Roger Hornsby - The sex procurer

She looked at me again. She was suspicious, and yet she was biting the bait. I could see it gently locking itself in place in her sweet cheek. And I added, "I don't have a card with me to introduce myself, but I would very much like to have you model for me if you're interested. I do some things that you'd enjoy seeing, I'm sure."

"You're a photographer?" she asked, starting to get with it at last.

I nodded. I knew she was biting. There's one thing in our day and age that turns broads on and that's thinking they might be considered for the sex scene. Though they're suspicious of the line, they still like to explore it. Everyone of them dreams of being "discovered" somehow or other, even if they have no dramatic ambitions in the world. And all of them want to show off their bodies. They'll pose for pennies if they think it will get pictures of them in magazines. They're crazy. All they have from it is a lot of photos of themselves afterwards, but I suppose a lot of women want to grow old and remember the good tits they had when they were young.

Anyway, I pushed the proposition, and it carried us across that street when the light changed. We talked about the possibilities, and she said she might be interested. I asked for her address, she hesitated, and finally she compromised by giving me a number to call.

I don't like taking phone numbers. It's not that I think broads will give me phony ones. That's not true. They usually don't. They're not smart enough most of the time to compose wrong digits. But they're dumb enough, especially when they're excited, to put the numbers together assbackwards, and I end up getting the local plant nursery instead of their home phones. So I was suspicious, and I took the number, and decided to do my own checking in the meanwhile. I left her discreetly, not pushing my position, thanked her gentlemanly for her time and interest and promised I would call her.

Then I dropped into the crowd away from her, watched from a distance where she went in the shopping center where we parted, and proceeded to cover her the rest of the way. I found out where she lived by losing the afternoon following her that way through several stores and the meeting with a couple of girl friends in a drugstore, and finally went behind her to her house, noted the address, and left. I had double protection, in other words. If that bitch had put me on with a wrong number, I would follow up on it, believe me, and see her at her house some way or other.

But the number was valid. I waited till the following afternoon, taking a flop hotel room in that town, getting to know the territory better, staking out things and making plans for that broad. If everything worked well, it would be perfect. And when I called her the next afternoon, though she wasn't home at the time and her fruity-voiced mom answered, I found out the number was a valid one, and I knew I was part way down the track.

Later I called her again, she was there, and we made a date for the next afternoon to meet. You'll note that I didn't push the time factor. That's important. Keep the broad on the string. Never make a pest of yourself. And when you look like you have something to offer, it works perfectly. Because then it makes them anticipate seeing you again even more than you're thinking to be with them. It juices the road ahead.

The following afternoon we met as planned at the same traffic signal where we first had talked together. I purposely planned it that way for the sentimental angle. Keep that in mind, too, if you're working a broad. They're goofy as all hell, and if you can line up a series of incidents that center around a certain event, like the way both of you met each other, they'll build a lot of crazy castles in their heads that work in your favor.

We went to a little cafe in the shopping center, too, where we had left each other two days earlier, and we took a back booth and talked about things, about her possibilities, about my interests, about everything that would juice her up all the way.

For instance, we discussed her beauty. Every broad wants to hear that kind of talk. If you make it very professional and tell them how attractive they are objectively and all that shit, they'll hang on your every word. They'll ask you all kinds of stupid questions, pretending just to be interested in themselves objectively, as I've said, and you can ply them with flattery till it comes out their ears.

For instance, once that conversation got going, she wanted to know why I thought her legs were so beautiful. I gave her back, very gently, "Someone once said, 'It's not what a girl's legs look like, but where they're going, that counts.'" I took a long chance on that one, but it's important to move a little sex into the conversation, too, because that teases cunts, too, never forget.

"Oh?" she said. "Well, do you think…" And she let her sentence fall, playing the virgin act, of course, wanting to talk more about where girls legs go, but hesitating because she didn't want to look like she was the not-so-nice kind; bullshit.

"Let's face certain facts," I said very authoritatively. "A man likes a woman because it's the natural thing. But beauty is something that's definitely related to sex. A girl with pretty legs always excites a man, because, frankly," and I hesitated, making it look like I was really trying to phrase it another way, "well, it just so happens that every man looks at every woman with the thought in his mind of going to bed with her if he ever got the chance."

She said nothing. She wanted to say something, I could see, but she just sipped her soft drink, and looked at me. She was almost there, I knew, almost down the track; but she was still in the virgin act.

"I'm going to ask you something very personal," I said then, again trying for the long ball, not wanting to waste time and yet knowing a little daring – do sometimes can work wonders. "Would you tell me something quite honestly if I asked you?"

She shrugged. "It depends what you want to know," she said, trying to be funny.

"Well, never mind." I tossed it aside. But not really. Because she bit immediately and insisted I tell her what I wanted to know. So I came back again with a little hesitation and then a blurt in which I said, my eyes solidly and most sincerely on her, "Would you tell me frankly if you've ever done it with a boy?"

That's a tough question to bring off, and many a man hesitates to say it, fear. And yet it's a question that brings results more often than you might think. It has a kind of shock value that hardly can be matched by any other conversational gambit.

For instance, it set Lucy – that was her name – back immediately. She did the old blinking act, actually hit by it, and swallowed nervously, and flushed, and lost control of the situation. That's one reason for asking the question; a girl is never quite the same once it's been asked. She wants control of the situation, though, and she falls further into the trap because she does.

You see they always answer it some way or other. And, because they're in a conversational situation, having met with you on their own, they can't very well get up and leave. So they answer your question, nervous and not prepared for it, and yet determined to get control of the situation again, determined also not to be considered anything square even though, a minute before, they might have wanted you to think their shit didn't stink. So they always tell the truth.

Oh they won't admit they fuck like minks, maybe, if that's the kind they are. But, if you've caught one of the good girl types, they'll always admit at least that they've fucked. And since you're working to break down the good girl type, their answering you with that truth is just what you want. It moves the barrier down just a strong bit more.

She admitted she had laid a boy. But she came right back, saying, somewhat agitatedly, but really just to control the situation, "But why does it matter? What's the point of your question?"