The Business of Lovers

by Eric Jerome Dickey

  She whispered, her voice almost begging, “Use that fat cock. Make me come.”

  With her face against the glass, as water rained down on us, I took her from behind. She had paid for bareback, BFE.

  I’d met her fifteen minutes ago, and she had invited me inside of her body.

  “You feel so good inside, my love. Use that big dick. Punish me good.”

  I fucked until I looked beyond us and saw we were being watched. A man stood outside the bathroom door. He was tall, wore a blue suit. Heart thumping, I withdrew my cock and backed away from my client, a flock of fear in my gut.

  Startled, the politician opened her eyes, saw him, stumbled, covered herself the best she could with her hands, and looked at him, her frown strong, then raised her voice, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  The tall man took three steps and stood in the bathroom’s doorframe, his lips turned down.

  In a dark and unhappy voice, he said, “You’re being intimate, showering with him?”

  “This is not what we agreed upon.”

  He scowled. “I should stay.”

  “Was I there with you when you had your affairs?”

  “That was years ago.”

  “Was I, Wakefield? Was I?”

  His jaw tightened. “Be quick with it.”

  “Were you quick with it?”

  “Victoria.”

  “Interrupting me will only make it take longer.”

  “He’s younger than our son.”

  She snapped, “And your mistresses were younger than our daughter.”

  He swallowed. “How many times will you do this to punish me?”

  “Leave.”

  “Use a prophylactic.”

  “You didn’t. Hence your secret baby. Hence the secret checks that went on for the last ten years.”

  “Use a prophylactic.”

  “Leave.”

  “Use a goddamn prophylactic.”

  “Leave.”

  He frowned at me. “Be gentle with my wife. Don’t hurt her.”

  The door slammed behind him. She left the shower, jogged to the other room, and slapped the deadbolt on the presidential suite’s door. When she marched back, her nipples weren’t hard, and I had all but gone soft.

  She got back in the shower, eased down on her haunches, and became a goddamn Hoover. Then she turned around, put her damp face against the wall, bent over, and spread her cheeks.

  She moaned, “Give me my therapy.”

  CHAPTER 40

  BRICK

  ON THE BED, the politician made grotesque faces that spoke of unimaginable gratification. She unquestionably owned me, rode me like I was a horse not to be let to get water and rest for at least thirty hard miles.

  “Look at me, lover. Look into my eyes. See me. Not some other woman. See me.”

  With her left hand on my right clavicle and her right hand on my left thigh, she rose and came down hard. She was feral. She was as flexible as a contortionist and could move like a ballerina. Orgasm weakened her and the Amazon collapsed on her back, struggling to inhale and exhale. I looked toward the time. I had entertained her for twenty-six minutes and eleven seconds. She crawled back to me. Soon I was back inside her love, made me get on top and held my ass, had me banging like a carpenter. She put my fingers around her throat and held my hand tight. I choked her. She trembled. Her legs shook as a level-three orgasm overwhelmed her. She put her nails into my skin, held my ass, held my back, bucked against me, swam in a liquid orgasm, treaded those heated waters until she was pulled under again. She was stranded at level three, inside an orgasm that was inside an orgasm that was inside an orgasm.

  I remained a man at work until I felt it was me dancing by myself.

  Her hands fell away, first the left, then the right, left her posed like a woman crucified. I looked at her. I shook her, gave her a gentle slap. Nothing. I put two fingers on her damp neck, searched for a pulse. Couldn’t find one.

  My words came out in a panic. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  Looked like she’d had a heart attack. Her face wasn’t slacked, so it wasn’t a stroke. Had to be her heart.

  I ran to the bathroom to get a wet towel to clean her with, then wondered why I was doing that. The moment I turned on the water, there was a sound like an old woman who had stubbed her toe. I hurried back to the bedroom. Her left hand was twitching. I stepped closer. Her chest began to rise and fall. I moved closer. She licked her lips. She raised her right hand, put it on her left breast like she could feel her heartbeat.

  “Jesus. What in the hell was that?”

  She coughed like she was choking on a fish bone. At the same moment the door to the presidential suite opened again, but was caught by the security bar. Her husband was out there, desperate for this to be over.

  He called out, “Victoria? Victoria? Victoria?”

  “What? What, what, what?”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Almost.”

  He slammed the door and left again.

  She whispered, “I’ll be done when I am done, and I am not ready to be done.”

  She pulled me back on top of her, put me back inside her, again behaving like she owned me.

  Hips rising, short nails in my back, heated breath on my neck, she commanded, “Do that shit again.”

  * * *

  —

  THE POLITICIAN STAGGERED back into the shower, then called for me to come help her wash her body again. Ten minutes after that, I sat on the edge of the bed, naked, a damp towel across my lap. She wrapped a towel around her body. I watched her redo her hair. It was like watching Picasso create art. She was meticulous.

  She picked up her phone, made a call. “Beverly? Have you and your husband arrived?”

  The politician went back to the bathroom, back to being girly, fussy, and doing her makeup.

  She told Beverly, “A bet is a bet and a promise is a promise. I’m serious as a heart attack.”

  Then she ended the call.

  Soon she was fully clothed, in a dazzling outfit. She stood in the mirror evaluating her figure, the shape of her round ass. The Amazon picked up her designer purse, took out four one-hundred-dollar bills, eased them onto the dresser. She went to the door, then hesitated, and came back to where I was seated on the edge of the bed.

  The client put her finger on my chin and raised my face until my eyes met hers.

  She gave me a slow kiss, again wiggling, breathing like she was aroused.

  Her phone rang and all that was sensual, all that was erotic, was shut off. She checked the message, then went from zero to pissed in two breaths. She made a call, frenzied, back in damage-control mode.

  She barked, “Scrub the damn files. Everything. Everything. I want no blowback or else I will take everyone on this ship down with me. I’m at a fucking event all evening.”

  She opened the door to leave, and jumped, caught off guard. Her husband was there, waiting.

  Her voice trembled, was urgent and shaky. “We have a problem.”

  “I know.”

  “What should I do? Should I tweet something now?”

  “I’ve prepared a few powerful and profound tweets for you to look over.”

  Their conversation faded as they went toward the elevator. I took deep breaths, picked up my tip from the dresser, pocketed it, then retrieved my phone from the drawer, powered it back up. Right away, it buzzed with alerts.

  My phone rang at the scheduled time. Voluntary enslavement hour was officially over.

  I said, “Hey, Christiana.”

  “Code phrase.”

  “Your cockeyed momma eats Mexican food and farts the third verse of the national anthem. I’m used to this shit being done in the other direction. I’m used to being the bodyguard.”

  She ex
haled. “I’m glad to hear that. How is it going, Brick?”

  “I’m done.”

  “Congratulations, Brick. You are official. Your first time. Your official first time.”

  “She’s gone. I’m to wait thirty minutes after she is gone, then leave, right?”

  “Those were her initial instructions.”

  I said, “I’ll shower, get dressed, and be downstairs at the bar soon.”

  “You’re not done yet.”

  “She’s coming back?”

  “No. Another opportunity has been offered.”

  My altruistic friend told me to stay where I was until I heard from her again. She had to talk to the politician regarding my services. I went back to the shower. I turned the water on, lathered my body, scrubbed my skin. Felt like I couldn’t get clean enough. I banged on the wall a few times, hit the tile hard enough to hurt my hand. When I looked to my left, I saw I wasn’t alone. The politician’s husband had come back. The angry man stood tall, like a stilt walker, a moko jumbie, hands in fists.

  CHAPTER 41

  BRICK

  I STEPPED OUT of the shower, water and soap raining from my flesh. It was just me and him. I was naked, big fat black dick swinging like an elephant’s trunk stunt-doubling for a pendulum on Big Ben.

  Like he was the boss’s boss, he pulled out a chair, sat down, crossed his long legs, put his hands on his knees, gritted his capped teeth.

  He barked, “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “I was paid so she would enjoy herself.”

  “You’re a tough guy. A real tough guy.”

  “Tougher than some.”

  “If I were your age—”

  “You’d end up beaten half to death. I don’t fight AARP members. Looks bad on the résumé.”

  “I could make one call and LAPD would flood this room and take you away.”

  “Call the cops. Tell them your wife hired me to fuck her for an hour. Let them know you approved it. Let’s see how that plays on CNN.”

  He snapped at me, “Get out. Get the fuck out of this room. You low-life piece of shit.”

  I went for my clothing. He had political power. I was Stormy Daniels. I knew that I’d end up incarcerated while he went home.

  The tall man said, “Don’t.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t go.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “She’ll know and then she will be angry. She’ll take it out on me if you do.”

  He stood, wiped his eyes.

  He asked, “This is how you make a living?”

  “You offering me a better job? Or looking to change professions?”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “You’re the man who should know that I’m the man who doesn’t give a fuck who you are.”

  “That’s my wife.” He came toward me. “She’s my wife. I love her more than anything.”

  I stepped toward him, trunk swinging. He saw my hands become fists and backed the fuck up.

  He cleared his throat, said an almost incomprehensible, “I’m sorry.”

  “Speak up.”

  “I set the wrong tone for this conversation.”

  The Dwayne Sr. in my blood came to life and I barked, “Talk like a man talking to a man.”

  “I apologize. I love my wife. My emotions and my jealousy got the best of me.”

  He stood before me as if it were my turn to speak, grief and suffering written all over his face.

  He dabbed his red eyes and stammered. “I can give her everything.”

  “Again, speak up and talk like a man talking to a man. Look me in the eye when you talk to me.”

  “I can give her money and help her obtain political power, can give her everything except . . . except . . . except for one thing. I can break into ten hells and rob a hundred gods blind, and that would still not be enough to satiate her. I am unable to be a man with her. Do you have any idea how incompetent that makes me feel?”

  “Your wife is your issue. Decide if you want to become mine.”

  “An affair came back to haunt me. And the irony is, I can no longer be unfaithful. My prostate.”

  I understood. He had lost the ability to be a man to a woman during the midnight hour.

  “I have repented. I have fallen to my knees and asked for her forgiveness every day. She tells me that forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it. She tells me that through my indiscretions, I have crushed her. Every day, none more than today, none more than tonight, she lets me know that while she is beautiful and delicate in her own way, she is not a flower. No one steps on her.”

  Nothing filled the air as my balls tightened and my dick swung side to side.

  “Don’t tell her I came back up here. The issue between my wife and me is not your issue.”

  He extended his hand to shake. I looked at him like he had lost his mind.

  I said, “What, you walk in uninvited, insult me, make threats, and we’re gonna be BFFs now?”

  He withdrew his hand. “Let’s keep this unfortunate moment between the men.”

  “You’re on my dime. I’m at work. You’ve taken up my time. Pain and suffering are due.”

  We stared at each other. He opened his wallet, dropped three hundred-dollar bills on the table.

  I didn’t reply.

  He dropped two hundred more. Dropped it like it was nothing but taxpayers’ money.

  I nodded.

  “Now get out before you get the same thing I gave your wife.”

  I didn’t mean it, just wanted to sound Eastside. That prison tone shocked him.

  Impotence stared and a potent man, a younger man, a stronger man, stared back. The tall man adjusted his expensive suit and trudged out the door. I took a deep breath. Glad that it didn’t get any uglier than it did. A moment passed before I picked up the money, counted it, added it to his wife’s tip, stuffed it in my suit coat.

  My phone rang.

  It was Christiana.

  She said, “Next client will be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You’re a birthday gift from the politician.”

  “You are serious.”

  I told her about the politician’s husband.

  She said, “That will be taken care of.”

  “I need to change rooms.”

  “No, stay where you are. I will make sure the old card key no longer works.”

  “Don’t make me catch a case.”

  “Things have changed. You used to look out for me, and now I am making sure you’re safe.”

  “You’ve handled me. From the moment I met you, you’ve handled me.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  I popped five twenty-milligram sildenafils, then called housekeeping and asked them to change the linen pronto. I showered again. When I came back to the bedroom, housekeeping had been there and gone. The room was immaculate. I had just picked up 1Q84 and read a page when the door opened again.

  CHAPTER 42

  BRICK

  IT WAS A woman of a certain age, a silver fox. Five foot four. Nice physique. Her body said she could afford to eat at Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s. She wore a beautiful dress and sexy high heels. The toned arms and defined legs said she was a gym rat, that or paranoid of being the size of the average woman. California paranoia.

  She said, “Brick?”

  I nodded. “Brick.”

  She whispered, “Oh my. Victoria isn’t punking me.”

  I sang, “Happy birthday to you; happy birthday to you.”

  “So, this is true? Victoria actually . . . you’re my gift?”

  “Tell me what you want, and I’ll make it happen.”

  She came to me, looked me o
ver. “My, my, my. I have to be back downstairs soon.”

  I put my hands on her hips, did that gently, looked for permission in her eyes and body language.

  She whispered, “This is for real.”

  This time I was in control. I kissed her, kissed her neck, spine, thighs, sucked her bottom lip. I took her clothing away. I picked her up like she weighed nothing, carried her to the bed, and eased her down. I gave her a ten-minute massage. Put lotion on my hands and rubbed her down from her neck, across her ass, to her feet.

  She asked, “May I touch you? Or in this situation, do you do all of the touching?”

  “It’s your birthday. You can touch me any way, anywhere you want to touch me.”

  She bit her lip, then touched me where I grew when aroused, held me in her small hand.

  She sang, “Oh my. My, oh my. You’re blessed.”

  She made it grow as I put kisses on her stomach, kissed her inner thighs.

  I asked, “Anything special you want?”

  She said, “Just don’t mess up my hair. Whatever you do, don’t mess up my hair.”

  “Then you’d better get on top.”

  “I’m not that good on top.”

  “I’ll bet you are. I’ll bet you have no idea how good you are on top. I’ll hold your hips and guide you.”

  * * *

  —

  WINDED, THE SILVER fox touched my chest and my stomach, dragged her fingernails over my skin like I was a dream come true. She kissed my chest over and over, sucked my nipples, touched my softening penis.

  Suddenly she sat up and said, “The event. My husband. I have to return to my friends and constituents.”

  She hurried to the bathroom, washed herself, redid her face, put on perfume. She pulled her gown back on, kindly asked me to help get her back in order. I did, then stepped away, gave her room. She shifted from side to side to look at herself from all angles. I stood behind her with my hands on her hips, kissed her neck, then nibbled her ear.