Ole For Miss Tre
By: William, Dollar Bill
Tags: Sex Workers, Humor, Sex, Culture, Queens

Ole For Miss Tre

The three-fingered hooker!

photo by author

Back when I was running my own adult ad agency, I wouldn’t take advertising money from every sex worker or escort agency who wanted me to take care of their needs. If you were cheap, or high maintenance/low quality, or if I just thought you were a piece of shit as a human being…I‘d run you off. I had enough clients to afford myself that luxury.

But when I worked full-time for Action Magazine, it was a different story. My job was to accept all cummers. The boss drove a Porsche and rode a 1250 cc Harley. He wasn’t about picking and choosing among hookers. They could be real live human traffickers. He couldn’t give a shit!

One of my specialties for the corporation was Colombianas from Queens. They were mostly women with class and style — and an appealing ethnic flavor. They also spoke almost no English.

Given that the bosses and sales staff were all residents of Philadelphia — and not bilingual — nobody was equipped to handle these accounts. I, on the other hand, knew Queens well from driving a taxi (yes, I did go to Queens), and had studied Spanish for 4 years in high school. If not fluent, at least I could converse.

Thus, I was the salesman most qualified to sell this segment of the client base their ads. And as such, I had customers in virtually every neighborhood along the #7 line. Woodside, Jackson Heights, Elmhurst, Corona, Flushing? Check on almost every stop along the way.

So one day, I got a call from a new casita located almost directly under the elevated train at 110th Street and Roosevelt. They’d heard Action worked for Queens houses and wanted an ad in the boss’s rag.

If you don’t know Queens, let me give y’all a hint. Under the #7 train at 110th and Roosevelt is not an exclusive address — if you get my drift. I shuddered to think what I was going to run into when I arrived.

A funky, noisy shithole — manned (or womaned) by just two middle-aged ladies was what I found. One was the boss who answered the phone. And the other? A lumpy senora with just three fingers (no middle or ring finger) on her right hand!

Sick puppy that I surely am…the first mental image that popped into my deranged mind was what a hand job would look like from a three-fingered hooker!

I can’t imagine that any guy who answered that ad ever returned — if he stayed at all. I mean…come on! A three-fingered hooker? The whole milfy deal — plus the missing fingers — must have presented quite a conundrum for any guy who answered an ad which featured clip art of a gorgeous woman to attract customers.

But that’s the thing about working for a corporation. If it were up to me, I never would have sold that ad knowing how dissatisfied the customers would surely be when they arrived. But working for the man?

I sold the ad and found a gorgeous magazine photo to bring the hombres to the yard. That was my job! Not surprisingly, I don’t think they lasted for more than a month. Which was fortunate…as I know I didn’t want to revisit the place.

Yup, I had a lot of wacky clients back in the Action days. But that casita took the cake. A three-fingered hooker. Get the fuck outta here!