We reconvene at the end of our shift to smoke again.
“You should come back for the after-work party tonight.”
Marco chokes on his ganja, then passes it. The coughing gets passed along with an instant high tingling in my throat, then a rush to my head.
“I can’t tonight. I’m working my other gig.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about your other job. How’s that going?”
Uncertainty anchors my words. Should I be honest? What if he switches up on me?
Marco waits for an answer.
“I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“You promise not to judge?”
“Honey, there’s nothing you can say that I haven’t seen, fucked, or heard myself. Nothing surprises me anymore.”
“Okay, I work at a place that fulfills fantasies.”
A puff of smoke gets hacked halfway into Marco’s lungs.
“A what?”
“We entertain rich people’s fantasies.”
“¡Nena! That’s scandalous. What kind of fantasies?”
“The craziest one so far was this couple that had me watch them have sex while I played with myself.”
“Kinky!” Marco blurts out, “I can’t believe they still have those places.”
“Of course, they do. This city will forever be the land of freaks.”
“And you’re not scared?”
His question brings me back to an S&M session I watched Becca host yesterday. It felt like we were participating in a satanic ritual – the screams and whimpers. Recurring memories have been haunting me since.
“Some of it scares me,” I admit.
“Be careful, nena. People that are into that kind of stuff tend to get obsessive. Their minds don’t work the same. God forbid one of them gets crazy on you. ¡Ay no!” Marco makes the sign of the cross and blesses it with a kiss on his fingers. “Let’s not even think like that, but if anything happens, you call me.”
His protective, older brother vibe puts a smile on my face. It also invites a wave of anxiety. Everyone that has come in so far seems pretty average, even the S&M client. That doesn’t make them normal, though.
What is normal?
Am I normal?
My thoughts tentacle into different scenarios and what the potential outcomes of working at TLC could lead me to. The effects of smoking are slowly inviting paranoia to the party and keeping its claws dug into my psyche. Visions of the past week feature themselves in the reel of my mind. The fact that Larry will be coming in today has now taken center stage in my mind. Becca wasn’t exaggerating when she warned me about his preferences.
I had been at the front desk with the girls yesterday when he called to confirm his session. She spoke to him first, and then we joined in on speakerphone.
“Hello, ladies! I’m coming tomorrow for an all-day session, so I want you to eat a heavy dinner tonight and lots of fluids tomorrow. I’m excited to see you all and meet the new girl.”
My guard went up instantly. The feeling wasn’t mutual.
“We’re excited, too. See you tomorrow,” Becca responded, feigning enthusiasm on our behalf.
As soon as the call ended, Brandy shook off shivers rolling down her spine.
“That man gives me the willies.”
“It’s the easiest money I make here. Who gets paid to use the bathroom? We do,” Becca laughs. “I’m ordering Chinese food. Does anybody else want?”
Brandy gagged, hearing her words.
“That’s so nasty! See, white people be into all that weird stuff. Black people don’t do shit like that.”
“Please don’t pull the race card when it comes to kink. I’m pretty sure some crazy shit’s happening in the Safaris of Africa. I bet somebody is having sex with a zebra right now,” Becca countered.
The room erupted into laughter.
“Well, good luck with that. I’m taking tomorrow off.” Brandy finalized.
Becca made the rest of us promise we wouldn’t call out. So, today I’ll be meeting the toilet slave. A rush of light-headedness floods my senses as I walk out of Giggles and to the train station. When I finally get to TLC, I’ve forgotten all about Larry. I’m daydreaming about Lola and Cheri instead. The reality that I have a crush on each of them for different reasons has settled in.
Cheri is more curious about the world. Her questions and conversations are more profound than those I’ve had with Lola – who has a bubbly, flirty personality and shares her love of fashion, movies, and music with me. My solar plexus is in full orbit at the thought of seeing them both.
James beams as I enter the lobby. We’re cool now that he’s gotten to know me better. Cheri helped me understand his perspective on how it feels to see such young girls coming in and out of TLC.
“He doesn’t get why we’re exploiting ourselves, and he’s kinda right,” Cheri explained. “Imagine what anyone would think happens in this place and what actually does happen.”
“Heeeey.” Becca is hanging out with some sketchy dude at the front when I arrive.
There’s something about the way she extends the word that sticks out to me. Her friend shakes my hand with wired energy that draws notice to his dilated pupils. Becca’s eyes reveal the same “deer in headlights” gaze. When Ana returns from the lounge, it allows for an escape to this energy exchange with a beeline straight to the dressing room. I’m finally coming down from the uneasiness after my conversation with Marco Antonio, and I don’t want to go back into that headspace.
A knock on the door nearly gives me a heart attack. It’s Becca.
“Hey, so that’s one of my connects that I told you about. He has weed, Molly, X, and coke if you want anything.”
“Honestly, I smoked before I came here, and I’m feeling off,” I admit. “I just need a drink to calm my nerves.”
“Here, have some of this.” Becca pulls a baggie from her bra. “It’s pure, uncut, unadulterated, high quality, Grade A white girl.”
I’ve partaken in these extra-curricular activities before, but it’s not my drug of choice. The need to snap out of this loop I’m circling is intense, though. Becca serves me a bump on the flat surface between my thumb and index finger.
“Do another on the left to keep it balanced,” she encourages.
The nasal drip comes down almost immediately as I serve myself again. Becca scoops a pinky nail to shovel out a hit when I pass the baggie back.
“Oh shit, I’ve never noticed that before.” I chuckle.
“Convenience,” she winks.
“Can you get me a twenty?”
The appetite for more stimulation is activated.
“That’s it? You sure? For the whole weekend?”
“I’m not going to be on this shit all weekend. That’s just to help me get through this whole Larry business.”
“Oh, that’s why you’re acting weird. I get it.” Becca checks her nostrils in the mirror and smears a finger full of crystals against her teeth.
If you’ve never poisoned yourself with this artificial substance, you should know that this is standard practice. Spreading it across your teeth causes a numbing sensation that amplifies the high.
Everything feels different now that I’m alone again. My heart is pounding like a tribal drumbeat, but I don’t feel tense anymore. It’s now pure adrenaline. I’m on top of the world. Fixing my hair and makeup has suddenly become more fun. I take off my sneakers and throw on flip-flops instead. The heels can wait.
Becca places a small, yellow bag on the counter as I walk past her. I grab it casually, stuff it into my bra, and carry on. Sugar, Lola, and Angel are in the lounge.
“What’s up, ladies?” I greet them with a burst that mirrors Lola’s way of a grand entrance.
“It’s about time. You’re late today.” Lola reprimand
s me playfully, then gets up from the dining room table.
She kisses me half on the lips, half on the cheek. Feeling bold, I return the kiss more accurately. Lola looks shocked. Did I overstep my boundaries? She basically kissed me a few seconds ago. What’s the difference? Maybe she’s just friendly, and I misinterpreted it. Am I being extra gay right now? I feel like crawling into myself and disappearing. The seclusion of the large sectional in the back draws me in for some invisibility.
Lola returns with drinks in hand.
“Cheers!” she taps her glass to mine.
My overthinking is put to rest when she smiles back at me.
“So, tell me. What’s your deal? You’re obviously into girls, right?”
Lola cozies up next to me on the couch.
“I’m very much into girls,” I reply. “I’m not even sure I like guys anymore. Working here isn’t helping that at all.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” she squints her eyes like she’s dissecting me.
“No, my ex and I officially broke up a couple of months ago.”
“Why officially? As opposed to what?”
“We were forced to break up a year ago by her mom, but we kept on seeing each other behind her back.”
Camila was my first love. She attends services at a Pentecostal church on the corner of our block every Tuesday, Friday, and Sunday. Her mom is a devout Christian and preaches that homosexuality is a demon that has infiltrated one’s body. I’ve lost count on how many times she has “rebuked me” in the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. When she found out I was dating the youngest of her three daughters, she demanded we all stop hanging out. We didn’t listen. Her sisters would sneak me in and out of their room and cover for us, but that all changed when Camila’s mom allowed her to bring guys over to offset her desire of being with me. Eventually, this tactic worked, and she fell in love with one of them.
“She was only sixteen at the time, technically still a minor. Legally, I wasn’t allowed to be with her.”
The boyfriend part remains unsaid because it hurts too much to say out loud. Camila’s guilt over going behind her mother’s back, and all she had been taught about homosexuality being this malignant spirit, was enough to straighten her up.
“That’s so sad. Do you still love her?”
“Yeah, I do. It sucks that it has to be this way.”
The memory of this lost love breaks my heart a little bit more than it already has been. It’s been getting less challenging not to think about her as much these days.
“I’ll be back. I have to use the bathroom.”
The goodies tucked into my top call me away from the topic at hand for a few more bumps while I pee. A combination of releasing and the drug hitting my system causes a tingling sensation at the back of my head then surges throughout my body. Happy feelings return, chasing away the clouds. There’s even a creeping optimism about my failed relationship with Camila.
Lola is lying down with her headphones on when I return to the lounge. It’s taken as a cue to leave her alone, so I retreat to the other couch. She seems to sense me as she opens her eyes, sits up, and fusses with her hair.
“Do you have plans tonight? I’m going out to dinner with Cheri then hitting up Exit. You should come.”
“What’s Exit? I’ve never heard of it before.”
“Really? It’s like the hottest club in New York right now. It’s huge, the size of a warehouse, divided into different themes and music.” her excitement bubbles over as she describes it to me.
“I’m down.”
“Okay, perfect. We’ll pick you up. Make sure you give me your number.”
It’s been two weeks since my last battle with Jose Cuervo – a war that I obviously lost – I’m ready to get back into the party scene, especially with how this “blow” is making me feel. I go to the front desk and write my number on a TLC business card.
“Larry should be here in twenty minutes. Please let the girls know to get pretty and shit. No pun intended. Are you ready?” she gives me a playful grin, and my stomach turns.
“Not at all.”
Deep breaths and an attempt to center myself are unsuccessful. My walk is unstable as I return with the message. The heels that are part of today’s look come from Lola’s collection. She’s given me free reign to her shoes. I put them on and brace myself while wrestling an urge to take another trip on the roller-coaster ride sticking to my side boob. I ultimately decide not to. It’s better to come down for this next client.
“Ladies, Larry will be here soon. Time to get beautiful.”
Lola puts the card with my phone number into the cuff of her thigh-high boots.
“Be ready by 10:30 p.m. and invite a friend, so I’m not the third wheel.”
“Right. Yeah, I’ll invite one of my boys.”
Her request throws me for a loop. If she’s the one inviting me, why would she be the third wheel? I don’t want to introduce her to one of my friends. What if they like each other and I end up the matchmaker?
“No, don’t bring a guy! Bring one of your lesbian friends.”
Another loop.
“You think you’re the only one with sapphic tendencies around here?” she continues.
“Okay, I’ll bring someone,” I grumble.
THE TOILET SLAVE
Larry, the toilet slave (aka the plumber), is as Becca described him. A middle-aged white man with a militant crew cut in a three-piece suit. His green duffle bag is a stark contrast to how sharp the suit fits him.
“I’m Prophecy,” I break the ice.
Larry extends his hand to shake mine, and all I can think is:
This is Larry, the toilet slave, do not go in for the shake.
I grab a wineglass and hand it to him instead.
“Ah yes, the newest addition to the TLC goddesses. Here’s to a productive day.”
A full grin consumes his already thin lips, exposing bleach-white over yellow, denture-perfect-looking teeth. His presence causes a shudder down my spine and goosebumps on my skin. Knowing what Larry is coming here to do makes the meet-and-greet more challenging to sit through. With other clients, there’s a sense of privacy when you enter the room with them. Their fetish remains secret behind the veil. This one floats sluggishly above our heads. I sense it while looking around the room at each of the girls. We all sip from our glasses in awkward synchronicity – adding to the stiffness in the air.
“All right then, I’m going to set myself up. You can start coming into the chamber in exactly fifteen minutes, and I’ll be open for the next couple of hours.”
The tension eases as he walks out. A fashion magazine becomes my escape from engaging too soon. Each article and quiz gets my full attention until I reach the style tips on the last pages. When I come back to the present moment, a couple of hours have passed. Another half hour comes and goes while I contemplate my next move. The other girls have been taking turns and refilling their drinks like an assembly line. Finally, I serve myself a glass and gulp it down in seconds. It’s my turn to visit the chamber.
Larry is completely exposed and strapped to the wooden board on the floor. His flaccid penis greets me first. Shit. I didn’t realize he’d be naked for this. Why couldn’t it be some kinky leather outfit or something eccentric? Not with his awfulness out in the air. Floral aromas and burning incense from a heated potpourri dish barely masks the smell. There are baby wipes within reach on top of the sink.
On his left, a stack of fifties.
On his right, a stack of hundreds.
Inside the chair’s base, looking up from the oval opening, Larry isn’t the king of this throne. The feeling of absolute power makes me smile. I’m about to relieve myself onto this white man’s face. I decide I want that $100 bill. As a matter of fact, I want a $100 and a $50.
Determined to get this over with,
I place myself into a seated position and concentrate hard. It’s tough to ignore the fact that this person is staring at my most private parts as they do their thing – and from an angle that no one has ever or will ever see again, for that matter!
My fluids gush at will.
Larry moans, arches his back, and bucks his hips forward. A violent jerk seizes him within the straps. He reaches a climax then slips into labored breathing.
Focus.
With my eyes shut now, I try to ignore the warmth of his breathing below me. My spirit detaches from the physical with an out-of-body realization of what is happening right now. An itty-bitty nugget drops from between my cheeks. It’s what I can muster before deciding that’s all I’ve got.
The baby wipes aren’t as close as they first appeared, forcing me to stand up to reach them.What happens next is, by far, the most monstrous thing I’ve experienced in my life. I look down the gun barrel that is Larry’s face staring back at me, with a piece of my waste in his mouth. My stomach churns with acidic wine. I swallow it back down.
“Don’t forget to take a bill from each stack,” he reminds me through an echo against the bowl.
Nausea rushes through me as I grab the money. The potpourri is now a source of resentment, and the fresh air in the hallway welcomes me back to the real world. An image of Larry’s face in the toilet bowl flashes through my mind. Desperately needing a moment to gather myself, I run to the bathroom. As soon as the door closes behind me, I begin to gag.
Did I really just do that?!
All the power that surged just a few minutes ago has evaporated into nothingness. There’s a knock on the door as I start to wash my face.
“Give me a sec,” I try to stop my voice from cracking.
“Open up. It’s Lola.”
Tears start to form at the edges of my eyes. An overwhelming emotion takes over as I begin to full-on, ugly cry.
“Can you give me –” a gasp for air and normalcy cuts off my sentence.
“Open up,” she demands.
Identity Interrupted Page 4