Jewish Lady: “Oh, no. I couldn’t be seen in a place where men are dancing.”
Tiffany: “Well, just buy some. They won’t tell nobody. Just keep it on the down low.”
Jewish Lady: “On the down low?”
I straight up had to play some R. Kelly, “Down Low” for her, to explain what that meant.
She gave me this crazy look, like a kid that stole candy.
Jewish Lady: “I’ve never been with a black guy. I would love a strong black man. What’s it like doing a black guy?”
Tiffany: “Well . . . they be smelling like cocoa butter. That’s nice. They be all strong, and they dicks are so powerful. If you find a man with an ass, oh my God. It’s just so good. They pick you up. It’s just good. It just depends on who you get with, though. But they can be good.”
Jewish Lady: “That’s what I need.”
Tiffany: “But you know, any guy could be really great, if you guys have a connection and stuff.”
Jewish Lady: “I don’t need the connection. I’m married. I just need to have an orgasm. I just want to feel ravaged.”
She started showing me these romance novels she had. All her romance novels were like, I don’t know. She had one that was like a slave thing or whatever. It was a big, strapping black guy on the cover, holding this passed-out white woman.
Tiffany: “Well, I don’t know any slaves, but I could probably hook you up with somebody big and strong.”
So I hooked her up with Titus’s boy, Goliath. She’d give me $200, I’d take $50, give the rest to Goliath, and then set up the meeting.
Then she introduced me to another lady. I linked her up with another guy that was a friend of Goliath. It was kind of like word of mouth, and I started having a lot of clients.
One lady wanted a strong white man. I didn’t know any huge white guys, but I used to be in Venice Beach a lot, and I met this dude on the boardwalk.
Tiffany: “Hey, would you ever fuck for money?”
Big White Dude: “Yeah. Of course.”
Just like that. Pimping dudes was easy.
The problem was that I wasn’t really necessary. A lot of these guys, once I introduced them and got my $50, they started hooking up with these chicks on their own, doing their own thing. Which makes sense, to be honest. Aside from the intro, they didn’t need me.
So I ended up getting out of pimping, because I didn’t make much money. It’s just not a lucrative business, selling dick. Dick ain’t really all that hard to come by.
Roscoe the Handicapped Angel
In my early twenties, I worked the ticket counter at an airline. When you checked in to your flight, I was the girl who printed your ticket and tagged your bags.
Roscoe was my baggage handler. He would stand behind me at the counter and throw the bags on the conveyor belt.
Roscoe was also handicapped. And not just a little handicapped; dude was messed up in multiple ways.
To start with, he only had one working arm. I don’t know how he even got that job—who hires a baggage handler with only one working arm?
His right arm was big and strong and it worked great. But his left arm was like, this tiny deformed little arm. It was permanently bent at an angle, and kinda hung there and looked like a T. rex arm. He could move the fingers and stuff. Otherwise, it couldn’t do much. Like a baby arm that never fully developed.
It made me feel creepy at first. Have you ever seen a physical deformity on a person, and at first, it sends a chill down your spine? Even if you don’t want to feel that way, you do. For the first few weeks, I was straight-up repulsed by that dead baby arm. Eventually, I moved on to sympathy, “Oh, poor Roscoe.” And then after that, I was just used to it, and treated Roscoe like anyone else.
His arm wasn’t the only thing off about him. His face was always making crazy expressions. You ever seen someone who had a stroke and couldn’t really control their face afterwards? It was like that. I don’t know if he actually had a stroke or if he was born that way, but his mouth went to the side, and it made him talk mush-mouthed.
It took some time to get used to how he spoke, because his mush-mouth made him draw out all his vowel sounds and for real made him sound slow. He said my name like it was three different words: “Tiff-a-Knee.”
But he was not mentally disabled. You could have a normal conversation with him, and he would totally be able to talk to you. At times, he was even smart. And man, he was funny. You can’t be funny if you’re dumb.
But mainly, he didn’t give a fuck. I remember one time soon after I met him, I had this one customer who was such a bitch. She was complaining about every little thing, cussing her husband out, trying to yell at me. I kept being nice, because that’s how they trained us, but she was being a straight-up bitch. When she walked away, Roscoe came up behind me:
Roscoe: “Wow, whatta fuckin’ bitch. I hope she getta yeast in-fec-shuuun, dat stoopid bitch.”
Tiffany: “What’d you say, Roscoe?”
Roscoe: “She stoopid talkin’ to youuu like dat, Tiff-a-Knee. She can’t be talkin’ to youuu like dat. Fuckin’ bitch.”
Tiffany: “Roscoe, you can’t talk like that at work!”
It was even more shocking coming from him, because I kind of assumed that handicapped people don’t curse and talk shit. I always think if someone’s handicapped, then they’re automatically some innocent angel. That’s totally ridiculous of course, but I still thought it.
And nobody could get mad at him, because he’s handicapped. Who’s gonna yell at a handicapped dude with a stroke face and little dead baby arm, just because he cursed?
I liked Roscoe, and we had fun—but Roscoe was into me, too. I mean, really into me, and not subtle at all. Every day when he saw me, he’d come up to me and say:
Roscoe: “TIFF-A-KNEEEEE! You so booty-full! You look soooo good too-day!”
He would notice everything. I could change one little thing, and he would notice it. I’d come into work, he’d see me, his eyes would go all bugged out and crazy, and he’d slur out:
Roscoe: “Whooooaaaa, Tiff-a-Knee, you look soooo hot. I love your blue eye-shad-ooow.”
He started bringing me Filet-O-Fish sandwiches on Fridays, because he learned that I liked them. When he saw I appreciated it, he started bringing me flowers on Mondays.
Roscoe: “Deese are for youuu, Tiff-a-Knee, for youuu house.”
I could not put these flowers in my house. These were not regular flowers you buy at the store. I am pretty sure Roscoe stole them out of somebody’s yard, because they had dirt and ants and bugs all over them. They were pretty, though.
? ? ?
Once he got to know me, Roscoe started asking me out on dates at least once a week.
Roscoe: “TIFF-A-KNEEEEE! You so booty-full. Can we go on a date two-mar-oooow? You want to go on a date with meee?”
I would tell him that I had a man, and he would look sad. Then a few days later, he’d ask me out again, and we’d go through the same conversation. He was never pushy about it, always polite and respectful, but man—he never gave up.
One day, he asked me: