Upside Down

by Jaym Gates

  And I do.

  So they come after me, but they regret it. Each and every time.

  And no one cries when a pimp goes missing, I’m just saying.

  But that’s not why I’m there. And after a while, too much attention, of any sort, good or bad, makes it difficult for me. It makes it hard to work. Because once the other pros know I’m different, it isn’t long before the johns do, too. And that disrupts everything. I can’t have them knowing what I am. At least, not ahead of time. It changes the dynamic, taints the experience.

  And for what I am and what I do the experience is everything.

  So, I move around a lot.

  I used to work in a brothel. I’ve worked in a few, over the length of years that I have been at this. Most recently, it was a nice one, near Vegas. It’s a decent living, really. But I only saw the same type of men, night after night. I have very specific requirements that they rarely ever met. I have come to realize that I work best on my own, faring much better being the active hunter rather than lying in wait. Setting the perfect trap is its own kind of gratification, but I rarely snared the quarry I needed.

  I like to slink between upper class neighborhoods and poor ones. I thrive on variety. I go where I will find what I need, what satisfies me and fills, however briefly, the great emptiness within. It might take me weeks to find just the right person, or sometimes I’ll encounter two or three in a single night. It can be unpredictable at times, although I try to stick to territories with plenty of game. Cities are the best, they have vast networks of business operations on the down-low and offer me ample ways to blend in, to hide. They are busy places, always changing, making it easier to snag my marks from those ever-churning currents and not draw a lot of attention to myself. There is a time and place for drawing attention and before I have what I want in my grip is not it.

  My appetite is keen, nearly desperate, by the time I step out tonight. The numbers are dwindling here. I can’t take the same provender more than once. But there’s one I’ve been waiting for, saving for the very last. Like dessert.

  I’ve been trailing him discreetly, carefully, since I first arrived; keeping him in the back of my mind even as I took others. It’s difficult to put my finger on exactly why I fixate on him like I do, but deep within, I know he’s perfect; the cues are subtle, even subconscious. Hunters always know. He seems the type to scare easy. He’s proven elusive and difficult to catch. Those always give me the greatest thrill, whetting my appetite with anticipation, desire drawn out and longing.

  I have to get myself under control. If I’m too piqued, I’m going to ruin this carefully crafted game of cat-and-mouse I’m playing. It’s tempting to say “we,” the carefully crafted game of cat-and-mouse we’re playing, but he doesn’t know it yet. He will, and soon, but not yet.

  I’m trawling the edge of downtown, waiting for the stayed-too-late-at-the-office types to finally decide to leave work. It helps to look nice. These are executives, they don’t want fishnets and trashy cheap lipstick.

  No, tonight I have to look legit enough to tell the cops that I’m on my way somewhere- home from work, meeting up for a girls’ night out, bachelorette party, whatever- in case I get hassled. And really, the cops always know. But they don’t want to deal with the paperwork and no one likes to have that particular crime statistic attached to their beat, so as long as I’m not causing any trouble, they leave me alone.

  I’ve been at this a long time.

  I am very good at what I do.

  I wait in the deep shadow of the building’s edge; with high-rises all around, the street exists in an eternal twilight, day or night. Just the way I like it. I do love big cities, very much.

  I see the guy and my excitement surges. That still catches me by surprise, after all this time, how sharp is my response. Especially for one that I’ve been watching and following. The moment before I pounce never gets old, never gets any less titillating. I am practically drooling in anticipation. But delayed gratification is always the best, so I won’t rush this.

  He steps out of the building and I know he’s looking for me. He thinks he’s just looking for someone like me, but really, he is looking for me, personally. My subtle clues, casual contact, intercepting his life at seemingly random intervals have caught him as surely as if I had baited a hook. A little shudder of delight erupts between my shoulder blades but I immediately calm it, now is not yet the time for celebration.

  Now is the time to reel him in and reap my reward.

  This is going to have been well worth the wait.

  He’s got swagger, the nervous kind, as he heads up the block. He thinks he’s chosen a direction at random, but he’s got a lock on me, unconsciously responding to my inescapable draw. He looks around a lot, checking for witnesses. He makes sure he knows where his wallet is, his keys, his phone. He moves away from his building, because he knows better than to shit where he eats. No one wants to be caught with a whore on the block where they work. But he knows he doesn’t have to go far. I’m just three blocks away, watching him the whole time.

  He sees me. I smile.

  I went for the red shoes tonight because I love red shoes and bright, blood red is a universal symbol for sex. Red is the color of lust, the color of desire, the color of flushed skin, and throbbing lips.

  He stumbles on the curb, just enough to throw off his stride, and he hesitates. He doesn’t stop looking at me, though, and I can see the wheels turning in his head. I can see him fast forwarding to the minutes from now and checking in with himself to see if his fear is greater than the demand within him that begs to be slaked.

  He decides against fear.

  I smile wider.

  As he nears, I can almost taste the terrible weight he carries. His emotions are raw, gaping like wounds. There is an aura of desperation about him, as tempting as ripe fruit. I know I have chosen wisely to come to him tonight. He is, at last, perfect for the plucking.

  I stroll down the sidewalk towards him, like we’ve known each other for years.

  “Oh, darling, you look like you’ve had a rough day,” I say. “Would you like to make it a great night?”

  He falters, thinking for a minute that we may actually already be acquainted, then nods. “How much?” he asks quietly.

  There are several ways I handle this question, depending on the client. Sometimes I play the naïve newbie and lowball the number, letting the john up the ante with a lot of bravado. Mostly, what works best is that I give them a price I know to be too high and then tell him, “But just for you …” and come down to the market rate. That strokes the ego quite nicely. But tonight, I just tell this guy the going rate around town. He has enough to worry about without my little head-games designed to make him feel better about himself.

  He nods again. “I’ve got fifty up front, if we stop at the ATM, I can give you the rest.”

  “Sure. Shall we grab a drink on the way?”

  He surprises me by agreeing. Some guys like to cut to the chase, others like to pretend it’s a date. I suppress the victorious outburst that threatens to make things really awkward. I am really going to enjoy this. He is absolutely perfect.

  We sit at a little table by the window of an upscale bar. Neither of us look out of place. There’s some small talk, very one-sided, as I ask him what he does and whatnot but he feels compelled to not return the questions. But the chitchat and the alcohol serve their purpose, he becomes more at ease with me. After we finish the single round of drinks, he stops at the ATM and takes out the rest he owes me, plus a little extra. He’s already paid for the drinks, and he’s smart enough to realize he’s going to pay for the cab and the room.

  The cabbie we flag down recognizes me and doesn’t make a fuss. Right between the frayed edges of downtown and the recently-gentrified formerly-seedy trendy zone, is a band of well-kept little motels that service the likes of me. I’m sure some travelers use them for their intended purpose, but they generally rent their rooms by the hour. It even says so o
n the sign.

  My john looks vastly disappointed in the old-fashioned motor-court style motel. I give him a kiss on the cheek and tell him that he won’t be paying any attention to his surroundings in just a few minutes.

  He pays for the cab, but I slip the cabbie an extra tip and tell him to return in two hours. He agrees and leaves the parking lot.

  I have a room I like. They let me keep the key. I tap on the motel office window as we pass and hold the key up for the manager to see. The lights in the office flick on and off twice and I know the manager has seen me and will check on me when my client leaves. It’s good for business, for both of us, that he’s the contentious sort.

  Inside, the room is dark. I leave it that way. With the lights on, it looks like any motel room that has seen better days. I leave the client in the doorway. Next to the room key is a smaller one that opens a little cabinet under the desk.

  I light the candles that I keep there, one for the desk and one for each nightstand. The room looks very different in their glow.

  I approach the man in the doorway, savoring the look on his face, his eyes staring into a world he cannot comprehend. It dawns on him that I am not exactly what I seem.

  “Tell me your name,” I say to him.

  “Alden,” he tells me.

  “Why are you here?”

  He hesitates and scowls at me. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Some of it, yes.” I teasingly run my hand down his chest, caressing the front of his pants and hooking a finger behind his belt. I pull him towards me and shut the door. “But the rest …?”

  He lets out a long breath.

  “It’s all right if you aren’t ready to tell me yet. We have plenty of time.”

  “You told the cabbie two hours.”

  I laugh. “That’s how long it will be.” I tilt my head towards the door. “Out there. In here, is an entirely different story.”

  “Are you going to hurt me?”

  “Do you like that sort of thing?”

  I am moving too fast for him, I can tell. If I am not careful, he might bolt, so I lead him to the bed, teasing out the knot of his tie and working my way down his shirt buttons. His aftershave smells like leather and vetiver and I inhale it deeply; it reminds me of incense.

  As I pull his shirt off, he begins to warm up to the situation. He puts his hands on my upper arms, squeezing them with trembling fingers.

  “I … I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Are you afraid, Alden?”

  “Yes,” his voice comes out as a crackle.

  “Don’t be.” I press him down onto the bed, deftly unbuckling his belt and releasing the button in a quick series of movements. I push his pants down over his hips as I lean into a deep kiss that lowers him into the waiting pillows. His shoes hit the floor, muffled in the tangle of his pants. “You can call me by her name, if you wish, I won’t mind.”

  That brings him out of his building lust. But only for the moment.

  “Wait … what? How do you …?”

  “Some people come to me simply for the gratification of their bodily hungers, some for a different kind of solace. It has always been that way. You want more than a solid fucking, that much I can tell you. Although, a solid fucking you shall have, regardless.”

  He laughs at that. “Well, I hope so. I have paid good money for that.”

  “You’ll get every penny’s worth and then some. Now, tell me what’s bothering you?”

  “Are you a hooker or a therapist?”

  Now, it is my turn to laugh. “Neither. Both. By the time we’re through, I think you’ll understand a little better. Let’s start with something simple: tell me what you see.”

  “You. But different, different than you looked outside.” He runs his hands over my body, stroking the loose, diaphanous gown that barely covers me. “Different. Impossible.” He gently touches my hair, not a simple ponytail any longer but elaborately braided now. Then he turns his head. “This room, seems so much bigger than is possible, all this marble, and these pillows, everything looks like it’s made of gold.” He frowns. “Did you slip me something? Am I having a hallucination?”

  “Do you really care?”

  He seems to seriously ponder this before shaking his head. “Nope.”

  I climb atop him, straddling him teasingly close. “What have you prayed for?”

  “Prayed?”

  “When you despair, when things are at their darkest, what do you seek?”

  “Answers,” he says after a moment’s hesitation. “An end to pain.”

  “You loved her a great deal.”

  He nods.

  “And you fear you will never love again.”

  Slowly, as if it embarrasses him to admit it, he nods again.

  I reach out and touch his cheek. “You will, I promise. And tonight, you will start with me.”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “You know me,” I assure him. “And by the end of our time here together, you will love me.”

  I move onto him now, sliding up the silken gown and showing him that I am fully naked underneath, starting a slow and easy rhythm. Whatever he had intended to say, it is gone. There is nothing but the sound of our breathing growing deeper, coming faster, punctuated by a moan or a gasp.

  His soul is laid open before me and gently I kiss the places where it is harmed. The wounds are layered, new upon old, a latticework of emotional scars. I am moved to great tenderness. I see that he wants, more than anything, an experience to take away the sting, to take the place of her. He had tried before but had failed — his only thoughts were of her. She had been good for him, in their time together, but that time was done now. I take her image in my hands and wrap it carefully and gently, blunting and blurring the sharp edges, the harsh spikes, softening the memories of her into nostalgia as faded as photographs. And I put it back, square in the center of his life, where she merited being, but no longer at the forefront, no longer within easy reach.

  He moans loudly, arching his back, grabbing my hips.

  “Give me …” I whisper.

  He relinquishes the pain first, the darling lad. I knew I chose well. It lifts from him like a fog, darkly bruised. I take it from him and lay it upon the altar.

  He breathes more easily at once, freed from this burden dragged upon him. The rest will release easily now, he has done the hardest work first.

  I indulge in wriggling gleefully, he responds with a delighted groan.

  “Give me more.”

  The fear is next, uncoiling like a snake. Anxiety wraps around my arms, as if it could harm me, clutching and clinging, but it, too, goes onto the altar.

  His hips are thrusting up to meet me now, his desire suffusing him, surging to fill in the spaces left by the fear and worry. He does not offer that up so much as opens it to me, showing me the pleasure within it. I accept my share, drawing it around me, portioning some for the altar.

  “Good,” I tell him. “Yes, so good. Give me more.”

  A patchwork of emotions, unrelated to one another, filter through: pride, bitterness, anger, frustration, joy, all in a stream of barely consciously formed thoughts.

  Our movements are wilder now, bordering on violent, teetering toward ecstatic. He grunts and sighs, striving for the ultimate pleasure that eludes him.

  I cover his mouth with a kiss, enjoying the feel of his lips and tongue so cold from all of his lustful panting.

  “You cannot have it until I do, and I cannot until I have your love.”

  The sound he makes is at first one of defeat, then he opens his eyes and looks up at me and it becomes one of surrender. His eyes have dilated so widely that I wouldn’t know what color they were. His motions lose the edge of desperation to them, they become more focused. He seeks to move with me, meeting me at the peak of each wave so we ride it together.

  I let go of all my illusions.

  And he sees.

  His fingertips clench deeply into my flesh and the love
emerges, golden and shining like the light of the rising sun. It fills me, spilling into every curve and crevice. I let it fall from my fingertips, onto the altar, among the other things there. Each place it touches, it burns, cleansing everything else away like holy fire. And when it is done, it returns to me.

  I throw my head back as the pleasure consumes me from within. It is as powerful, as beautiful, as delightful as it has ever been.

  In a hoarse voice he shouts, half a gasp and half the name he associates with me. His orgasm annihilates every thought in his head, replacing it with a momentary crack of lightning followed by the quietest, most fulfilling darkness he has ever known.

  I rest my head on his shoulder and we lie together as the tremors pass through us.

  My skin shimmers with golden light, it drifts lazily through the air like a slow motion shower of glitter.

  He makes a heartbreaking sound of disappointment as I disengage from him.

  He starts to speak but I put my finger on his lips.

  “There is nothing you need to say.”

  He nods, relieved.

  “How do you feel, now, Alden?”

  He can only grin.

  “Good.” I lay down beside him and hold him close, my fingers dancing across his chest and throat, stroking the bridge of his nose, teasing his nipples. He lounges, utterly relaxed, and lets me. We spend what feels like indolent hours this way. “It’s time to go,” I say at last. “The cabbie will be returning for you, shortly.”

  We languidly disentangle our limbs between stretches and kisses. He fumbles with his buttons and his socks. He banters with me a little, awkward and adorable in his after-sex giddiness.

  I recline against the pillows and watch with a smile.

  Where there was darkness, he now glows. Where the chains of despair once pulled him down, his steps are now easy. Like a bloodletting, he has been purged of what ailed him.