Nympho

by Andrea Blackstone

  Playing With Fire

  Trey came home smelling like liquor and smoke around five in the morning. No doubt, he must’ve been bar and club hopping with his other gray-haired player friends, just as Rico had explained. When I felt him crawl into bed next to me, I pretended I was asleep, but I wasn’t. With the exception of the broken window, there were no signs remaining of the shake up . . . or shake down, depending on how you’d like to describe it. Even so, I had trumped up a lie and it was ready for delivery. I planned to tell Trey some bad, unsupervised kids hit a softball through the window, but I couldn’t tell who did it since they all ran in various directions. No real worries with his ass though. As luck would have it, he decided he wanted to make love, instead of spoon. I guess the liquor got his typically limp dick hard, or maybe some well-prepared bitch made him take Viagra when he was out on the town doing whatever it was men do.

  Trey’s fingers wandered toward my vagina. After he asked for it, I let him hit the skins just to shut his half-inebriated ass up. I didn’t mind obliging since it gave me an opportunity to give him his fifteen minutes of fame on the same bed where his boy had his way with me. I behaved as if I craved Trey’s touch, but I was really thinking about the naughty things I’d done on the same bed with Rico. Trey’s ego was eating up the sex talk as I put it on him like never before, but when I looked at the clock, I was surprised because the ordeal of lying on my back lasted an entire twenty minutes as opposed to his usual fifteen. Whooptie do, Trey, I thought. You’re a little too late. Damn shame. Trey was as fine as Rico, but couldn’t put it down under the sheets like he did before he was banging me and all the other chicks on his tap the punani list. God should’ve given his big, fat tool to someone who would’ve appreciated it enough to use it properly. Oh well. Even drunk, my man looked hot. The one thing I couldn’t take away from the Negro was his looks. The older he got, the finer he became and the more I wanted to prove I was approaching my sexual peak.

  The next morning, I offered to cook Trey bacon and eggs—his favorite morning indulgence when he wasn’t wolfing down cereal or coffee.

  “What happened to my window?” he asked after finally observing the plastic tacked over the area where the glass was housed.

  I tried to act cool.

  “It’s getting fixed today, don’t worry about it,” I said.

  “Leslie, what happened to it?”

  “You were a kid once. Let it go. Some kids in the neighborhood were playing football and accidentally hit your window yesterday. I cleaned up the glass, put some plastic over it, and called for someone to come out and put a new one in. They’re coming tomorrow. I plan to wait for them to get here because I know you won’t be home.”

  “Let it go, nothing! Why should I? I’m going to find out who did this. I shouldn’t have to pay for the repair. Where’s the football?” Trey asked, looking around the room.

  “I said I’ve got it. You don’t have to pay for anything.”

  “You shouldn’t pay for this either.”

  “Why are you sweating the small stuff? I said I took care of it. I know kids. I’m a teacher, remember? If you go around banging on doors, no one’s gong to own up to it. What would it do besides run up your blood pressure? They will be more careful because they know you’ll be on the look out now. Give them this one free pass. We’ve got enough going on in our world.”

  “I guess you’re right. Thank you for keeping me calm, Leslie,” Trey said.

  “That’s what I’m here for. So, can we spend some time together now?”

  “I’m meeting my boys to play ball, then I’m running errands all day. Keep your phone on in case we can hook up later though.”

  “Playing ball? How ironic. What about me?” I mumbled.

  I rolled my eyes, and then rolled out. Of course it never occurred to him that I may want to have some quality time with my man on a sunny summer day, but what’s new? Nothing.

  When I made it home, I peeled off my clothes, cooked myself bacon and eggs, straightened up a bit, then checked my email. I also decided to also search for another vase on the Internet to replace the one I had given Trey before it slipped my mind. He was so pissed about his window, he put on his shoes and was about to start knocking on doors to question every brat in the neighborhood who could’ve broken his window. The last thing I needed was for Trey to fly off the handle again after noticing the vase was missing, because that would definitely put holes in my story regarding how the window was broken. I figured I might be able to replace it before he noticed it was missing in action. That’s when I stumbled onto a website called craigslist.org. I clicked on the for sale section of the Washington D.C. link. Although I didn’t see a description that matched what I was looking for, there were so many interesting goodies, I promised myself that I would revisit the website.

  Before leaving the website, my eye zoomed in on something strange. Toward the bottom section of the many links, the word erotic was listed under the service section. My curiosity swelled and I clicked on that link too. A disclaimer popped up stating that unless certain conditions were met, the user should hit the back button and exit this part of the site. The individual who entered that portion of the site had to be at least eighteen years old, understand that explicit sexual content may be included, couldn’t bothered by explicit sexual content, and agree that when proceeding to click on the link, they released creators, owners and providers of craiglist from any and all liability which may arise from its use.

  After I got past all of the legal jargon, I entered a world I never imagined I’d find on the Internet. My eyes fell upon strings of countless ads where people posted sexual services and each post was dated to separate the new from the old. Captions such as: DO YOU WANT ME TO BE YOUR SEX SLAVE, LUNCH SPECIALS UNTIL 2:00 A.M., REVIEW OF KOREAN CUTIE, AND LADIES UP FOR SOME FUN AT FOUR STAR HOTEL IN ARLINGTON, were just a few of the headings. Obviously, the world’s oldest profession had gone high tech. The illegal offerings far outnumbered the web cam and sex line “call me now” ads, legitimate massage descriptions, stripper solicitations, and photography service announcements for females in need of erotic photos. The funny thing was that a few girls even posted fabricated stories about their panties being for sale because they were short on their rent at some college campus. Try again hoes in training—sure you’re right.

  I was so intrigued by what I’d stumbled upon, I spent the entire day clicking on ads, studying terminology, service offerings, body shapes, ages, and reviews of women who were apparently formally having sex for money. The prostitutes described themselves as providers and those who were providing erotic services ranged the full gamut: people in debt, single mothers in need of extra cash, male and female college students strapped for cash, preachers’ wives, pregnant women, big beautiful women, porn stars, wanna be models or domi-natrixes, gay men, and regular hookers who discovered they could get paid more to arrange lunch break quickies or business traveler delights. Some providers showed their faces while posing in the buff, while others hid their identities within silhouettes or picture free ads.

  The beauty of the set up was that no real email addresses were shown. A provider could remain anonymous until they chose to respond to a curious person. No doubt, all of this fostered the ability for married men, singles, executives, and whoever was looking for sex to hook up. In addition to that, some providers traveled from state to state and posted under other cities to let “fans” know when they could get the hook up. All of this should’ve raised a twenty-four foot red flag for me, but instead, the idea of getting paid to lust became my objective. I suddenly felt walking through this door was an option for. In some twisted way, I felt playing with fire would help me get the thrills I deserved. Every time I’d open my legs, it would be for a stranger. And each and every stranger understood the one, simple, three syllable word that was the code terminology for getting paid to give up the booty—donation.

  After I moved to the front of the class in understanding how to dodge law enforce
ment and give customers what they wanted in exchange for the moolah, it was time to get ready to give a GFE, a.k.a. girlfriend experience, where I’d perform as the trick’s woman in the bedroom, complete with kissing, cuddling, caressing, and sappy shit like that. It was funny how many married or committed men believed that living in a fantasy world with a woman who pretended to be into him would do the trick. Speaking of tricks, it was time to begin my legitimate secret life turning tricks. Before signing up to be a housewife, I figured I may as well try something freaky and new by giving professional whoring a shot. Maybe if I had more penises at my disposal, I could quiet the throbbing between my legs before it was time to live my boring life with Trey.

  The ad that read: EARN AS MUCH AS YOU WANT in the caption caught my attention. I ended up calling a number and setting up an interview to become a working girl for a man who claimed to collect a finder’s fee after hooking up businessmen and high rollers. He told me if I passed his test, and honored his rules, I could make as much as $1200 a day—fulltime. That was all I needed to hear to give up my conservative looking bun, shave my legs and bikini area, flat iron my hair, and prepare to show him what sweet Innocence was really made of. Although I’d only had three lovers in my entire life, all of them were conservative between the sheets, but watching my fair share of porn had me well prepared to release the freak within.

  Later that day, I was off to the address I’d been given over the phone. I left my glasses and confined hairstyle at home. I wanted to feel like someone else, the same someone who made Rico forget his girl and hit his boy’s piece in the same day. My car wheels halted in front of a tall, black, wrought iron gate. A mansion sat behind it, and I was stunned. I gulped when two burly looking guards asked me for some sort of code word. I could tell they were guards based on their demeanor, and the fact that they were both dressed in all black.

  “Code word?” I replied looking bewildered.

  “Yeah, what’s the code word?”

  “I wasn’t given a code word. I’m just here to see—”

  “He’s joking, sweetheart. May we please see your invitation?”

  “I don’t have one of those either. Invitation for what?”

  “There’s a special event going on today. You don’t know? This is the biggest private party of the year.”

  “Well I wasn’t told about any of that. I’m just here to see some guy name Brian Delgado.”

  The guard with cornrows looked at me and spoke into a radio. “And your name is?”

  “Innocence.”

  “She says her name is Innocence,” he said.

  After he put down the walkie talkie device, he tapped the other guard on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Afterward, he turned back to me and pulled out a clipboard and piece of paper. He shoved it through the window with his right arm. “You’ll have to sign a waiver to come in. If you choose to sign, we’ll need your real name,” he explained.

  I read it over as I wondered what the waiver of liability was all about. My mind flashed back to craigslist. What could be inside of those gates that would require my full birth name and a few other details? Although I hesitated for a moment, I scribbled my John Hancock and then was directed to park on a sprawling lawn. All sorts of vehicles were lined up side by side—Hummers, luxury trucks, and a few exotic cars. As I walked up to the front door, I was greeted by two very attractive females.

  “Are you a model?” one asked.

  “Me?” I asked, half laughing. “No, I’m not.”

  “Well welcome,” the black one said. The other woman placed a lei around my neck and opened the door for me to walk through. When I prepared to shut the door, I suddenly realized I was not alone. I looked back and noticed one of the guards towering over me. Apparently, he was escorting me to my final destination.

  “Turn right,” he commanded.

  When I did, I passed two more guards standing in front of a set of steps. I pretended not to notice them nodding, and continued walking down a long hallway with fluorescent blue lighting. After the guard commanded me to turn left, I stood in front of a large office with about twenty security cameras and a short Italian looking man with gray chest hair poking out of a black shirt.

  “You must be Innocence. I’m Brian,” the man told me.

  “Yes I am. Nice to meet you, Brian,” I replied. Before I knew it, the guard closed the door, but I had a distinct feeling that he was standing on the other side of it.

  “We’re having a special party today. I thought you should come at a time like this so you can get a flavor of how things can be.”

  I looked around and my eyes fell upon a large window that revealed a small pool—the kind that was perfect for skinny dipping. Women of all races were walking around in bikinis and heels, sipping on drinks, and chatting with all sorts of men who ranged from corporate looking types to celebrities I could easily recognize. A few were sun bathing in solitude but I noticed that everyone had access to a cell phone.

  “So tell me about yourself, Innocence,” Brian said, interrupting my daze.

  “There really isn’t much to tell. I’m just your average girl, living an average life,” I answered, my eyes focusing on his Movado desk clock.

  “You don’t look average to me. In fact, average is not what I’m looking for. I don’t like average women with average personalities or average bodies. I like the best because my clients pay to enjoy the best. The L.A. types with big implants who can’t explain how a bill becomes a law, or who aren’t aware of foreign policy and current events are not what I’m after. An airhead who looks good on the outside but whose brain is empty on the inside is a dime a dozen. Now let’s try this conversation again. Tell me about yourself, Innocence.”

  I suddenly felt like I was being interviewed to win the Miss America crown. Apparently, Brian wanted more than a whore. He wanted the appearance of a cultured lady—at least on some level.

  “Hello, Brian. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My given name is Leslie, but I prefer to call myself Innocence. I’m thirty years of age, teach for a living, and am on my summer break. My favorite hobbies include studying history, fitness, traveling, and meeting new people. I prefer to regard myself as a new millennium woman with discerning taste. Don’t let me fool you—I’m not all Innocent though. I’m capable of going toe-to-toe with a man in a boardroom or the bedroom. In fact, there’s nothing ordinary about me so if I were you, I wouldn’t expect it.”

  “Name the seven continents.”

  “Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, South America, North America, and of course, Antarctica,” I replied, smiling victoriously. “Do you have any real questions, Brian? If you do, fire away. I’m waiting.”

  “Take off your skirt and top. Let’s see what you have underneath. That’s not exactly a question but—”

  “I know what it is—it’s a command. I’m a teacher, remember? And I have nothing to hide or be ashamed of. My body is tight and it’s a ten. No, I’m being far too modest. It’s a twelve, at least in my opinion. It’s only fair if you draw your own conclusion though,” I said, shedding my military inspired outfit. My pink and green mini skirt fell down my knees and I pulled my army green tube top over my head. “What if I’m not wearing a bra . . . or panties? I hope that’s okay with you.”

  I stood tall in nothing but my gold heels that just so happened to be Trey’s favorite pair. He did manage to tell me my feet and calves looked sexy in them each time I wore them. I could tell by the manner in which Brain glanced over me that he was impressed by my physique. Although I wasn’t some L.A. skinny bitch, I knew I was a head turner.

  “All right—you passed those tests with flying colors. Before you take the last step in the interview process let me explain something to you. I take good care of my girls, Innocence—an expense account, shopping sprees, a nice place to say—no fear of being arrested. I’m not a pimp and never force a client on anyone. My girls come and go when they please. Drug use and alcoholism is prohibited, but I ensure that ev
eryone goes home happy and comes to work happy. There is nothing to do until a call comes in for you. You can sit by the pool, talk on the cell phone, which I provide, watch TV, or just relax. You don’t have to worry about being marketed because I make sure that is taken care of. If you accept a client, you deliver my finder’s fee after you are paid. I have no fear of not getting my share because you’ll definitely want another prescreened client with the same qualities as the last guy. I am a businessman and a damn good one. I work long hours and expect complete cooperation with all of the talent, so everyone can benefit from this. Dress and let’s take a walk.”

  After I dressed quickly, Brian allowed me to walk out of his office first. Next, he told the guard to take me to get a swimsuit, and then to escort me outside to the pool area. I slipped on a red string bikini with moveable letters that spelled BLING. They were strung on the side and midsection of two strings. When I finished changing, I followed the guard down winding steps that led to our final destination. My eyes scanned the open bar, lavish outdoor buffet, and umbrellas-topped circular tables. I heard girls suck their teeth and hiss at me as I walked past them to find a seat near the pool. Heads turned as I whipped out my sunglasses and lay back on a lounge chair in my heels.

  By the time I strutted over to the bartender to request a mixed drink, I could feel eyes burning a hole in my back. Clients who were supposedly occupied were already lusting after me. I knew I was the center of attention and loved every second of it.

  About forty minutes later, a guard I hadn’t seen before pointed at me while a young man wearing diamonds in both ears and a huge dollar sign emblem necklace around his neck headed toward me. Despite him wearing a plain, large white t-shirt, I recognized the well-known rapper. In fact, I couldn’t believe he was looking at me as if I was some sort of scrumptious entrée he’d picked out. Doesn’t his fame get him enough ass? I was confused as to why a famous man would pay for sex—especially one who could pop bottles with super models.