(Caution – do not eat whilst reading)
There was a lot wrong about Jim Wrong. That’s where he got his name. Of course prostitution is populated by odious characters, but Jim stood head and shoulders above them all. I first met him in a Limerick apartment sometime around 1996. Some of us met him in more recent years. He’s been imposing himself on the women of prostitution for a long time, mores’ the pity… for us.
There was something fucked up about Jim.
It wasn’t just that Jim didn’t wash, although that was true. And it wasn’t just that he didn’t change his clothes – ever – although that was true also. It was more that he didn’t see anything wrong with these things, and instead seemed to delight in his freedom from socially imposed norms, like washing.
Jim was like a dirty oul cowboy that had just come in off the range. He was like a cowpat with shoes and a halo of bluebottle flies, and a big cheesy grin – and a penis.
We might have called him cheddar man, and surely would have, if the first thing we’d seen of his had been his penis instead of his face.
If Jim didn’t get his way he didn’t voice is disappointment verbally, but anally. He was like a human slurry van, slushing his discontent on the floor, on the sink, up the walls. His scalded ring was relentless, as were his scabby scaly filth-embedded hands.
His trousers stank of piss and had the sheen of trousers not washed since they were first bought in the second hand section of The Farmers Journal. Jim was some piece of work alright; Jim was a law unto Jim. I’d heard about him long before I’d met him; Jim was a legend in his lifetime. A dirty bollocks if the whorehouses of Limerick had ever seen one, and Jim could have given lessons in being a dirty bollocks. He was expert in his field – in the middle of his field, in fact, for Jim was a farming man – and no one was ever left in doubt as Jim diligently presented the evidence under his fingernails.
He had every habit a woman wouldn’t want to see in a man whose cock she had to suck, including the slobbering, slavering way he’d shove his tongue halfway out his own head before he’d use the big pink monstrosity to lick his own lips, before he’d slap them together in the manner of the appetised. “Hills have eyes shit” as one woman said to me.
Another woman, a friend of mine intimately acquainted with Jim, said he “was like an overweight Worzel Gummidge that stank of shit”.
Jim exuded a presence that radiated out from him and all around – literally. I had heard a lot of stories about Jim before I first met him; women talk, you know, and there was a lot to be said about Jim Wrong. Sometimes we’d be driving down the road, a few of us on our way to the whorehouse, and if we passed a slurry pit or were caused for any other reason to endure an offensive smell, someone would always remark “here comes Jim Wrong!” and we’d all roar laughing. So I thought I knew what to expect from Jim, before I first met him. How wrong was I? It wasn’t until I’d met our friend Jim that I realized some people are just beyond description.
Jim had a penchant for the new girls. I had been lucky enough, up till the first day I met him, never to have been in the apartment when he’d presented his stinking self. One day, my luck ran out. Ding dong went the doorbell. It was Jim Wrong, grunting and snorting, looking for the new girl.
I pressed the handle of the bedroom door, bracing myself for the sight of Jim Wrong, but the smell hit before the sight did. But one quickly followed the other – it was a classic double-whammy. It was the stench of death but yet it was living – above the shoulders sat, instead of a head, a big busted mattress. Instead of hair there sprouted coils of rusted springs and in the middle of this monstrosity sat a crooked mouth, smiling, more gums than broken teeth, twinkling with the drool oozing from the side of his warped and demented mouth, like the Colgate ad gone mad.
Jim was very pleased to see me – this was unmistakable as his horse-like truncheon busted through his piss-stained jeans. He hurried out of his decrepit clothing.
I tried to discuss the horror of the experience that followed with a woman I know, an ex prostitute herself, who was so disgusted by descriptions of Jim she said “Speak to your fucking counsellor love, I don’t want to hear it”.
We’ve heard ideas about ‘enjoyment’ being found in prostitution. Let us tell you this: any woman who can say she took pleasure out of seeing our Jim has had severe blunt force trauma to the head, most likely delivered by her respectable pimp, causing frontal lobe damage resulting in erratic eye-movement to such a point that she cannot focus on the vision in front of her, and has had so many broken noses that her nasal passage can no longer absorb such an offensive smell, and for that, all we can feel is envy for that woman.
Otherwise she is on a serious amount of medication… or ought to be…
(This was a composite experience written by women, including myself, with experience of servicing the notorious Limerick farmer Jim Wrong.)