Time's Harlot: The Perils of Attraction, Seduction, and Desire

by Brenda Kuchinsky

  “We haven’t discussed it much,” he said, a wry grin playing around his lips. “You make it seem upbeat.”

  “Jack. I’m a therapist. And I’m not saying this just because I’m a therapist. I think you two would benefit from therapy. If you’re communicating more clearly and putting petty differences aside, you might ferret out a reasonable solution.”

  “It’s funny, but even though you’re my best friend and you are a therapist, I never thought of therapy as an option. Weird. It should have been obvious. I’ll talk to Annabella tonight.”

  He stood up, walked over to her chair, leaned over, and hugged her.

  “Thank you. You’ve made me feel so much better,” he said walking back to the yellow leather sofa and his scotch.

  “That’s what they all say,” she smiled, feeling all warm and fuzzy after his hug.

  Jack guffawed, sounding ten years younger and ten pounds lighter.

  “Now it’s your turn, Sophia. Someone has to be there for the therapists. They have to unburden too. I imagine Amanda is not your ideal listener, despite being a fellow therapist.”

  “That she is not. Untrustworthy, callous, and phony. I have to watch what I say to her. She twists words and then uses them against me.” Sophia frowned.

  “Lucky I’m here. Trustworthy, true, and gallant,” he stood up to emphasize his words with a flourish. “Sir Galahad at your service.”

  “Time for a second round,” she announced, apprehension closing in on her like a dense blinding blizzard.

  “Sounds good. But come on Sophia stop dillydallying. Get those drinks and spill.”

  She rose, refilled their crystal whiskey tumblers deliberately, buying time, still reluctant to confess.

  “Here goes,” she said, handing him his glass and plopping down with a whoosh. “After what I tell you, you may not want to be friends. I’m a whore,” she blurted out.

  “What?” He stared at her, uncomprehending. “You mean you feel cheap after a one night stand gone bad. Regrettable sex?” Jack asked, puzzled.

  “No. I’m a whore. Listen,” she held up a hand as he started to interject, a perplexed look transforming his smooth face.

  “I was so strapped for money when Morton died, I took up whoring. Specialty whoring, catering to young wealthy men who have strong desires to fuck their mothers and can afford to act out their fantasies. I’m right on Lincoln Road behind Miami Models. OEDIPUS INC. I’m making so much money, I’m going to have to shut down or start laundering it soon. There. I finally told you. Confession is good for the soul. Close your mouth, Jack.”

  “How the hell did you get into that?”

  “Serendipity. Don’t ask. I’ve told you enough about the business for one night. What prompted me to tell you now is I’m afraid I might be in some sort of danger. Someone started leaving black roses on my doorstep. One rose at a time. Two so far. I stepped on the first one Monday morning. When Kurt and I came home late Monday night, or maybe it was already Tuesday, there was a second one. I might be overreacting, but it feels threatening. Do you think it’s one of my clients? I can’t imagine who else it could be?”

  “Wow, Sophia. What are your clients like?”

  “Mamma’s Boys of Miami Beach. Literally. Rich guys who fantasize about doing it with their mothers. Non-threatening on the surface. Babyish. Regressed. Some want punishment. Not that much sex. A lot of fetishes. Plenty of paternal resentment. Who else could it be?”

  “Phew. I’m a cop. A detective and I can’t believe that exists. Who else could it be? I don’t know. A patient? This is a lot for me to absorb. Make me a sandwich. I need another drink, but not on an empty stomach.”

  “Believe it. I’m living it. The Mamma’s Boys of Miami Beach saved my financial ass. I wonder if one of them is off the chain and leaving these morbid roses. Hey Jack, this vegetarian bought roast beef just for this occasion,” she announced, getting up to make his sandwich. It was good to be talking about it.

  “For a vegetarian, you make a mean roast beef sandwich”, Jack said, when he was biting into his meal with alacrity.

  “Thank you.” Sophia dug into her veggie wrap. “All this talk has made me hungry too. I know it’s getting late and you need to get home to Annabella, but there’s one more piece I need to tell you. Maybe it’s a piece to this puzzle. I doubt it because of the timing, but I need to tell you.”

  “After what you told me, nothing will surprise me.”

  “Oh. This might.”

  “One of my johns approached me on Lincoln Road, caught me off guard, and instead of maintaining firm boundaries, I let him take me to dinner.”

  “I’m sure you know that wasn’t a good idea,” Jack, said, wrinkling his brow.

  “Well if that wasn’t a good idea, the next bit was a terrible idea.” She paused. Not so much for dramatic effect, but more to gather her resources for the final confession. Jack could not absolve her with a recipe for ten Hail Mary’s. “I…I had sex with him and let him drive me home,” she exhaled involuntarily, having held her breath for too long.

  “Where did you have sex with him?”

  “In his Porsche in the parking lot behind Van Dyke’s,” she said, sheepish.

  “Sophia, I’m speechless.”

  “I know. Let it sink in. Don’t say anymore tonight. Let’s go out for dinner next week. I need you.”

  Jack looked at her for a long time, protean emotions scudding across his eyes, surprise, confusion, concern. Eyes too expressive for a detective.

  “Dinner next week sounds good. I have to sleep on this. I just about forgot my problems.”

  She walked him to the door. He opened the door, embraced her in another one of his reassuring bear hugs, before going out into the steamy night and stepping on the third black rose laid at her doorstep.

  Eleven

  Sitting across from her father, his hollow hazel eyes watching her carefully, Sophia shivered at his soulful sorrow. She was forty-three years old, she’d known him all her life, and she never grew accustomed to his perpetual melancholy.

  Perhaps if he talked about it, she thought, ever the therapist.

  Just as with her mother, she no longer registered the accent, the Yiddish sprinkling of words like jimmies on ice cream, and the intonations. But she always noticed the mourning for lost life, lost worlds, lost innocence. Displaced and desolate.

  She shook herself free from the brooding like a seal emerging from the water, sluicing off the droplets.

  “Ta, what’s this I hear about Mathilde? Ma says she loads on the blue eye shadow with a shovel,” she said, aiming for a rise out of him. She liked to lift him out of his lugubrious lethargy.

  He gave a start. Then slipped back into near apathy.

  “Ma is Ma. I didn’t say it, but she likes to make trouble. You saw her last Monday?” he asked, a flicker of curiosity in his voice.

  The rest of the week had flown by since her late night Tuesday confessional with Jack. Patients and clients and here it was five more black roses and Monday again. Ta’s Monday. She alternated.

  “You know I keep to the schedule. If you two were still together, I could kill two birds with one stone,” she teased.

  “Zophia it’s been a long time. Ten years. And you weren’t a child.”

  “I know. But who gets divorced in their sixties? After all you’ve been through together?” she whined, stuck on the shock of it all, even after all this time. Refugees from the Holocaust, sixty year olds, did not get divorced.

  “And then you end up living in the same building separated by just two floors? It’s just plain nuts.”

  “Zophia, don’t get hysterical. Where should we live? It’s convenient and comfortable and now we’re friends. No fighting.”

  “I’m not hysterical. Don’t confuse me with Ma or Mathilde. I’m just saying.”

  “What are you saying?” Mathilde asked, her high-pitched querulous tone grating on Sophia, who watched her waltz in, emaciated in shiny gold tights and an oversized re
d top, chosen to cover up imaginary fat, and matched by cute red ballet flats. Mathilde’s shoes and tops always had to match.

  She hurried over to Sophia, eagerly holding her cheek, heavily wrinkled by habitual sunbathing, up to Sophia’s reluctant lips for a kiss. Sophia pecked her and withdrew quickly as if her sun soaked skin retained enough heat to burn her. She watched her shimmery bouffant, teased to dizzying heights and sprayed into lacquered submission, stiffly sail across the room atop Mathilde’s raisin face.

  Now she was wondering who annoyed her more. Rudy or Mathilde?

  “When I saw Ma she was with Rudy. She was dressing for a hot date,” she declared, aiming for inflammatory on both fronts.

  “That mamzer,” Ta said, shaking his head and muttering in unintelligible Yiddish under his breath.

  “That clown. You can’t trust a clown. They’re evil through and through. I know. I was in the circus in Paree. The best tightrope walker there was.” She turned to Sophia and winked, revealing the legendary mound of sapphire blue shadow on one eyelid. “The Mandel brothers and Mathilde,” she began the litany of greatness.

  Sophia rose, unwilling to listen any longer, eager to get to her massage, and generally fed up with the whole scene.

  “Cherie nothing to eat?” Mathilde called after her, even after she pecked her father on the cheek and opened the front door.

  She waved goodbye, raising her hand like the Queen of England bestowing the stiff streamlined nod of the hand, showing them her back, hearing, “Not even a cup of Swee-Touch-Nee?” echoing down the hall.

  Twelve

  Maria’s deft fingers brought Sophia a rapid happy ending. When she got off the table, limp and languid, Maria tried to embrace her. She sidestepped out of the way of her arms, saying, “Maria I want to keep this a professional service relationship.”

  “Aren’t we way past that?”

  Sophia looked at her wordlessly. Her brains were like scrambled eggs after Maria’s magic hands and fingers had worked her over.

  “Don’t take advantage of me after you got through kneading and fingering me. You know I’m in a weakened state,” Sophia said, her plaintive tone grating to her own ears.

  “Of course I’ll pursue you when I think I’ll get somewhere. Come on, gorgeous. Give me a chance. I’ll rock your world,” Maria pleaded, extending a meaty muscular arm to caress her red curls with her eager fingers.

  “Okay Maria. One date,” she sighed. She studied the pretty feminine face atop the massive masculine body. “I’m curious, but you know I don’t go that way. I’m not attracted to women,” Sophia continued.

  “Hell, look at me. I’m practically a guy. Don’t let these fem facial features fool you. When I work you with my tongue and mouth, you’re going to think you died and went to heaven. No. You’re going to know you went to heaven. I guarantee it’ll be the best oral you ever had. And I’m a good conversationalist, too. Clever and cunning. No beating around the bush.” She opened her mouth wide, revealing her perfect pearly teeth in uproarious laughter.

  “Modest too, Maria. Any more stellar qualities while you’re selling yourself? Can you come over next Monday at six?” she added impulsively. Her heart was pounding as she contemplated what she was doing.

  “No. But I can come tonight at six and make you come, baby,” Maria said. She licked her lips, running her tongue suggestively across the shapely upper lip first and then the slightly larger, equally shapely lower lip.

  “Okay. Tonight. Here’s my address.” Sophia, still naked, grabbed a pen and paper out of her bag and handed over the scribbled address.

  Maria snatched it.

  “You won’t regret this,” she said, reaching to embrace her.

  Sophia stepped away. “Let’s keep the two worlds separate. I come here for massages. I pay you for your services. No entanglement,” Sophia said.

  “Whatever you say. See you at six. I’ll bring over some food.”

  “I’ll take care of the food. I’m a vegetarian. Just bring your tongue, your mouth, and your appetite.”

  As soon as Maria left the room, Sophia dressed quickly, astonished at where her desire had led her. What had she gotten herself into? She was in over her head. Lust had trumped caution.

  Out in the lobby, she handed Maria the check she had filled out earlier, calling Kurt to cancel their standing Monday night date before she was out the door. She pleaded ill health when he answered and dismissed his offer to bring her miso soup. “I’ll make time for you Thursday night after my sessions. I promise,” she told him. He’s being awfully selfless. Probably thinks he’ll get laid if he finds me vulnerable in bed, she thought. “Maybe he could get some pointers,” she announced to Lincoln Road. She chuckled bitterly. While a bit of guilt, creeping on stealthy paws, worked its way into her psyche, her Nokia tinkled.

  Bernie was on the other end, asking to see her.

  “I told you Bernie. We need to keep our shenanigans contained at…,” she cut herself off in mid-sentence. Smiling at her own inventiveness, she changed tack. “Bernie, why don’t you come around at six thirty tonight? I have a friend coming over and I’d like you to join us.”

  Maybe she could deflect her lascivious curiosity and transform the evening into a friendly one. The prospect of rolling around in bed with Maria was making her squeamish.

  “But Doc, I want you to myself like last time,” Bernie protested.

  “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” she retorted, flipping her phone shut.

  Thirteen

  Five thirty found Sophia trembling with apprehension, second guessing everything she had set into motion. Did she want Maria in her house? Did she want Bernie here? What was she thinking?

  Doubts swirled around her as she showered in anticipation of she no longer knew what. Maria would probably be furious and Bernie would be frustrated. It might be a lot of unpredictable fun, she reconsidered, getting out of the shower and toweling off the moisture. Who knows what will happen?

  She rushed into her walk-in closet, took a quick reassuring peek at the Death Book, lingering on page sixty-nine, where piles of children’s belongings, meticulously organized by category, displayed on the tattered glossy page always evoked extreme melancholy, before choosing plain black cotton panties, an equally plain black bra, black jeans, and a loose red shirt. She would greet them barefoot. No need for shoes. She could show off her well-tended feet with their crimson toes and strong, high arches, one of her favorite features, displaying no fleshy voluptuousness or excess adipose tissue.

  When the doorbell chimed at precisely six, she was pulling on her left ear vigorously, listening to the raucous blood rushing through both her ears, telling her that her skittish heart was racing with aching anxiety. She plastered a smile on her face, throbbing and twitching with nervous energy, as she swung the door wide.

  Sophia’s mouth dropped in startled appreciation as she beheld a spiffy Maria, her elaborate lopsided Elvis do shining, standing cockily decked out in an immaculate white linen suit with a white tee shirt underneath, evoking shades of Don Johnson in Miami Vice, while she held a massive bouquet of three dozen red roses in one competent hand and a sweating bottle of Moet in the other, her caramel coffee eyes gleaming with expectation.

  “You look stunning,” Sophia gaped, Diane Arbus photography flitting through her thoughts once again.

  “I clean up well,” Maria beamed as Sophia took the roses and champagne.

  Sophia decided to open the bubbly immediately. She returned to the living room, where Maria had seated herself on the comfortable yellow leather couch, her legs crossed, sporting unique black leather cowboy boots with red hands carved over much of the surface.

  “Great boots,” Sophia commented, handing her a flute of champagne.

  “The Rabbit Hole on Lincoln. Had to have them when I saw the hands. They were speaking to me. My hands are my livelihood and my identity.” She winked, licking her lips unconsciously, before gulping her champagne.

  Sophia followe
d suit and refilled their glasses.

  “I didn’t get any food. I thought we’d order pizza from Anthony’s. Then you can have meat and I can have veggies.”

  Maria smiled consent.

  “Mind if I smoke?” she asked, pulling out a Cuban cigar.

  “No.”

  Sophia fetched a plate to serve as an ashtray.

  “Looks phallic,” Sophia remarked.

  “My father taught me to smoke. He always wanted a boy. We were inseparable. We used to sit silently, smoking together. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist. He had other ways to make himself understood.”

  “Are you still close?” Sophia asked.

  Maria shifted topics without answering. “You know those models from Miami Models? Let me tell you a little secret about them. The majority are hermaphrodites. That’s why they’re so long and skinny. They have these cute mini-dicks poking out of their clits. They’re part man,” Maria declared, proud of her esoteric knowledge. “How about a stiff one, beautiful? This is like drinking ginger ale, but I know you girls love it.”

  Sophia, feeling lustier by the second, poured them both scotches, which Maria finished in two swallows. Sophia got up to bring the bottle, refilling both their glasses before placing it on the coffee table.

  “How do you know so much about these models’ mini-dicks?” Sophia asked, swallowing hard.

  “Because I give them all happy endings. It’s freaky fun working with all those double organ people. Some of the dicks are pretty big, considering. Now come here. I can see all this talk has gotten you horny,” Maria said, striding over to Sophia, too impatient to wait for her, pulling her up out of her seat, and tossing her on the couch like a sack of potatoes.

  Maria deftly unzipped and pulled down Sophia’s jeans and black panties, saying, “You are the spitting image of Gloria, my ex. I can’t get over it.” She stroked her inner thighs tenderly before bestowing wet kisses from knee to vagina, lingering on her tender flesh, then burying her tongue between her legs, searching out the prize, expertly alternating tongue and lips on her quivering clitoris. She surfaced once for air to remark, “no mini-dick down here. You taste delicious. Like salted caramel. And so buttery. I’m going to slurp you up slowly. I’d love to lick ice cream out of your cunt. Verrry slowly.”