The Submission Gift

by Solace Ames

  She fell asleep knowing that they were enjoying each other, and everything was good and right.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jay filed the last intake form, looked up, and noticed Officer González still hanging around in the lobby for no discernible reason. Jay smiled at him politely and wished he would go away already.

  “So,” González said, “got everything straightened out? Is that woman I brought you guys retarded or not?”

  Jay sighed. “No. She’s a Quiché Mayan speaker up from Guatemala, that’s all, and her Spanish isn’t that great. She’ll probably need an interpreter at court, but we can communicate in basic Spanish enough for the residential advocate to get her processed.” The bruised, terrified woman must have been way too intimidated to talk to González. Jay reminded himself that the guy probably meant well.

  “I can’t believe these people. Sneaking here when they can’t even speak Spanish. Shit.” González shook his head in disgust.

  Go away I hate you go away, Jay thought while throwing mental daggers at him.

  After a minute of awkward silence—maybe the mental puncture wounds were getting to him—González gave up and ambled out the door.

  Just after the metal door clanged shut behind him, Jay thought of the perfect comeback. My great-grandparents spoke Mayan. Maybe yours did, too. Inoffensive and gently educational. If he hadn’t been so pissed off, he could have come out with it.

  He leaned back in his chair and took a deep, calming breath. The greatest danger working here, he’d come to realize, would be his own temper. Daniela had told him some stories of confrontations at the front door, abusers who’d shown up unexpectedly, and then she’d gone over the strict protocols for how to handle those situations. None of them involved a swift right hook, Jay’s first instinct. Get inside. Close the door. Call the police.

  It was enough to make him want to hand in his man card. He pictured himself throwing it down to the floor dramatically. I don’t want to be a part of this gender anymore. He’d be happier without it—well, as long as he could keep his penis and other assorted parts by special appeal, and wear skinny ties occasionally.

  Would that make Adriana and him sister-wives? He pictured the pair of them in demure skirts and pastel aprons, walking a step behind Paul. No, no, no. Something flashier. Shimmying on a stage in black bikinis and feather headdresses like Satánico Pandemonium. And then, oh God, Paul would have to be an Aztec vampire, and the thought was so ridiculous he laughed out loud, covering his mouth in case anyone walked in on him.

  Remembering where he was and why he was here made him feel guilty, but then, therapeutic laughter was an important part of self-care for social workers, seminars and material agreed. Right. Head back in the game.

  He double-checked the file placement, then went over his notes for the afternoon support group. It was entirely possible that no one would show up, since the Center hadn’t publicized this first one beyond a notice on the community board. Next week it would be on the regular program of events.

  The meeting room was on the second floor, to the right of the stairs, and he turned off his phone on the way. Two toddler girls crawled beneath folding chairs, his first challenge. “Oh no! This room doesn’t have any toys, ladies. Will you help me find some?” With that, he cajoled them back into the playroom, found them toys that met their approval and returned to set up.

  By the time he wrote LGBT and Support and Apoyo on the whiteboard, he already had two attendees.

  “Good afternoon,” he said in Spanish. “My name is Javier Ramos, also known as Jay—call me what you like—and I’m leading the support group. This isn’t like a class and I’m not going to lecture.” He smiled and sat down to underline his point. “I’m here to help you talk about the things it might be hard to talk about in other places. Is Spanish okay? We can switch to English anytime.”

  “Spanish is good for us,” said the woman. She was tiny, with a seamed brown face and shining jet-black hair. The middle-school-age boy sitting next to her could be her son, or maybe grandson. He kept his eyes on the ground, his hands clasped together, fingers nervously twisting. Something about his body language telegraphed the basic elements of his family’s personal tragedy. He was like Jay in that he’d never, ever be able to hide, as much as he wanted to.

  Who made it that way? And why? It was a mystery that had tormented him through most of his childhood.

  “I’m so glad you came,” Jay said. “I hope you can talk about your own situation, because talking often lightens the burden, right? Since I’m asking you to share, it’s only fair to share myself, so I’ll start by talking about how I came to be here.”

  He asked their names, as well—Luisa and Amado—then began in Mexico, in a village in the southeastern highlands where his parents were born. Told a simple story of how they followed the harvests back and forth across the border until they put down new roots in Los Angeles, had five children and then a sixth much later in life. A sixth son who didn’t act like all their other boys, who sang and danced and laughed all the time and played with dolls and always wanted to stay in the kitchen with the women.

  “My family wasn’t abusive, but I had to fight a lot when I went to school. If you don’t fit the usual standards of sex and sexuality, you’re more likely to be abused, more likely to have violence used against you. That’s why the Center has this group now. And it doesn’t matter what you are, or if you don’t know what you are yet. You can talk about it here.” He smiled again, wonderfully calm and clear and hoping he could transmit that feeling to Luisa and Amado somehow, with his words or his open body language.

  “Thank you,” Luisa said, looking straight at him with haunted eyes. “My husband tried to kill Amado. He tried to kill my miracle child.” She took in a great sobbing breath, a breath that seemed too large for her birdlike chest to contain, covered her face with her hands and cried. Her son stroked her shoulder and hung his head, probably to keep Jay from seeing he was crying, too.

  I wanted calm and clear, Jay thought, but at least he didn’t freeze, thank God, he was up and out of his seat and running for the playroom to grab the box of tissues that he’d stupidly, stupidly forgotten to have on hand. Once he was back, he handed them tissues one by one, sat down beside them, stayed quiet.

  “I’m sorry,” Luisa whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right, mom,” Amado said.

  Jay had the feeling he’d need a tissue himself, in a few seconds.

  “Would you pray with us?” she asked. “That’s all we have left. This place, and the Lord.”

  Jay nodded and got down on his knees with them, between the folding chairs on the ratty blue carpet. Luisa and Amado both had rosaries, and he realized with a sinking heart that they were going to recite all the stations of the cross. It might take the rest of the hour.

  “Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.”

  Jay joined in when he could remember the words. He tried to let go of his sudden, towering rage at the invisible forces that supposedly understood yet tolerated this kind of suffering.

  Be calm, be clear, be together with them.

  It wasn’t hard, once he let go.

  * * *

  This session wasn’t the kind that left much of an effect on Paul. Some tiredness, some satisfaction, nothing intense.

  “Thanks for the tip,” Paul told the client, then looked up from counting the money. “Hey, is something wrong?” Jim was blinking nervously and huffing, taking in the breath to speak but letting it out again wordlessly.

  Jim sat down on the edge of Paul’s bed and stared into a corner. “My therapist says I shouldn’t see you anymore,” he choked out.

  Paul, deep in work mode, made sure not to reveal any trace of disappointment or annoyance as he put the cash on his desk
and turned to face Jim. “Can I ask why?”

  “Yes. I told him about some of the things you—the things I ask you to do. You know, the humiliation.” Jim rubbed his forehead. His gray hair, damp from the shower, flopped forward and hid most of his face. Paul had never seen him so miserable.

  “I hope he’s sensitive to the fact that a lot of men ask for it. You’re not extreme in that regard.” Now that the scene was over, Paul was careful not to unpack the language they’d already stowed away. Cocksucking faggot bitch. Jim had moaned and crawled and begged for more.

  “Yes. No. I mean, he’s gay himself, he gets it. But he says at this stage, considering my other issues, it’s not good for me. He says if I hire escorts they should be gay positive. Not bill themselves as straight acting. You don’t say it in those words, but it’s the reason I came to you. He says that would be a step forward if I can...change the dynamic.”

  “We can change the dynamic. I specialize in BDSM, but that’s not all I do. We could do boyfriend experience...” Jim wasn’t reacting. Paul knew it was over then, and cursed silently. He took a deep breath, moved closer, but not threateningly close, and spoke in his calmest voice. “You’ve been coming to me for years, and I’ll miss you, but I understand. You have to do what’s best for yourself. I can even recommend you a few men. I want to make sure you’ll be in good hands.”

  Jim finally looked up and smiled. Paul imagined that he must feel absolved, made clean. “Thanks, Paul. That’d be great. Really great.”

  After sending Jim off with some names, Paul took a minute to feel sorry for himself. He couldn’t afford any more than a minute—today was a full day, and he always had to keep moving forward. Spring semester started tomorrow. There was a tuition bill, and of course restitution, always restitution.

  Jay and Adriana were his sun and moon, the miraculous reward he wasn’t quite sure how he’d earned. The only problem was that they made the restitution seem harder, the hole deeper. He could give them presents—the bracelets, Adriana’s clever secret thing, and he was on the lookout for a tie for Jay—but he wanted to give them so much more.

  A larger bed, to start with, because yes, Adriana was a thrasher. It didn’t take Paul long to get back to sleep after being elbowed awake, but a few more feet of space would be very welcome. And then there was France. Jay said he shouldn’t have mentioned France, that it was too far in the future, that he’d let it slip in the proverbial moment of passion—splayed over the kitchen counter, Paul’s hands still wet with dishwater massaging his hips, God it was fucking good—and since then, the idea of a canal boating vacation had seized Paul’s imagination.

  He could steer their little houseboat down the flower-lined canal, sun at his back, hands firmly on the wheel. Every so often he’d look behind him, and there would be Jay and Adriana, elegantly arranged on lounge chairs, raising glasses of Beaujolais to their captain.

  But they’d taken away his passport when he went to prison. He wouldn’t get it back until his parole was over and the restitution paid.

  Well, maybe he could book something last minute. Squeeze in some extra income to start making up for Jim being gone. He opened his laptop and skimmed through the New Prospectives email folder.

  A shy, flaky virgin in Oxnard. A chubby, jovial Russian businessman who’d had to leave the hotel for an emergency meeting before their session even started. A cuckold client vacationing close by, in Venice. That email thread was long and frustrating, but Paul tried to give the client the benefit of a doubt. Some people just weren’t good at email, and he seemed new to the fetish.

  Paul hit Reply to the last message from the client, who uncreatively called himself John.

  Hi, John. I have an outcall opening tonight for a minimum of two hours and maximum of four. Otherwise, I won’t be able to book anything until next weekend at the earliest. Looking forward to making this work, at your convenience of course. I will need to speak to your wife at some point first. Just as a reminder, no creampies (roleplay is often a great substitute), bareback fluffing is fine, light bondage equipment is included, and donation at session end.

  Only a few minutes after he sent the email, a reply hit the inbox. This is Johns wife ya sure lets do this come ovr at 7. And an address.

  He sighed and drummed his fingers on the laptop case. He didn’t like this. On the other hand, some of his best client relationships had started off with less than auspicious communications. He really needed the money, and past the address stage, chances of the session actually happening went way, way up.

  Paul heated up a tofu scramble for an early dinner. He packed a small duffel bag with rope, handcuffs, lube, condoms, breath mints, hand sanitizer, wet wipes, toothbrush and toothpaste. Then he texted Jay and Adriana to let them know he couldn’t come over tonight, and how was tomorrow looking? Tonight had always been a long shot, anyway, since Adriana wouldn’t be home until midnight and Jay had a family event.

  Adriana called him back, which was a pleasant surprise. He could barely hear her over the clanging and hissing noises of her kitchen.

  “Things are about to get crazy tonight,” she shouted. “But Wallace might be back tomorrow. God, I’m so ready.”

  “That’s great news.” He thought of bringing up the session, but the story of getting paid to fuck an unknown woman while humiliating the putative husband wasn’t erotic in this particular context, only tacky. “I’ll be free tomorrow after school.”

  “That’s why I called. Happy first day of class, baby. Got to go!” She hung up.

  As Paul walked down the stairs and headed toward his car, he felt buoyant, bobbing on the surface of life, untouchable. The first day of class would probably end up being depressing and intimidating, but Adriana’s words drew a magic circle around him. She’d called him baby. He climbed in his car and checked his reflection in the visor mirror. The look of cold menace he was aiming for kept dissolving into a sappy, lopsided grin.

  He’d get it right on the drive there.

  The apartment was in a building much like his own, a concrete cube, painted teal and faded by sun and salt spray. Slinging the duffel bag over his shoulder, he walked up the metal stairs built into the outer wall to the balcony of apartment 2B. He was curious about who the woman would be, and whether she was a real girlfriend or another escort who’d play the part. His plan was to have a talk with both of them, clear up the rules and the hours and the payment, then walk out and come right back—on.

  It wouldn’t hurt to give them a little preview, he decided, so when the door opened, he walked in like he owned the place.

  There was a faint smell in the air like burning plastic.

  A long time ago, he remembered reading that the sense of smell was the quickest sense of all, the one that went straight like a bullet to the limbic system, the seat of emotions.

  Leave. Now.

  He turned on his right heel. His heartbeat kicked into overdrive. Outside the world of his strung-taut and humming body, the light was muted, sickly, radiating from a naked bulb in a shadeless table lamp on the floor, and someone had nailed bedsheets over the windows, someone sprawled in the shadows leave now leave now leave now.

  Almost out. The man who might be John stood by the door, shoulders hunched, his jaw working side to side as if he was chewing with his mouth open. He had dark hair, was only average sized—Paul could take him down, yes, almost certainly.

  The balcony. John hadn’t blocked him. Paul took a deep breath of the clean air. “You’re on meth,” he said, already halfway down the stairs. “Don’t contact me again.”

  He heard the door slam shut behind him. He didn’t turn around until he’d reached the foot of the stairs.

  Jesus. He’d done the methamphetamine one hundred eighty degrees a few times before, and it had only been annoying, not terrifying. What the hell was going on in there?

  It didn’t matt
er. It was none of his business. He needed to get in the car and go.

  He remembered, finally, now that the smell was out of his nose. What he’d seen in the shadows. Everything he’d seen. The woman in the corner, giggling to herself, head lolling like a doll badly used.

  His fist closed around his phone, the weight of it at first reassuring, then agonizing because of the choices, oh God, the choices. He could call 911. Leave before the cops came. Or stay. Tell the truth, which was vague and incomplete, based purely on his instinct. Make up a story to get them here faster. They’d charge him with solicitation. His parole—

  He let the phone drop back into his pocket. Those were the wrong choices, anyway.

  He worked his way back up the stairs with exquisite softness, rocking heel to toe, heel to toe, so that his heavy boots never rang against the metal. The duffel bag weighed his shoulder down, so he slipped it off and lowered it—slowly, softly—to the side.

  The door was only painted plywood.

  He kicked it open.

  John froze, or maybe Paul was moving so fast that everything seemed frozen. He grabbed John by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

  “You tried to play me,” Paul said. “I don’t get angry easy. And I’m angry now.” John’s heart hammered against his ribcage, vibrating into Paul’s clenched forearms. He could hurt this man and not feel a thing. There was fear in the room thicker than the smell of meth and vomit, and none of the fear was Paul’s anymore, and he was glad of it.

  “Just take the money and go.” The man was an assemblage of features, tight popping veins and red-rimmed eyes, pale skin over malleable flesh over breakable bones, and the features wouldn’t come together into a readable human whole.

  Paul smiled, making sure to show teeth. “It’s not about the money.” He talked about killing you, near the end. Paul tried to clear his head without shaking it, without revealing any of the confusion that had suddenly struck. A few seconds ago, he’d been clear on how things stood. Now it was all gone to hell. But no, it still wasn’t about the money. He had to think. He had all the power here and he had to fucking use it the right way or he was going down all over again. “Who is she and what is she on?”