by Edward Lee
“Good. Lemme sit down a minute. We got all night.”
She sat on the edge of the opposing twin bed, and reached for her scotch. Without looking at him, her bare foot gently planted itself between his legs.
Heyton’s entire psyche seemed to inflate.
“Thing about Florida is it’s so damn hot. Sometimes we gotta stroll fourteen, sixteen hours just to get what we need.” Her small-talk ensued oblivious to the lewd attentions of her foot. Heyton hoped his teeth weren’t chattering.
“Ruh-really?”
“Oh, sure, man.” Her tongue sucked up an ice-cube, rolled it around, then let it back into the glass. “I’ve tricked all up and down the east coast.”
Heyton’s brain split, one half focused on her raving image, one half trying to stay linear. “Why work here then? It’s got to be cooler up north, just about anywhere, I’d imagine.”
She snorted, looking around the room. “Yeah, it’s cooler, but you don’t live as long. Johns are more whacked out up there. New York, Baltimore, Boston—holy shit. Some real sick pups looking for girls up there.”
Heyton scarcely heard her. He was staring...
Her nudity didn’t seem brazen at all, nor trashy, just natural—a woman’s beauty in extremity. He could’ve moaned at the spectacle of her breasts: the size of melons but white as whipping cream. It wasn’t a milk fetish with him (lactophilia was the name for that one), it was the overall fullness: breasts full of milk, belly full of baby, blood and brain full of hormones—full to bursting. The end-phase of fecundity, one human life stuffed with another, and that same fullness forging the image he’d become addicted to just as surely and hopelessly as these nocturnal urchins were to crack.
It was that indefinable stark raving image...
Rose-pink areolae were stretched by mammiferousness to the circumference a beer can top. More imagery, more of that heady contrast: the sharp delineated pink against the snow-flesh breasts. Heyton’s gaze shimmied down, over the magnificent belly stretched pinprick-tight, the inverted acorn of a navel. Lower, she’d shaved herself quite meticulously. Heyton thought of an adorable tart of flesh.
She lit a cigarette now, and sat to let the edge of scotch take away the undoubted need for drugs. “Bet you wouldn’t think I get more tricks when I’m pregnant.” She seemed to catch herself. “But, no, I don’t mean I let myself get knocked up on purpose, fuck no—that’d be sick. I just mean there are a lot of guys like you out there.”
The foot continued to work his groin. “There’s, uh, actually a name for it.”
“Huh?”
“Sexual...attraction to...pregnant women. It’s called cyesolagnia.”
She looked cockeyed. “Whatever!”
“I guess,” he almost stammered, “we all...have our weaknesses.”
“Well, yeah, I sure as shit do, but I figure if it doesn’t hurt other people what’s the big deal?” Then she looked down at her belly as though just noticing the hypocrisy. “Oh, sure, man, I know what you’re thinking. I’m hurting this kid, yeah—”
“That’s not what I’m thinking—”
“—but I don’t mean to. Cigarettes? Booze? That ain’t shit. You guys all know damn well I’m gonna buy crack with the money you give me, right?”
Heyton nodded..but couldn’t take his eyes off the raving flesh.
“And I know the shit I do is gonna hurt the kid, I ain’t lying. But I can’t help it, and—man—I didn’t ask to get pregnant. I could get an abortion, sure, I could get one for free.”
Even in his angst, and the mounting sensations, Heyton had to ask. “Why didn’t you?”
“‘Cos if I didn’t get pregnant, the kid wouldn’t have been born anyway. But I did get pregnant, either ‘cos some johns rubber busted or I was too fucked up to make him use one anyway. And, yeah, I know the shit I do’ll probably screw the kid up in a bunch of ways, but you wait twenty years, and no matter how fucked up that kid is, you tell him, you say, ‘Hey, kid, you were a trick baby and you’re all fucked up ‘cos your mother smoked crack. Would you rather she had an abortion?’ You ask him that. I’ll bet he says no.”
Then she shrugged.
It was an interesting point, however off-beat, but in truth, Heyton didn’t care. He philosophized that other people’s problems—as well as their mistakes—weren’t his.
All he really cared about right now was the lust that her presence was stoking in him.
He noticed a tear in her eye now, and was thrown for a loop. Shit! He leaned behind and extracted a box of chocolate. “We don’t need to talk about stuff like that,” he urged. “Here, have these. I bought them at the Dallas Fort-Worth airport.”
The cheerleader face beamed at the Godiva name in foil. “Wow, man, thanks. I haven’t had these in...well, ever!”
“They’re very good,” he said, then excused himself to the bathroom.
She was too beautiful, the ultimate in what he craved. He hoped he hadn’t been shaking in front of her. Calm down! He leaned over the sink and simply breathed. A cyesolagniac? My God! Whoever heard of such a thing? Why can’t I just be like everyone else?
But he wasn’t like everyone else. Just as the girl had been saying earlier.
She didn’t ASK to get pregnant, he thought to the mirror. But she did anyway, so she’s stuck with it.
And I’m stuck with this.
More long slow breaths. He splashed cool water to his face. Simply sitting across from her on the bed had been excruciating. At any moment he could’ve wept, could fallen to his knees before her: a lambent deity, his swollen goddess of the new dark age.
I’m a pervert in a dirty motel room, he thought when he looked back up into his eyes.
Verity in self-revelation...
The vision of her dragged him back out. He sat down next to her this time, his heart racing up again. He downed half his scotch in one swig, a nervous wreck.
“You’re nicer than most johns,” she commented while her fingers unbuttoned his shirt.
“That’s good to know,” he breathed. He wanted her to think of him that way. A pervert, yes, but at least a pervert who was decent to her.
“Lot of ‘em act nice at first, then they show their true colors once they get you in the room.” She’d opened his shirt and was smoothing her hands over his chest. Finally she grabbed his hand and put it on a milk-sodden breast. Heyton at once felt swoony.
Her breath became a hot whisper behind the smile. “Go ahead and touch,” so he did, and now his eyes wanted to roll back when his hand lowered to the hot, stretched belly—a bloated wonder. He could feel tiny, mysterious things beating within.
Now he was hugging her, cosseting her, indeed, almost like a child yearning to touch its mother. Notions stirred in the back of his head—behind his lust. Yes, a decent john. Surely many were not; she must have untold nightmare stories to tell. He tried to actually consider her plight: the travails of addiction, an undoubtedly catastrophic childhood laden with abuse, and the utter self-contained terror of being young and pregnant and alone on these streets.
“Thank God,” she whispered in his ear, fondling him in return now. “In my business you really never can tell about people.”
“You’ll never have to worry about me,” he promised, almost teary himself. His knees were knocking when she began to unbuckle his pants.
“That’s what they all say,” she said.
What?
The jolt of scotch was buzzing him hard. Her comment left him confused but somehow unable to calculate a response. Was she afraid of him, even now?
“I...,” was all he got out.
Her face became a stolid blur.
“People are never what they seem,” was the last thing she said before he passed out.
***
God in Heaven...
Heyton lay wrecked on the floor. What happened? Regaining consciousness felt like dragging his head from a bear trap.
But there could be only one answer.
Sucker. Heyton
knew he’d been played. The bitch must’ve hit me in the head. Which could only mean...
He shot to his feet only to fall again. He felt utterly drunk. For minutes his vision was like looking through cheesecloth—everything was grain. But eventually it cleared enough to verify what he’d already suspected.
The manatee painting lay face down on the bed. Shit shit shit! Not my wallet! Not the car! The grim reality sobered him enough to stand, then unsteady feet propelled him to the front window. He tore back the curtains—
The LeBaron remained in his parking spot.
At least Avis’ll be happy about that... Darkness looked back at him from behind the car, those ghastly sodium lamps shining yellow lines off the hood. She didn’t steal the car but I know damn well she stole my wallet.
He turned—
His wallet lay opened on the floor. I am one lucky dumbass, he thought with a bolt of relief. She’d taken all his cash, of course, but had left his license and credit cards. He found the cell phone and car keys in the opposite corner.
She must’ve shied away from the credit cards; they were getting easier and easier to trace, and he supposed the cell phone would be of little use; she knew it would be shut off the instant the theft was reported.
So he’d lucked out three times...
But the worst headache of his life throbbed. What time is it? he wondered, glanced at his wrist, and frowned.
Count your blessings, asshole. His Rolex Submariner was gone, and that had cost him two grand used. He’d given her a thousand for the trick plus he’d lost another five hundred in his wallet.
All recoverable. She hadn’t pinched his laptop, either, which he’d stowed in its case beneath the bed. A quick peek showed him it was still inside—in her haste she obviously hadn’t bothered looking. His suitcase was another story, though; it had been upheaved onto the floor, its contents rifled. He frowned at his own shame when he saw that she’d carefully placed his magazines in strategic points about the room: NATAL ATTRACTION on the dresser, READY TO DROP in front of the bathroom, and BUNS IN THE OVEN propped neatly on the bed pillow.
I’m such a loser...
He righted the suitcase, then found something else she’d missed in her haste to get out: his backup Rolex. This one was a $75 knock-off, and little consolation for the genuine one she’d stolen. Heyton had to smile when he noticed the box of Godivas was now empty.
What a night. He trounced back down on the bed, rubbing his eyes. He put on the knock-off, noticing it was just past 3 a.m. The presentation wasn’t for another twelve hours, so he actually had plenty of time to shake this off and prepare.
Only then did he realize how truly lucky he’d been. She’d only taken cash and the watch. If she’d taken the car, some very troubling questions would be asked, and if she’d taken the laptop, his presentation would be a bust.
Maybe the Fates were trying to tell him something. Or maybe God was...
He felt the back of his head for a cut or a bruise, but found none. She must’ve hit me but...how? Something flagged his eye on the carpet. He thought oddly of a condom packet but when he picked it up...
SAMPLE DOSE - USE ONLY IF PRESCRIBED BY A PHYSICIAN. MANUFACTURED BY HOFFMAN-LAROCHE, INC. The bottom of the pack read: ROHYPNOL (FLUNITRAZEPAM) - DO NOT USE WITH ALCOHOL.
So she hadn’t hit him after all. I got roofied by a pregnant prostitute! and then he smirked at his nearly empty glass of scotch. The perfect horse’s ass... Since he hadn’t really lost much, it was almost funny. Of course he’d heard of the notorious date-rape drug, something originally made for sleep disorders.
Some date, he reflected.
He shook his head now and actually laughed.
The headache was throbbing away, replaced by embarrassment. Hookers killed johns sometimes, or sometimes their pimps followed them to the motels... Heyton knew that street thugs would make short work of him.
I hope I learned my lesson tonight, he thought and went to the bathroom. But had he really learned anything?
He faced himself again in the mirror. The Fates? Or God? Heyton didn’t know. Nevertheless, he prayed to one of them right now: I will never do this again. I SWEAR TO GOD....
Even the pitiful prayer made him feel better. He splashed more water in his face, then figured he’d shower, leave, and check in early at the convention center, and—
Get my shit together. I’m going to kick ass on this presentation, sell the IAP system to Florida, and be a decent person from now on...
Best of all, he knew he wasn’t lying to himself.
Then he turned and collapsed.
He would’ve screamed full-force but all that his throat would permit was a pathetic gasp. He’d turned to urinate but upon looking down...
It was not a plastic baby doll festooned by spaghetti sauce that sat in the toilet, yet that first horrific glance seemed surreal. It’s fake, it’s fake! Heyton’s thoughts tried to convince him. The prostitute had left it as a macabre joke.
Then the “doll” issued a death-rattle, like feeble castanets.
Heyton crawled as far into the corner as he could, paralyzed. That split-second glance froze in his mind’s eye. No, it wasn’t fake. It wasn’t a doll.
It looked smaller than his objectivity would’ve imagined—but of course, it was premature. His teeth chattered when he noticed a bloodied pen on the floor, too—one of his, with his company’s name on it, that she’d pilfered from his suitcase.
He shuddered in the corner for a half-hour, mute and insensible. Rational thought eluded him, yet through the consternation raging in his head, he knew one thing: he’d have to take action...
Call the police? And tell them what?
Get in the car and look for the girl?
That would accomplish nothing.
Heyton’s brain felt dead as clay when he eventually dragged himself up...and took action.
***
What in God’s name am I doing? the words groaned behind his mind. The deed ensued like a dimly remembered nightmare; he felt out of his body. With empty waste-can liners, he managed to securely seal the thing within a number of layers, bags within bags.
If someone walking by sees it, they’ll think it’s just a small bag of trash...
But it wasn’t a small bag of trash, was it?
The abstraction stalked him like the ghost of a murderer. Worse than the impression, though, was the simple hot weight of the bag.
I’m carrying a dead fetus in a garbage bag...and putting it in my car...
Most of the organic remnants were still wet, so cleaning the toilet had been easy. He triple-checked the room—in dread from the possibility of forgetting something—then checked out and drove away.
Once on the road, he jettisoned the pen out the window.
But the parcel lay beside him on the passenger seat. He thought of a fresh package from the butcher’s, and groaned. Some arcane logic told him to get rid of it miles away from the motel, miles from the decrepit neighborhood and its horrors. Deep thought continued to elude him, his brain engaged on its own sort of auto-pilot. Had he not been able to remain detached, he knew he would’ve cracked up by now.
More alter-ego thoughts mocked him: Dead baby in your car dead baby in your car dead baby in your car...
“Shut up!” he screamed at the windshield, knuckles white on the wheel.
A convenience store on the corner seemed to beckon, its front window bright with light but no other cars in the lot. Look normal, he pled with himself. He walked in, bought a paper from the amiable clerk, and went back out. The large dumpster on the side of the store sat with its lid flapped open.
Heyton moved very deftly. He didn’t get back in the car; instead he leaned in, grabbed the parcel, and lobbed it into the dumpster via gestures nearly balletic.
Then he slid back into the driver’s seat and saw the clerk through the window, none the wiser.
“God forgive me,” he muttered.
The whisper of his guilt would not relent: You j
ust threw a baby in the garbage you just threw a baby in the garbage you just threw a baby in the garbage...
Heyton shut the voice out of his head and drove off.
***
Guilt weighed him down as he checked into the convention center just past dawn. The room was four-star, unlike the charnel-house he’d just fled. Why should I feel guilty? he finally challenged himself. I didn’t kill the kid, she did. The kid’s death is HER responsibility, HER crime. Shit, the only crime I committed was solicitation, and I wound up getting robbed before a sex act could even take place!
The placations took away some of the edge. An awful tragedy, yes, but it would’ve happened anyway... If not with me, with the next john. Or worse, in an alley somewhere.
The fetus would’ve died regardless, he assured himself.
He wondered where the girl had gone but the answer was simple. Right back onto the street with my money and Rolex... She’d pawn the watch and spend everything on crack, and when the money was gone she’d be plying her trade again.
But nine pounds lighter now, he reminded himself.
With each minute that ticked by in the clean hotel, the more impossible it all seemed.
During the breakfast hour, he ran into some competitors. Most offered phony smiles and begrudging nods, with lines like “Congrats on Texas” or “Good job yesterday.” One, however—from a software house in Ohio—smirked the truth at him: “None of us stand a chance after you sold Texas, Heyton. You’re top of the heap now—just remember, the air gets really thin up there.” Heyton would’ve been amused by the sour grapes had he not still been coming to terms with last night’s jolt. Yet another competitor put it bluntly: “Leave Blocher and work for me. You can name your price.”
At least I’m doing SOMETHING right, he thought.
The hotel bar opened at noon; Heyton planted himself on the corner and braced himself with multiple cups of coffee. More competitors sat about him, eyes full of either envy or disdain for his success.
Above the bar, a TV sputtered at low volume: generic news. The Yankees acquire a new pitcher for a record $500,000,000 ten-year deal. Four homeless shelters in the Bronx are closed due to budget cuts, turning hundreds into the street. Afghan insurgents level a children’s hospital with pilfered U.S. demolition material, over a hundred dead. Paroled child molester caught with the body parts of three adolescent girls under his trailer. A judge had released him after a second conviction, on good behavior.