big black guy, had the good sense and cold heart to carry the guy down two flight of stairs, and lie him against a light post on the corner.

On another occasion, an 86 year-old visited a Brazilian spot, booked a girl, and proceeded to thump her in multiple positions until bango! — the party pill kicked in a little too hard and his motor began sputtering. The poor guy literally “came and went.” Dismayed, the girls did their best to put the man back in his clothing (all while he was pissing and shitting as he expired) and move him to the couch where he finally and mercifully died.

As an experienced entrepreneur in the sex biz ,the madam knew to call the police. Attempting to explain why the residence was almost entirely bedroom space with no living room, dining room, den etc., she told the responding officer that her business was to rent rooms to several friends.

The cop listened to her bull shit and then got on his cell phone to explain to his superior: “Yeah, I’m here in this whorehouse, and the guy’s dead. So send the coroner.” Nice try, honey. Cops just aren’t that stupid that they don’t know a house of ill repute when they see one.

And so…I have two pieces of advice on this matter before I close. If you’re a working girl and your client dies in the apartment, call the police immediately.

Prostitution is a misdemeanor and barely against the law. Pushing a body into a hallway to stink the joint up is a sin I wouldn’t want on my conscience — and one a cop is likely to judge as more venal than blowing a guy for a buck.

In the case of the she males, the boss wasn’t even there. But she certainly took the hit for her girls’ indiscretions what with the police all over her personal and business affairs.

And second, if you’re an aging trick trying to recapture your youth with a party pill, for God's sake, take it easy. I know if I’m in the clinches with a young hoochie who starts with the “faster, baby faster” routine, I respond with a “calm down, honey! I ain’t tryin’ to die fuckin’ no ho!”

Thus...I’m here to tell this story and not six feet under from overindulging!