Dealing Flesh (28 page)

~~~

A new dawn burrows through the blinds of my window.

Romy (yawning):
Ohh nooo, not another morning
.

Scaredy Cat:
You must come up with something else to save your business.

Fantasia makes the motion to merge with a benefactor couple instead of just one man.

Whip Cracker:
Appears plausible, given the ongoing precariousness of your situation.

Lustania:
An all-black couple will do, although it’s hard to picture that I would have to do it with a woman. But hey…if that were part of the deal, I’d give it a go. Who knows? I might end up liking it.

Fantasia:
She, for sure, needs to be healthy and gentle.

The carefully created ad runs for a straight two weeks. No one calls. It leads me to believe that Fantasia’s plot is just too freaky and impossible to become reality. Surprisingly, when checking my voicemail again this afternoon, a week after the expiration date, I find one message in the mailbox from a sympathetic sounding woman who asks me to get in contact with her. I ring her this evening. Nervousness befalls me when I hear a female voice on the other line. I feel awful, disgusted with myself, but at the same time a huge wave of arousal holds me prisoner.

“My husband and I have much of an open relationship,” she says. “It would give me great pleasure to see you with him while I watch. I’m sure you’re gonna like him.”

I feel even more uncomfortable, although it tickles so good to be so bad. This moment, Fantasia shows me snippets of possible future get-togethers. They make me so horny I nearly climax on the spot. All I want is for the conversation to end so I can lie down and masturbate.

“Are you planning on participating?” I ask.

“Probably not. But who knows? I may join in near the end,” the lady replies.

“Can I ask what motivates you to be this open-minded?”

“I love to see my man happy. And adding you would truly show him how much I do love him.”

Romy:
I could never be that liberal.

Whip Cracker:
This is exactly how it should be. Women oughta be much more accommodating to their men.

“Hmm.”

“Can you meet us at a restaurant to get acquainted before we go any further?”

I take a moment to digest the provided info.

“Sure. Does 3:00 p.m. this Saturday fit into your schedule?” I mention an eatery that gives both parties equal travel distance.

“Sounds good. We are looking forward to it.”

The line goes dead.

Scaredy Cat:
Oh, my God.
What
if she hates white girls and the whole thing’s a setup?

Too worked up to concentrate on anything but the party we all three are going to have, I turn the lights down low this instant, get in bed and let the vibrator take care of me more than two dozen times.

Saturday comes.

Scaredy Cat:
I sure can handle a lot, but there is no way I am going to show up to your threesome lunch date.

Looking at it one last time from diverse angles, I cancel the appointment at the last minute.

~~~

Trying to mitigate Lustania’s appetite for action-packed pornographic images online, I surf the net for the next hour-and-a-half, hopping from one site to another. The multitude of intense colorful pictures makes me beg for rapid relief.

Lustania:
Hold on
…
I think it’s time for some new toys that can top my last orgasm.

Fantasia:
Agreed
.

Recalling my previous visits to sex shops, I remember that checking out the merchandise is more fun when I also look the part. So I throw on a sexy black mini skirt, a tight neon top, pink stiletto pump heels and mosey on over. Inspired by Hot Shot’s comment that this occasion calls for acting as if I am the sexiest woman alive, I enter the glittery pink storefront on Van Owen Street with a cool conceited expression on my face, gallantly wiggling my ass as I walk from shelf to shelf, arching my back whenever stopping to check out a product.

The shop is clean, offering a large variety of paraphernalia, films, and magazines. While slowly moving through the aisles, I sense the piercing eyes of several patrons covertly burrowing through the texture of my thin fabric cotton top. I periodically catch them switching back and forth between taking a hit off of me, and another one off the magazine in their hands. Enjoying the high of being the center of attention a little while longer, I eventually grab my items, pay, and take a speedy journey back to my pad.

Excited like a kid at a fair, I jump into bed, the new accessories by my side. Right around orgasm number twenty-one, things come to a sudden stop as I break into uncontrollable weeping over flashback memories of past lovey-dovey dialogue between Ken and I during the times that we were still a happy couple. The vibrator still sticking inside me, I hug my pillow tight, pretending it is him. “I love you,” I hear him whisper once more. Instantly, I hit the floor.

“Please, let me die,” I cry.

CHAPTER 20

GQ Remedy

“You got to get out more. Forget that ex of yours; other mothers have gorgeous sons, too,” says Marina, as she spots the mope on my face. We have been connecting more again, now that Ken is no longer in my life. I can tell, she is thrilled about the latter because she never liked him much to begin with, especially after he was rude to her a couple of times on the phone while we lived together.

After much of her tempting persuasions this Sunday morning, I eventually tag along. She carts us to Venice Beach—the melting pot for people who count on being seen. I take a seat on a two-foot high concrete ledge near the lively basketball court, while my friend remains standing. She soon starts talking to two guys at once a few feet away. I let out a yawn; torpidly squinting into the blue sky while thinking about how pointless it is to be here. My feet dig into the hot sand beneath me, aiming for the cooler portions below the surface. I shift my head to the right, letting my eyes roam across the large parking lot. Seemingly out of nowhere appears a bare-chested Mulatto man, looking like he just stepped off a
Guess Jeans
billboard ad, wearing nothing but denim and cowboy boots.

Lustania:
Well, whom do we have here? Tell me he isn’t a looker.

Romy:
I’m immune to men, particularly the showstopping variety.

Hot Shot:
I know what you mean. Kind of compares to overeating on cake: if anyone offered you one more slice, you’d wanna throw up.

The guy’s bronze-colored skin glows in the sun. Seeing him advance toward me with fast strides, I instantly turn my head the opposite way, reverting to that blank look on my face from earlier. Marina comes by and elbows me.

“Hey. Do you see that hunk…the one with the motorcycle helmet?” she asks.

“Yap, but I’m not interested,” I say with ruffled forehead.

“He is coming our direction. I’ll be damned,” she drivels.

Romy (crying):
I want Ken
.

Hot Shot:
Me, too.

The gorgeous one circles us and sits down a few feet over to my left. I ignore him. Marina catches me off guard by bringing him over minutes later.

“Meet Daniel,” she says with a smirk. “I’ll be back.” She walks off, rejoining the circle of the men she talked to earlier. Daniel flops down next to me, beginning some small talk.

Ragelina:
Every word is a waste of time with guys like that
.

I agree, and so I keep speaking to a bare minimum.

Romy:
Overwhelm him with ‘Spirituality’ verbiage. That’ll make him lose interest swiftly.

Off I go, passionately blabbering about a Higher Power, slogans, and the Universe. Shockingly, he joins in without effort, bringing up a potpourri of meaningful things.

Doubt Cloud:
Who would have thought Mister GQ Magazine here speaks a language of such depths?

The time comes for Marina and me to leave. Daniel asks if he can call or e-mail me sometime. I jot down my contact info and hand it to him.

Doubt Cloud:
Useless…absolutely useless. You know that guys like him don’t ever bother calling
.

Ironically, I receive an email from the very fellow two days later.

~~~

I tightly hold on to Daniel’s rippled midsection as we fly down the coast past the Ventura County line atop his polished Kawasaki. The weather scores a perfect ten this warm and windy Saturday morning. The longer we are on the road, the closer I snuggle up to him, savoring every second of feeling adored again.

Hot Shot:
Honestly, I am having a blast.

Tough Gal:
Appears like he really likes you…not minding one bit to drive up all the way from Orange County to be with you.

Three weeks pass. I am spending my first night at Daniel’s house. We cuddle for hours on top of his bed without taking it all the way. Eventually, both of us fall asleep. I stay over a second night. While standing behind Daniel as he sits in front of his computer this evening, I detect a tiny white jar on top of his office desk that looks like a lip balm encasing. I pick it up to get a closer look, but instantly freeze.

Ragelina:
Does it say what I think it does? Pussy scent?

I read over the words again, and again.

Pretender Babe:
Ach, pappelapap. It’s nothing. Let’s not ruin this wonderful weekend
.
I need someone to hold me tonight
.

Ragelina:
Fine. I won’t say another word.

Nonchalantly, I set the jar down in its original spot. An hour goes by. Daniel and I go to bed. We get close, albeit not too close.

Week five rolls around. Having heard at one of my support groups I attend from time to time that it is of value to make certain a relationship is committed before sleeping with a guy, I question Daniel as to where we stand this evening. He convinces me that we are seeing each other exclusively.

Romy:
I’m not going to betray my honey
.
Giving myself to another man would mean it would be forever over between Ken and I. I’m not going there. Leave me alone, damned.

Avengelia:
You gotta let that jerk go. God dang, it’s almost been a year since he kicked you out.

Ragelina:
Don’t you get it, kid? He’s a lost cause. Time to move on, silly.

Avengelia:
C’mon. We’re gonna break the spell tonight.

Romy (in tears):
Fine. Frickin’ fine. Let Daniel have the goods then. Maybe that is what I need to get the situation remedied once and for all.

~~~

A slow tune hums throughout the lowly lit room. Funky shadows created by a bunch of flickering candles that reflect silhouettes of two shapely bodies making out on top of the raised, wood-framed, King-sized bed, dance off the walls.

Daniel strips off my garments, his mouth slowly working its way down to the
Secret Grotto
.

Romy:
I wished it were Ken laying here with me
.

Lustania (hissing):
Shhhh. You’re fucking things up. I’m trying to get turned on here.

Ten minutes of foreplay end. Daniel initially enters me in the missionary position, but we explore other moves as well.

Hot Shot:
I feel nothing but a chilly pervading numbness. Something’s seriously wrong.

Romy:
I love Ken, that’s what’s wrong
.

Lustania:
That
s
on of a bitch put a frigidity spell on me
.

Pretender Babe:
Keep playing along.

I continue the show until Daniel is fully satisfied. He leaves within the hour, saying that he needs to prepare for the upcoming workweek. I do not object.

Lustania:
There is nothing wrong with me
.
Mister V’s gonna help me prove it.

I lie down on the bed this instant. Letting myself be infused by Fantasia’s latest plots, I rake in at least ten peaks over the course of the next thirty minutes.

Lustania:
See? I’m not broken—still all woman.

Bumming sexual encounters or not, Daniel’s humor, sweetness, and feeling comforted in his company keep me hanging on.

We jump into the sack again this afternoon although the hoped-for improvements fail to materialize.

A week goes by; then two—not one sign from Daniel. Tonight he calls, proclaiming he can no longer see me because of unresolved issues between him and an ex-girlfriend.

Romy:
He never had my heart to begin with.

Miss Vanity:
We looked pretty good together. But, oh well…

Hot Shot:
Yap, the attention sure was nice, but let’s face it. He is no match for Ken.

Romy:
As if anyone will ever be.

Hot Shot:
What baffles me is that Dany boy dropped me before I could pull the plug on him. Unheard of. Could my powers be waning?

CHAPTER 21

Secret Code to Gate 666

Well aware of the analgesic and soothing effects that animals have on the uproar inside me, I spend more than three hours at
Fluffy’s
, the golden retriever’s residence, this afternoon. One hell of a way to run a business, isn’t it? Especially when considering that I got paid only the standard fee for a half-hour visit. Often, I can barely believe that I get compensated at all for something that I naturally dig so much.

I sit down on the living room floor leaning up against the couch while the dog places its head onto my leg. Seeing
Fluffy
stretch his limbs in contentment, watching how the tiny black hairs on his upper lip rhythmically twitch up and down makes me smile. I lift one of his front paws and massage it. “Fascinating, just fascinating, those animal feet,” I think to myself as I investigate each toe in thorough detail. The memory of how much I would have loved to become an animal scientist blows by. I spent many hours in childhood reading books about creatures, large and small, wild and tame, ugly and breathtakingly beautiful, always with a yearning thirst of wanting to find out as much as possible about each of them.

Doubt Cloud:
It’s a waste of time to think about such impossibilities. It takes years in school to get there. Besides, I don’t think you are smart enough to learn all the things required for such a degree, and neither do you have the funds. Forget about it. It could never happen for you.

The clock approaches five. I take another fifteen minutes to detach from
Fluffy’s
cuteness, then leave.

Whip Cracker:
Animals? Is that all you got to show for? Well, I get it – no one else giving a shit about you gotta suck. You work so hard and still can’t afford to have a life.

Flashback memories of my time in Stuttgart come to mind, standing amongst the flying cinders with the roof on fire. Thick, impenetrable smoke burns my lungs just like that time.

Whip Cracker:
There is no hope for you unless you leap again.

Hot Shot:
The hell with it all, love included. I’m gonna jump and this time, there will be no coming back for anyone. Fuuck men.

Whip Cracker:
You can still save your pet service, but you need to return to escorting…return to escorting…return to escorting. You’ll make a much better whore this time around; especially now that you’ve got nothing left to lose…nothing left to lose…nothing left to lose…lose…you loser…loser…loser…LOSER.

I instantaneously snatch the paper off the counter and flick through it. One number stands out. I dial it. A woman with a heavy Ukrainian accent answers, introducing herself as Paulina. The distinct way she talks, highly guarded around certain type of questions, leaves no doubt—I’m dealing with the underworld again. I scribble the name of the checkpoint she gives me onto a piece of paper. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, and hang up.

Four in the afternoon the next day, I stand outside the coffee shop on Melrose in Beverly Hills.

Scaredy Cat:
Walk away. I got the most terrible feeling about this.

A black 500 SE Mercedes pulls up. I see the tinted window of the front passenger seat roll down, revealing an attractive female with dark sunglasses behind the wheel. She signals me to approach.

Romy:
Don’t go.

Scaredy Cat:
You’ll be lost for good, if you get into that vehicle.

Tough Gal:
Ja…it doesn’t strike me as a good idea…seriously.

The words manifest for a split second, but ricochet off of me the closer I get to
Gate 666
.

“There’s no parking anywhere. Hop on in,” the woman in the expensive-looking yellow designer dress spurs me on. I plunk down onto the soft tan leather seat on the passenger side and pull the
Gate
shut behind me. I admit Paulina looks awfully young for a madam. If I had to guess, I would say she isn’t much older than twenty-two. Her long copper hair hangs down straight, throwing a cork-like curl at the end of several strands. It charms her alabaster face, making her green cat-shaped eyes stand out even more. But despite the flawless beauty, I sense an immediate scrupulous dark energy emanating from her, especially now that she speaks with that breath of hell, the kind I witnessed in many other persons from the underworld before. The strange vibe makes the soft hairs on my arm stand up.

I want to escape but Whip Cracker’s nagging keeps me stuck to the seat. A noise behind me startles me. Out of the corner of my left eye, I notice the partition separate, revealing a man sitting in the backseat. I briefly look at him, but immediately turn my head back straight.

“Hello,” he says in a monotone type of voice. I return the greeting gesture without making eye contact.

“That’s my business partner,” Paulina informs me.

Scaredy Cat:
Creeepppyyy.

The pair bombards me with questions; most of them, I can tell, are geared toward trying to find out whether I work undercover. I keep the dialogue at steady code six hundred sixty-six lingo. I sense them both relax quite a bit once I list some of my experience in the sex industry.

“Can you start this week?”

“Sure. I’ll call you tomorrow to let you know my availability.”

The meeting concludes. I exit the automobile and dash away. Severely haunted by the mental picture of an invisible hand snatching and dragging me back to hell for good, I spend the next five minutes hopping in and out of stores and alleys to clear my tracks. I safely reach my ride. I exhale.

Whip Cracker:
You sign on for a shift with Paulina’s agency first thing tomorrow.

Okay, okay.

Morning comes. I pick up the receiver to tell the madam that I am coming on board. This moment, a barely noticeable almost angelic-sounding voice inside me whispers…
DON’T.
I am not clear what spurs me to entertain it, but I hang up the phone at once.

Whip Cracker:
You’re gonna perish.