Paulyanna

A short sample from Pulling of the Boulevard

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Pulling Off The Boulevard

Everything happened relatively quickly. Robert and I had been there five days and were already hanging out on a street corner, attempting to put into practice all we’d learned. It pleased me when I imagined that some unwary tourists would drive by and assume I was a genuine component in this authentic American streetlife scene.

For a first night working the Boulevard, I suppose having no disaster meant it went well enough. After we checked out the bars and consumed enough Dutch courage, we hit the street. It was around twelve. The coastal breeze heated by concrete on its journey into West Hollywood was perhaps too comfortable, as I had to fight to stay awake. There was no pressure to score; I was on a working holiday, with a stronger emphasis on holiday. Here only to dabble and see what happened.

Straight away Robert and I stood independently of each other. We hung about fifteen metres apart. It hadn’t been suggested – it just happened. Robert probably reckoned it was better for business if we split up and I was inclined to agree. I wouldn’t have wanted my style cramped or crimped in an eighties fashion, for that matter. Such a ‘bad hair day’ memory, that one. Anyway, it was great doing my own thing and looking down the road at Robert doing his. When the traffic flow eased, we would mess about and take turns competing to see who slutted around most convincingly, cracking each other up with ridiculous exaggerations of seductive femininity. We got to be quite good at it, in a theatrical sense.

Every so often we would smoke a joint together or chat a while, like on an official tea-break. Then we would return to our own posts. I would lean back against a shop-front, one foot propped behind with my knee protruding out, using the back of my heel as a small seat. I was a little precariously balanced and it was not the most comfortable sitting position, but substantial when waiting around for hours at a time. My general posture would be laid back, head angled downwards, as though wearing a peaked cap in the wind. Pulling on a strand of chewing-gum from between my lips then twirling it around my finger helped advertise to any onlooker, “I am a tart with no one to do.”

I would cast an occasional glance along the road, to check for the next wave of oncoming traffic. I would time my lethargic pace from the sheltered wall, to the edge of the kerb, so I was properly positioned when motorists passed by. For me this meant being able to make eye contact. Unlike in a bar there was not the luxury of time to make a character assessment. I would lean forward with my hands on my knees, levelling up our lines of sight. I had but an instant to make my decision and for them to make theirs. Was the person a crazy freak or a murderer? Were they do-able? If I was interested, I’d continue to follow up my lengthened gaze with a tarty display. A mixture of bendy stretches and slutty yawns, like a busty aerobics instructor. All on the off-chance that a positive assessment would be made in the rear-view mirror.

By Paul Douglas Lovell

From: United Kingdom

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