by Allen Wyler
A soft knock on the front door of the suite releases an adrenaline rush in spite of his having mentally prepared for this moment. His eyes zero in on the stylish chrome door handle and the two-tone plastic “Do Not Disturb” sign obscuring the solid steel dead bolt. In a strange detachment, he watches Toby Taylor’s hand reach for and then touch the cool metal handle. He knows he is about to unlock a fresh chapter of his young innocent life.
He pauses, swallows, closes his eyes and thinks of all the reasons to consummate this encounter. Will she sense his nervousness?
Has to be a complete fool not to.
But isn’t the idea to get him over the hump?
So to speak…
He laughs at the double entendre. A bit of humor, he thinks, might be just the thing to get him moving again. He opens the door. “Breeze?”
She flashes unnaturally white teeth. “Uh huh, and you must be Toby Taylor?”
Once again, he thanks himself for using the alias. It’s so incredibly liberating that he can’t imagine going through with this under his real identity. “I am.”
They stand at the threshold, Arnold with the door in one hand and the jamb in the other, thinking she looks a bit different in the flesh than the website picture. Can’t explain exactly what, perhaps the same reason people look different on television than in person. Same woman, just different. Attractive, maybe mid-twenties, gorgeous lustrous black shoulder-length hair, her slim body outlined by a clingy sleeveless black dress, one strand of black pearls around an unwrinkled neck. Iranian or Pakistani, or of a nationality from that area, just like Howie guessed. Now that he thinks about it, he realizes what makes her different from his expectation is that, for whatever reason, he assumed an “escort” would be trashy. Breeze strikes him—in voice, posture, makeup—as just the opposite: very classy.
She looks past him, into the room. “Nice room. May I come in?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Still holding the doorknob, he backs away, allowing her to enter, then quickly shuts the door behind her, his mind scrambling for something to say. He is NOT going to repeat all of his bumbling dumbass mistakes of the past. This time it’s different. He’s prepared a series of conversational topics to run through, should they spend time chatting. Now that she’s here, how the hell does this work? What is he supposed to do?
She stops in the center of the suite’s living room and does a 360, repeating, “Nice.” Perhaps sensing his nervousness, she points to the cut crystal tumbler of scotch on the table by the window. “I’ll have whatever you’re drinking.”
Relieved to be tasked with something other than gawking like the putz he is, he goes to the wet bar and begins dropping ice cubes in a glass, listening to the deep resonant impact of frozen water on real crystal. You can always hear real crystal, he thinks. He senses her watch him, which seems to make his herky-jerky movements even more robotic, if that’s possible given his present state. He imagines actually dancing the robot and laughs at the absurdity.
“Which would you prefer I call you, Toby or Mr. Taylor?”
He sloshes scotch over the ice without any attempt to measure what a reasonable pour might be. “Toby.” There, that wasn’t so difficult.
He sets down the bottle, turns to see her sitting casually at one end the small love seat flashing a coy, seductive smile. She pats the cushion next to her. “Why don’t you sit here and we can get to know each other?”
He retrieves his own drink, carries both of them to the couch, hands off hers, and settles in at enough of an angle so they can see each other without craning necks. And tries to smile.
“This your first outcall?” she asks, swirling the ice with a perfectly manicured index finger while maintaining eye contact.
“My what?”
She samples the scotch, nods appreciatively, then, setting the glass on the table, “Don’t be nervous, I won’t bite. Unless, of course you’re into that kind of thing.” She giggles and raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Well, are you?”
He scrambles for some witty repartee, something smart and clever, but comes up empty, so instead, opts to sip his scotch, knowing full-well how transparent the ploy is.
With an empathetic smile she reaches out to gently stroke his cheek with her fingertips. “You’re cute. Know that?”
The C-word? No one’s ever called him cute before. Of all the adjectives he can think of, cute isn’t one. Oh, that’s right, she’s being paid to please him. Still, he relishes her flattering words.
He wants to say something but his heart is hammering away, lodged in the base of this arid throat. Open your mouth and you’ll probably croak again. He takes another sip to wet his mouth.
Her face becomes more serious. “How about we take care of business before getting lost in pleasure?”
Not knowing what this means, he nods, relieved with allowing her to take the lead.
She opens the thin silky purse in her lap, slips out a piece of paper. “Your email requested five days, is this correct?”
“Yes.”
“Such a lengthy time is a bit unusual. What exactly do you have in mind?” She touches his hand. “But before you answer, I want to make sure of a few things. First of all, do we understand that you are asking only for my companionship and that my presence tonight is neither a solicitation for, nor an offer for, sex?”
No, not at all. What’s going on?
“Toby?”
“I thought—”
She repeats the statement/question more emphatically. “Answer yes, please.”
“Yes.”
“Fine, it is understood, then.” She nods. “However, if our relationship should develop into a sexual one, well hey, that can happen with consenting adult men and women. Don’t you agree?”
Ah, now I get it. “Absolutely.”
“The second thing you need to be clear about is that I do not charge money to be with you. Now, having made this absolutely clear, I also want you to understand that I do accept gifts and it’s quite common for men to demonstrate their affection for me in the form of money that is placed in a plain white envelope and left on, say, this table here,” motioning to the one on which their drinks sit. “Do we have a clear understanding?”
He nods agreement.
“Please answer yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“Alright then, back to my original question. What do you have in mind?”
The question catches him as off guard the second time around as it did the first time. Having no rehearsed answer, he sees no option but admit the brutal truth. Besides, she’s already seen him in action. Or inaction, as the case may be. He decides to throw himself at her mercy.
After downing another slug of scotch—again more to wet his mouth than for courage—he blurts out, “I want you to teach me how to act around women. Tell me what women want. Not just in bed—I mean, yeah, sure that’s part of it, of course—but tell me what women want in a man day to day. You can probably see by just being with me how lost I am just sitting here with you and it’s only been, what, maybe five minutes?” A sense of relief floods over him for having confessed. Being a socially handicapped nerd is now a matter of record and there is no going back. Either this will or will not be successful, but if not, it isn’t from not having tried.
Head cocked slightly, she studies him with a glimmer of interest.
God, those eyes… they’re beautiful.
“You have a girlfriend?”
“No.”
She nods thoughtfully. “You gay and just haven’t come out?” She quickly adds, “That’s not something you should worry about. I’ve had that happen a couple times. If so, I’ll simply help you find yourself.”
He sighs. This conversation isn’t progressing even close to the way he anticipated. “No, I’m not gay.”
She flashes a disarming, penetrating smile. “No problem. I think I can handle this. Let’s see what we can do.”
“Thank you.” He discerns palpable relief in his voice.
/> “Again, no problem. And Toby—I hate to discuss business at a time like this—but instead of receiving a gift at the end of each day, I require the entire amount—for all five days—up front.”
A buzzer screeches in his brain. He may not know the first thing about how to act around women, but money, well, that’s an entirely different matter. Does he look that naïve? That much of a schlemiel? Yeah, probably. Well, not probably, face it: yes.
Chance it and give her the money?
You gotta be kidding, right? What’s to keep her from taking it and never showing up again? If so, what recourse do you have? Lodge a complaint with the better business bureau? Ha, fat chance!
To keep from making eye contact he picks up the crystal tumbler. “No, I don’t think I can do that.”
“Oh? Why not?”
He sees no reason to back down and finds her question strangely annoying. Simply cancel the deal now? “I’ll feel more comfortable if we settle things day to day.”
Sensing his suspicion, she brushes a finger across his cheek again. “You’re especially cute when you blush. Women like men who blush. It gives you an aura of innocence and vulnerability. Just be sure that innocence doesn’t carry into the bedroom.”
Pure bullshit. The cute part, that is. He files away the other bit of information because it carries a ring of reasonableness. He looks up at her again. “So, daily’s okay?”
She smiles brightly. “Whatever pleases you, Toby, because that’s what I’m here for. Now, am I to assume you have a gift for me this evening?”
This, he realizes, is his first real discussion, negotiation, or whatever you want to call it, with a female and it wasn’t all that difficult. He feels better already, having cleared this first hurdle. “I can do that.”
Moments later he returns from the bedroom with an envelope holding six one hundred dollar bills. He hands it to her.
She doesn’t move. “No, Toby, please leave it there on the table.”
He does as directed and sits back down for another sip of scotch. A moment later, without checking the envelope contents, she unsnaps her black purse and drops it inside. “Money. Everybody wants it, nobody ever seems to have enough. Do you have enough, Toby?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think even Bill Gates knows if he does.”
Her eyes roam the room again. “Well, from the looks of it, you seem to be doing quite well for a man your age.”
He interprets that as a statement in no need of rebuttal, so offers none.
She studies at his face again. “Then here is your first lesson. You want to know what women want in a man? Answer number one is: money. Money and power. Each of those is a girl magnet. Put both of those in a guy and he’ll trump any competition, no problem. Even the ugliest man on earth can score a good-looking girl if he has the money.”
Again, he doesn’t answer, and finds this point of view rather depressing.
What did you expect? That there is a Santa Claus?
Another touch on the cheek. “Now that this discussion is over, why don’t we turn to pleasure?”
Anxiety—with a capital A—comes crashing back, stealing his breath. He wipes his palms on the thighs of his suntan Dockers.
“What’s your pleasure, Toby?”
She stares directly into his eyes. Up until this very moment the evening has been only hypothetical, an intangible concept: sex with a woman. It’s now segueing from an amorphous intangible concept to hard-core reality, making him suddenly see her anew and in startling detail: the small wrinkles sprouting from the corners of her eyes, the black mole just above her left collar bone, a skin crease traversing her neck, her ethnic hue of skin, particles of black mascara surrounding those beautiful almond-shaped eyes, the smooth edge between lipstick and skin. This is real. Right here, beside him is a living, breathing female willing to have sex with him. All it takes is to reach out and touch her and all the mysteries pondered during so many lonely nights of yearning will start unraveling. But here’s a twist he never anticipated: this is just too easy. Sex for cash. Pay up and put out. Until this moment he’d always assumed one needed to exert some measure of mental effort, cunning, or whatever, to reach this point in a relationship. Like hunting an animal, you stalk them first or bait a trap. Maybe go out a series of dates, laugh at her jokes, be attentive to her needs. Learn things about the person with whom you’ll share whatever level of mental and physical intimacy you elect. Here, none of that energy is required.
Strangely, it makes this reality frightening, for this is way too mechanical and it leaves an empty depressing void inside where there should be lust.
In spite of this, he realizes he must consummate this. It was, after all, the point of this trip. And, truth be told, he really does want to solve the mysteries.
What now? He swallows, unable to speak.
She sizes him up again. “Your first time? For sex with a woman?”
Too embarrassed to admit the truth, he opts for silence.
With a sly smile, she shrugs off the right spaghetti strap, allowing the dress to slip down and expose a breast. Reaching out, she gently takes his hand. “Then I suppose you’ve never felt a nipple before. Here,” lifting his fingers to darker flesh. “Feel how it grows hard when you squeeze it? Just like if I squeezed your cock.”
Her use of that word startles and is instantly and stunningly embarrassing yet strangely exciting. He’s never spoken of male anatomy to a female. This is so… different.
A part of his brain—a residual from who knows where—forces him to glance away in obvious embarrassment, which in turn, embarrasses him even more. He wants to die, yet wants to…
She forces his fingertips to play with the nipple. “Touch it, Toby.”
Sucking a deep breath, he allows his fingers to explore the tactile sensations that are being transmitted from nerve endings to brain and is amazed at the realization that as this moment he’s having his first actual, honest-to-God, skin-to-skin contact. The Eagle has landed! Can’t believe he’s—
“Squeeze it gently. Make it swell,” she murmurs.
He does, once more marveling at what he’s doing. His world reverberates into a singular focus, concentrating on the tactile sensations turning on a deeply primitive region of his brain. His vision blurs as his ears become deafened with pulsations of blood. From within this mental fog he hears, “I suppose this means you’ve never felt a clit, before either. Want to?”
He gasps.
She’s shoulders him back against the loveseat as her hands mercifully release the tightness restricting his groin.
“Close your eyes,” she whispers, her lips brushing his ear, “and just let go.”
He’s about to have a heart attack so pushes her away. Other than his mother and a family doctor, his genitals have never been exposed to a female, much less an erection. He needs courage to overcome the sense of shame at having something so private exposed.
“Wait, let me shower first.”
Wrapped in a white Bellagio terrycloth bathrobe, hair still damp, he opens the bathroom door to the bedroom. Breeze has thrown open the drapes and turned off all the room lights, painting the spacious suite in kaleidoscopic neon and mercury vapor light. Flicking off the bathroom lights, enough light from the strip allows him to see her propped against the headboard, a sheet covering her flat abdomen, breasts fully exposed. His shower fantasy grapples again with reality.
“Aren’t you going to join me?” Flashing a seductive smile.
Making sure the robe securely covers his body, he glances away from her breasts ashamed for staring. “Will you to turn your head, please?”
“Guess what? I won’t. One thing you need to get comfortable with is being naked in the presence of women, because most women want a take-charge-man in the bedroom. You can’t do that by slinking around hiding your manhood all the time. Besides, what can you hide I haven’t seen before? I’ve seen it all.”
He walks to the foot of the bed and stops, takes hold of the terryclo
th tie but can’t seem to summon the nerve. She’s right, he knows. He needs to shed this paralyzing modesty, but by now the erection is back and throbbing.
“Guys are worse than girls in that regard,” Breeze says looking directly at him. “Girls lose their inhibitions at a much younger age. Probably because what we endure in doctors’ offices, laying back on an exam table legs spread with everything out there in the wind. It’s hard the first couple times, but trust me, gets easier once you’ve done it.”
He’s at the foot of the bed still fully robed.
She pats the sheet to her right. “C’mon, Toby, show me that bad boy. I can see it’s hard as rebar, so bring that boy toy over here so I can play with it.”
Sucking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and drops the bathrobe.
“Lord have mercy, uh uh uh! You got nothing to worry about in the cock department. Bring it on.”
He slips between the sheets and feels her hand firmly grasp his erection, amazed at how rapidly it returned. She squeezes and fondles it. “You a virgin?”
“Yes,” he admits, figuring there’s not a damn thing left to hide, he’s been stripped clean, so to speak. After all, isn’t this precisely the reason he came?
“Well, Toby, that sad situation is just about to end, so get ready.”
8.
Arching his back, Arnold stretches his arms high in the air, holds the pose for several seconds, working out the muscle kinks in his shoulders. Then settles back into the chair, eyes lightly closed. Morning sun angles through open curtains, warming his face in spite of the whisper-silent air-conditioner maintaining a comfortable 72 degrees. He relaxes and continues to sweep away mental cobwebs, a pleasant residual from the soundest sleeps enjoyed in… a… long time. He sighs, opens his eyes to look at Breeze again. She sits across the table from him, eating a room-service breakfast of strong black coffee, a golden-puffy oven-fresh croissant, and a tall, chilled glass of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. CNN Headline News plays softly on the television. Both are swaddled in soft, fluffy, monogrammed terrycloth robes. Arnold notices her red toenail polish for the first time. “What would you like to do today?”