Whip Cracker: With all your selectiveness, looks like your best bet still is finding a nice long-term benefactor who can fix your ongoing financial woes. It should be much easier now that you have sworn off men entirely and know Ken isn’t coming back.
I guess. I skim the paper’s classified section right away.
~~~
A week passes. I set course for Malibu Beach to visit a “well-to-do” surgeon, one of the men who responded to my ad for a “millionaire benefactor.” My clock shows noon when parking my car on a hillside street right by the strand. I take a good whiff of the ocean air as I walk toward the front entrance of his estate.
Once inside, the sixty-something-year-old, near bald white male invites me into the lavish living room where we have a seat on the pompous yellow-ochre couch. While conversing, my eyes wander to the outside of the wide-open glass portals that lead to the beach. They further brush across the shellacked wood paneled deck, and the endless glistening waves on the water. Seagulls cry while I feel another surge of oceanic mist hit my nostrils. The atmosphere of beauty plays with my senses, nearly making me forget the true purpose of my visit.
The pretty picture fades now that the owner of the house escorts me into his bedroom - a dark, dreary space that is covered with a musty odor. I strip down to a g-string and begin to knead his hairy thighs, which is part of my routine for the agreed upon full body rub down. My hand moves up and down his penis in rhythmic motion with only one goal in mind—to get him to ejaculate as quickly as possible.
“Hold on a moment,” he interjects. “I’ll be right back.” He walks over to the dresser, returning with a large wire tooth hairbrush.
“Here. Slap me with that as hard as you can while you stroke my cock, got it?”
I pause.
Pretender Babe: Damn, I’m so not into violence.
I fade into the picture on the wall while my fingers timidly tap his ass with a few faint-hearted claps.
“Harder, harder,” he squawks.
Spurred on by having been granted permission, I let my hand rattle down with much greater force.
Ragelina (screaming inside my head): Die, fucking pervert. Die.
I keep staring at the clock on the bedside table.
Ragelina (fuming): I hate that fucker.
A few more minutes go by before he comes all over my hand.
“You make an excellent submissive,” he grins.
Whip Cracker: There’s my little whore. I knew I’d eventually break you back in.
I leave. Driving through town, I pull into the gas station at the corner. I grab the paper with the man’s name, number, and address on it, tear it into a gazillion pieces and toss it into the trashcan.
Later this week, I set out to meet with a sixty-year-old millionaire at his Tudor style mansion in Bel Air. The butler escorts me into the wood beam lined living room that is decorated and designed in exquisite European fashion. He asks me to have a seat on the tan, cushioned leather sofa while I wait for the man of the house to arrive. A minute later, a slender, bearded fellow with curly silver-colored shoulder long hair that’s tied into a ponytail walks up and greets me. He speaks with a sophisticated English accent.
Hot Shot: There’s no way I’ll EVER let that creep penetrate me.
But as the gruesome picture of bills piling up at my house infiltrate my head, I immediately agree to furnish him with a sensual massage. He leads me upstairs into his astronomically sized bedroom that overlooks part of the city, then guides me through the hallway into a separate changing room where I strip down to a piece of floss that, to some people, may be construed as underwear. I slip into the white, although somewhat stained robe which the dude asked me to put on before returning to see him, and make my way over to his room. I drop the mantle, now that I stand in front of him, and join him on top of the capacious state-of-the-art bed that is nearly as wide as my living room.
I rub his chest for about half a minute or more; then move to his legs, eventually commencing to whack his member. Placing my face near his while simultaneously stroking his thing, my lips come dangerously close to his, fooling him into thinking that we are about to kiss. His hellish foul breath makes me ill, especially when he shrewdly tries to pucker up for real. Gallantly, I turn away my cheek each time. I feel his hand fizzle around at the outer seam of my panties. He attempts to touch the Secret Grotto underneath, but I remove his limb before he can get there.
Ragelina (snarling): Grrrrrr. I’m gonna punch him out.
Whip Cracker: Better behave, if you wanna get paid.
Every time I successfully deter his advances, his hand shoots right back to the same spot.
Romy: I think, I’ll die, if his finger ends up inside me.
I feel him groping around the covered outside of my private part some more. In a split second, he slips his finger underneath the fabric and jams it in me.
Ragelina (spitting acid mist): That bastard. I’m gonna kill him.
Romy: Fuuuuuuuucccccckkkkkk. How could you do this to Ken? I haaate you so much.
Running away enters my mind…dashing from the scene without pay.
Whip Cracker: If you leave now, all the hard work was for nothing. Might as well hang in a little longer and finish what you started.
I turn back toward the creep, alerting him assertively not to pull another such stunt on me. He complies. A few more strokes, and the event wraps. I get my money and jimmy jam out his house at once.
Mister Cruel
Driving down the 405 freeway, the buzzing by my hip created by my pager brings an instant smile to my face.
Romy: It’s Ken. Yeess.
Mountains of sorrow shrink to nothingness. Forgotten are the endless cries over not having him close, the agonies I just lived through minutes ago when jacking off that dirty old man inside his house in Bel Air. His nauseating scent still lingers on me. Grateful that Ken cannot see the mess I am, I pull off to the side of the road and phone him.
“I would love to see you, honey,” he says when he hears my voice. “I am out here in the desert for a gig. Why don’t you fly in? I’ll pay for the ticket? Check around how much airfares are and call me back. Alright?”
“Okay, babe,” I say as detached as possible, working hard at trying to hide the overflowing excitement.
Romy: He loves me…he loves…he loves me…
Within minutes, I gather the required information and ring Ken back.
“Hey, sweetie. It looks like a roundtrip ticket runs around two hundred forty bucks with American Airlines. I can be there as early as eight o’clock tonight.” There is silence on the other end.
“Do you want me to book it?” I ask.
“Come to think of it, it’s kind of late already. It may not be such a good idea after all because I wouldn’t have much time to hang out with you. Just cancel the thought.”
The conversation ends within seconds, at which time I collapse crying over the steering wheel, staying in that position for roughly fifteen minutes.
Romy: It’s all your fault he changed his mind. He might have sensed that you just came from somewhere where you shouldn’t have been to begin with.
The sobbing lets up a little. Immediately, I start driving although I feel like someone just whacked me over the head with a baseball bat.
Once I get to my house, I draw a hot bath, get in and out in thirty minutes and spend the rest of the evening eating, purging, masturbating…in that order, several times in a row until I cave onto the sheet and dose off.
~~~
This morning, a few days after Ken played that hurtful game on the phone, he crosses my path at the gym. I give him a look of contempt but he keeps on following me around with repeated attempts of trying to get on my good side.
Romy: Be nice to him.
I play hard to get for a few minutes, but his cuteness eventually melts me, and I take him up on his invite to be his guest at a wrap party.
At 9:00 p.m., I meet Ken in front of the event building in Culver
City.
“Listen. Before we go in, I don’t want you to flip if I smooch with some of the women. You know, it’s all a show, strictly for business, not meaning a thing in this industry, like you probably know?”
Romy: Whaaat…?
“How are you going to introduce me?” I ask with frustration in my voice.
“I’ll tell ‘em you’re my friend.”
Hot Shot: How convenient.
Miss Vanity: He better not piss me off more.
I follow Ken down the long corridor on our way in. We pass through hordes of dolled up people. I watch as he immediately intrigues with a smorgasbord of preying females who look like they are about to jump his bones at any moment. We sit down at a table. A minute passes.
“I need to say hello to a few people,” he tells me, undeniable restlessness emerging from his every pore. “Let’s meet upstairs near the pool room in ten minutes, okay?”
“Cool,” I say trying hard to keep my uneasiness under wraps. Ten minutes elapse…
Spotting Ken near the pool table I join his side. People are gathered around us, some chatting, others sipping on their cocktails. Roughly four feet away from where we are stands a blonde dressed in a yellow evening gown. Her smile widens as Ken spots her. He walks over to her. I see them talk for a moment, an intensely long moment.
Enviola: She is all over my man, eating him with her eyes.
Romy: I know that look. That’s how I look at him…with the eyes of a smitten lovesick puppy.
Lustania: …and twinkling desire.
Enviola: That slut. She ain’t all that…probably some fucking actress?
Lustania: She’s definitely lusting him.
A minute goes by…Ken waves me over. When I reach the two lovebirds he introduces me as his “friend.”
Ragelina: Shall I strangle him now or later?
For the rest of the evening, I watch how the two repeatedly engage in wordless “I Can’t Wait To Screw You” stares, shamelessly flirting with each other, caring little whether I’m around. Avengelia instructs me to check out the husky, tall colored man with the stature of a bodyguard who is standing across the room.
“Whooo is that?” I ask Ken with a well-enacted parody of fascination, simultaneously running my eyes up and down the other fellow’s anatomy.
“Why do you want to know? You like him, don’t you?” I sense tension in Ken’s voice.
Avengelia (longing to scream in his face): Hell, yeah, I like him, asshole.
“I think he is really good-looking,” I say with a sly smirk.
Ragelina: Who gives a flying fuck about anything anymore? I won’t subject myself another minute to watching Ken fantasizing about boning that blonde bimbo.
“I’m leaving.”
“Oh…well…okay. I’ll walk you to your car then,” he suggests.
“No, that’s okay. Really, I’m fine.”
“Let’s go. I’ll bring you. Don’t want you to walk around this late by yourself. C’mon.”
Ken prods me forward. While we are strolling along the sidewalk toward my car he puts his arm around me. I free myself instantly. We reach the car.
“Kiss me, honey,” he insists as he hugs me.
Romy: Kiss him. He wants to make up.
Ragelina: Bullshit. Don’t you dare? Not after all this.
Doubt Cloud: I bet ya’ he’ll go right back in there and work his way into the blonde’s pants for tonight.
Tough Gal: He needs to earn your trust again. Get packing. You are going home.
I turn my face away as Ken gets closer.
“Don’t…I am not in the mood,” I say, gently nudging him backward.
“Fine. Take care,” he mumbles, walking off once he sees me get inside the car.
Too enraged to turn in yet, I swing by a karaoke joint that is on my route home. I return to my ride fifteen minutes later. When I pull my phone from the glove compartment, I discover a message. It’s Ken’s number…I check it immediately. I hear him conversing with a woman, but because of background noise, I only detect muffled garbling…with only a couple of clear words here and there. I could be wrong, but from my familiarity with every nuance of the highs and lows of his voice and his way of flirting, I could almost swear that what I’m hearing is him trying to score with another woman. Disgusted, I throw the phone onto the passenger seat. Fuuuckkk. My head hits the front wheel as the image of him banging the chick in the evening gown poisons my mind in most intolerable ways.
~~~
It’s almost 11 p.m., and I feel like piranhas are feasting on my insides again. Having reached a plateau in my enslavement to the classified section of the weekly paper, Fantasia insinuates that I explore more advanced arousal ads. She urges that I pick up one of those sleazy publications that can be found inside a box on certain street corners. I get dressed and hurry to one of those cases, pull one out and bring it home. I rip it open like a lion does a zebra on the Savanna and scan it from cover to cover, hunting for words that will supply an instant hit.
Inflamed by the idea of attending swinger clubs, I take myself straight to the spectacle, participating in one orgy after another, only in the safety of my head, of course.
Whip Cracker: You better get out there and make it real. Now that you know how to orgasm, you’ve got the responsibility to truly participate in what the world has to offer. But if you want to keep it on a smaller scale for the time being, at least, bring your most favorite fantasy to life. You know, having two hotties rock your world at the same time. It’ll hit the pleasure jackpot, I promise.
Lustania: Mmmmh, yeeaahh…more orgasms, stronger orgasms, longer orgasms, climaxing all day, everyday for as long as I live. That’s what I’m talking about. I need nothing else, just that…ultimate happiness.
Too horny to focus on the things “normal people” do, I place an advertisement by morning that reflects a condensed version of my wish list.
Within days, an abundance of messages trickle in, apparently all of them belonging to nicely built African-American males. Their dark manly voices get Lustania so worked up that she insists I lie down right away and masturbate. I do. Right in the middle of it, I notice Fantasia introducing two white men to the plot.
Lustania (indignant): What? Are you crazy? You are spoiling the mood.
Fantasia: Oh, I forgot, no white boys unless they look like ‘Vin Diesel’ or ‘Jason Statham.’ And only a certain kind of black male—no pro-athletes, extreme body builders, rappers, ‘Mac Daddies,’ the ‘Too Cool For This World,’ or guys with piercings, right?
Lustania: Precisely.
Fantasia: Noted.
I arrive at the coffee shop in Woodland Hills around six this evening to interview applicant number one who replied to my request for a threesome.
“Hi. I’m Chevana,” I say to the towering beefy male in the hip flannel shirt across my table. We shake hands and sit down across from each other.
Scaredy Cat: Pure madness.
While we keep talking, I am trying to envision us between the sheets.
Lustania: I’d do him.
After digging a little deeper, I find out that he has got a woman whom he lives with.
Lustania: On second thought, who needs that drama?
We leave it at “I’ll call you once the interviewing process is over.” He takes off. Guy number two shows up a few moments later, a fellow with a diamond studded earring in his left lobe, gray hairs around his temples, wearing a Lakers’ shirt and tight black jeans.
Fantasia: No chemistry. Next.
I wrap this one up and head back home.
Doubt Cloud: What can you expect from a want ad in a sleaze paper? Best of luck. I doubt you are going to find what you are looking for.
Waking up once again with the knowledge that I am flat broke, I see the walls of bleakness rise even higher this morning.
Fantasia: Why not let a voyeur watch you while you have sex with the two guys of your choice? For an entrance fee, of course.
Lustan
ia: That is genius…If you’ll excuse me? I have some serious jacking off to do to that excellent plot.
Keenly, I reformulate the initial ad this evening and place it. Several responses arrive in a matter of days, mostly from white men for the role of “the watcher.” I sense Fantasia’s growing excitement while I try to decide which one to call back.
Thursday, at 9:00 p.m. in Beverly Hills, I am waiting for one of “the doers” from the first batch of applicants, a guy named Zack, to arrive at the upscale restaurant on Rodeo Drive. It’s clear to me that if he checks out alright, we’ll be partaking in our first trial run for sexual harmony tonight.
Staring out of the window from my table, I watch a fancy white sports car drive up. It stops a few feet away from the eatery. Within seconds a six foot tastefully garbed man in his thirties steps out. He’s wearing a hip-long brown leather jacket and is now coming my way.
Big Shot Mama: If that’s him, kudos for the ride. And he isn’t shabby either.
He smiles as he notices me staring at him. The fellow enters the locale and walks up to my table.
“Zack?” I smile invitingly.
“Chevana?”
“Hi, nice to meet you.” I step towards him, and we hug.
Fantasia: He’s attractive, sure. Nice eyes, good skin, but his face is a bit on the soft side. I had hoped for a bit more of a dare-devilish look. But…okay…he’ll do.
Lustania: As far as I can tell through his clothes, he seems to be well developed in all the right places. I love his deep voice, too.
He sits down and orders a drink. While we are talking about our future endeavor, I throw my idea of adding a benefactor into the equation. Reluctance invades his face. I tell him about the motivation behind it. A few minutes pass.
“Can you hang on for a moment?” Zack asks. He gets up and walks outside to his car. When he returns and sits back down he hands me a little stack of hundred dollar bills.
“Here. Take this.” I look at him with a perplexed expression.
“What’s that for?”
“Use it to pay your most urgent liabilities,” he says with a kind voice.
“Wow…but…but I won’t be able to pay you back for some time.”
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