Dealing Flesh (8 page)

“Fine. I’ll hold the dough. But that’s it. Be careful, alright?” I tell her before she leaves the office.

I worry about her. But I can barely see the forest for the trees myself, and therefore, I shove any and all feelings under the nearest rug. As I count the cash inside the envelope, intense emotions overcome me.

Big Shot Mama:
How stupid am I,
slaving away at this 1,800 Mark a month salary job that gets me nowhere?

Whip Cracker:
You better believe it
.
Your Sis understands how it’s done. Look at your pitiful self, sitting in this life-draining office five days a week, unhappy, unloved with no fun, not able to afford shit.

Tough Gal:
Shut up. You are a mad man. I am not going to listen to you.

Whip Cracker:
Losers won’t make it in this town. You are going to die if you don’t wake up and go where some real money can be made.

Tough Gal:
Fuck off.

Whip Cracker:
Let’s face it. You are only good for taking care of a man’s cock. You fucked two guys for money, so you tell me, where that does not already make you a whore? Besides, even your parents will sell you out in a heartbeat. Believe me, they can care less if you become a hooker; otherwise, they would not have introduced Vicki to that shady place their friends run. So what’s to lose?

Tough Gal:
Go to hell. I mean it. Oh, I forgot…you live there.

Scaredy
Cat
:
But, but…the checking account is hugely overdrawn without a chance of improvement; bills and rent are way overdue; the city threatened to cut off the utilities; there is barely any money left for food. Going dancing to find relief from the misery is out of the question.

Doubt Cloud:
Furthermore, you can’t pay the dentist co-pays and need to let go of the gym membership. You have no friends, no man who loves you, you hate yourself, and even if you wanted to, there isn’t enough cash to start from scratch anywhere else.

Scaredy Cat:
The only measly choice left seems to be moving back in with the “adults”.

I see myself in the middle of a burning building, flames engulfing me. The blazing inferno tears off the roof while I stand paralyzed, unable to move a finger. Cinders fly by my head, missing me by only inches. I stare deathly into nowhere, abide in place, even as extreme heat singes my skin and thick black smoke pierces my lungs. I scream, wave my hands above my head: “Mayday, mayday,” but no one rushes to my aid. I know I must jump from the window this instant, if I want to survive.

“Help, somebody, please help!” Nothing—so I leap.

“This patient will be taken off the respirator in exactly five minutes,” I hear a woman in white announce.

Something promises that, if I lie to myself, lie to the world, I will live. Whip Cracker’s idea of servicing several men in a twenty-four hour period, instead of one once in a while, suddenly makes a whole lot of sense. I figure, if I work escort the entire weekend and quit Sunday night, I will return to the office on Monday morning, not having missed a single beat. I come to…a new hope calming me.

CHAPTER 7

The Other World

The agency on the south side of town, run by a couple in their fifties, welcomes me with open arms. I hand the guy with the slick hairdo a bunch of modeling shots, which he adds right away to the
Album of Drugs
for hire. This is the book a client looks through to select the drug or person, if you may, that promises the best payoff and the longest action. The proprietor of the establishment describes in vague terms what is expected of me, although conveniently leaving out the detail of it being in my best interest to have sex with the customers if I want to last in the business. Capable of reading between the lines, I leave it at that.

On my way out, the owner’s partner, a woman with flaming red hair, hands me a paging device. The gizmo goes off as soon as I approach the subway station. Scaredy Cat, shaking incessantly, begs me not to go through with it. I coldly brush her off. Not to brag or anything, but it appears that gals in their early twenties are in high demand tonight because when calling into the agency, I am told that the rest of my day is already solidly booked.

The first assignment brings me to a man’s personal residence. I draw a bit of a blank around the specifics of this visit, but I do remember getting in and out of his place in less than thirty minutes.

The next engagement yet leaves a more lasting impression, as I show up at a five-star hotel in midtown to make two Saudi Arabian men happy, Mustafa
,
and his friend. After enjoying excellent room service, munching on the best appetizers the house has to offer, I spend the next couple of hours in two different tracts of the gigantic suite, hanging out with one guy at a time. During sex, both of them hit me up for rectal action. I do my best to accommodate the mighty painful intrusion for several minutes, but daunting concerns that the rubber might split and reaching the limit of what I find bearable has me reverting to less invasive methods for delivering the men their payoff.

Seeing a thousand dollars for a few hours of work drop into my purse hooks me in. Could it be that this is how hookers got their name? Because they get hooked on the money? Hmmm?

Whip Cracker:
Now that you are broken in, things should go a lot smoother.

Monday morning approaches. My initial focus shifts to the pain that is coming from the tissue around my thighs and vagina. I feel jet-lagged, subdued by an encompassing fatigue that is keeping me glued to the sheet. I pick up the phone and tell the human resources clerk at the environmental company that I got a real bad case of the flu and that I will not be in for the next seven days.

I make myself available day and night this week. Aside from sheiks, their friends, and rich businessmen, I cater to all sorts of characters, creepy or not, as long as they are able to afford the fee. Aware that horniness never takes a holiday, I put the beeper next to my face when going to bed every night.

Most of my bookings lead me to hotels or johns’ private residences. Some men prefer coming to my place, which I hate. But the fact that I cannot say “no” to money gets me to adjust to even that in record time. Some tricks are content with using my body for just a few minutes, ejaculate, and go about their usual business. Others expect a set of events to transpire, like dinner or dancing, before and after screwing me, and sometimes between segments. My favorite assignments are the ones where the guy only wants to talk or jack himself off while I watch. But unfortunately, that only happens on rare occasions. So do the requests to escort someone to an event to piss off an ex-girlfriend.

Then there are those men who get so excited they come the minute I start unbuttoning my blouse, not having any physical interaction with me whatsoever. This type of assignment often leaves me to be out of there right after “Hello.”

A peculiar thorn in Ragelina’s eye are the johns who are impolite, ugly, unclean, or pester me with solicitations so bizarre that the encounters evoke ideas of going homicidal on them.

~~~

It being Thursday already, I got three more days to think about whether I should keep my day job at the office or make escorting a full-time occupation. Ironically at this moment, the agency calls asking if I can commit to four days in Paris in the coming week to party with Mustafa, the one I catered to in the very beginning while he was here on business. They tell me, he and several of his Saudi friends are looking forward to seeing me.

Big Shot Mama:
Paris? What’s there to think about?

Determined to no longer stand in my own way of creating financial security, especially now that I have sunken to the bottom of the pit, I do not see how I can let this fabulous opportunity fall by the wayside. Besides, I have not had a vacation in years. Just thinking about my flesh’s potential moneymaking capabilities inflates me with super happiness.

Big Shot Mama:
If I play my cards right, this body of mine can make me rich.

Tough Gal:
Yeah, but on the flipside you have to answer to the head of the demon department.

Big Shot Mama:
I am willing to give that a fair try.

Triumphantly, I tell my boss at the office this morning that she has seen the last of me. Now that my soul is no longer mine, Whip Cracker promises that there are great things in store for me. And so, Paris, here I come.

Arabian Nights

Paris, France – Mid 1980’s

The plane finally leaves the thick dreary cloud cover behind. Curiously, I put my nose up to the window glass for last glimpses of a now fully formed city. Ahhh…PAREEEE - Mecca of
Couture
and
Amour
. Amour, amour, amour. Excited, yet disappointed in its lack of glamour from the air, I let my eyes wander across the canvass for another minute.

Whip Cracker:
You better strike that word ‘amour’ from your vocabulary unless you are referring to the other kind. In case you forgot, you are NOT here to fall in love. Are we clear?

Ja, ja…well aware.

For all I know, I am not even here to represent the human race really or largely mingle with it. Nope. I am here to make a delivery, a special, feverishly anticipated delivery—one that effortlessly passes through even the toughest inspections. Highly-trained sniffing hounds or not, no one can see or smell me for what I am, nor is anyone aware of my havoc-reaping potential, not even I.

Dear John:

I’ll soon be there to make you lose touch with reality, to induce you with the high you so desperately crave. The fact that you chose ME as your favorite drug of choice over all the other women, picked ME to be the star of your world, instills in me the feeling of importance, of being somebody. And although I know that, no matter how I look at it, in the end, I’ll still remain a whore, I’d rather have it this way any time than enduring the agony of waking up to another day of feeling like a Nobody.

But, please…don’t let this go to your head…I don’t enjoy your presence, nor do I like partaking in the duties of my job. Make-believe is my business; that is all it is—an act to assure that the transaction of flesh for money goes over as smoothly as possible.

Shall we?

Signed: Escort #27

After a few dramatic drops in altitude, the jumbo jet touches down at
Charles De Gaulle
airport. My watch shows eleven upon boarding the cab. “Hotel Du Jour, s’il vous plais,” I instruct the driver in broken French. Much to my relief, he remains mute because I sure as heck wouldn’t know how to carry on a conversation in the first place. I sit back and stare outside, my eyes closely following the day-to-day hustle of Parisian streets. I think about how much I dread this mission, although in some distorted sense I feel strangely elated.

My thoughts drift to segments of childhood family vacations, times when the “adults,” Vicki, and I toured some of these very roads. I can still see Sis and me emerging from the cozy comforter that covered us while kicking it on the spacey flat surface in back of the Volvo station wagon. I see us leaning out the window, gawking in amazement at the awe-inspiring scenery. This time around though, I can’t help but wonder…where the hell has all the magic gone?

Reaching my destination instantly kills further chances for reminiscing because Mustafa greets me with a shy smile inside the pompous foyer.

Everything inside me revolts against going further, yet hearing Whip Cracker mumble that I must finish what I started, I step to the edge of the cliff inside my mind and jump. Coming to, about a split second later, I brush myself off and place a kiss on the Saudi’s cheek, latching my arm under his. We walk down the quiet corridor that leads to his five-star galaxy suite. We enter. I excuse myself and hurry into the baroquely decorated washroom.

Romy:
I hate you.

I ignore her. I must. Once I finish freshening up, I join the Arab in his bedroom. After relieving him of his sexual urges, we get ready for dinner. Mustafa introduces me to Mina and Lena, a couple friendly girls from Holland who’ve also been flown in to up the fleet of party drugs.

Eight o’clock arrives. We are asked to show off our dance moves inside the living room, a space that looks like a large medieval chamber in an ancient chateau. A bunch of drooling Saudi men await us. I have no idea how they all relate to each other—if they are buddies, business partners, or bound by family ties.

Ragelina:
Frankly, I don’t give a fuck. I wish they’d all die.

Twenty minutes pass. I see Mustafa signal the bloodhounds to come for us. While headed our way, my thoughts drift ahead to a few hours from now, the time when this all should die way behind me, allowing me to rejoin the living again, at least for a little while—that is, if I make it through, something I’m not really sure of. Really, I don’t know whom I hate more: those men for treating me like an object or myself for letting this happen. Right after each man chooses which one of us to bang on the first go around, I take off with one guy, watching my friends disappear with others somewhere inside the many rooms on the lowly lit corridor. The scenario of males swapping girls repeats a few more times within the following ninety minutes.

~~~

Tonight, Mustafa takes the Dutch chicks and I to a classy Chinese eatery on the
Champs Elysees
. My eyes immediately zoom in on the cute Chinese waiter who serves us. He reciprocates my stares in satisfactory ways. The sting of Lustania’s desire burns like fire inside me, but no one senses my yearning to possess the Asian treat. He goes by Hon Chung as we soon find out.

Now that we’ve finished eating, we leave and meet up with the rest of Mustafa’s crew at the
Crazy Horse
cabaret. For the next two hours, I try to stay focused on the mesmerizing showgirls on stage, but catch myself drifting here and there to images of that cute-ass waiter from earlier. We make it back to the hotel by eleven where once again, the harem comes alive.

I wake up exhausted from last night’s ordeal. Lustania’s annoying yapping slips into my ears.

Lustania:
I gotta get the waiter under my spell. I gotta get the waiter under my spell…tonight. My life depends on it.

I go about my day.

Five o’clock rolls around. I persuade the Dutch gals to join me for another outing at the Chinese restaurant. I figure three hours should provide enough time for some fun of my own, before duty calls again at the hotel. Getting to the spot, we seat ourselves at the exact same table we huddled around last night. I feel a pleasant jolt seeing that Hon Chung’s on shift again.

My eyes follow his every move. He smiles bashfully upon spotting me, now approaching our table. We order. While waiting for the food to get here, the Holland gals and I engage in lively chatter, yet their words and mine don’t register at all because Lustania keeps me in constant fixation over how to get laid by the Asian cutie. We finish our meals, pay, and wish the waiter “good night.” We step outside.

“Keep on going without me. I have an errand to run,” I announce. “If Mustafa asks, please say that I have things to take care of, but I will be back in time to hostess, okay?”

The women concur, but I can’t help noticing a perplexed look on their faces. Jazzed about finally seeing them walk away, I rush back inside, sit down and order a glass of wine. Hon Chung comes by and talks to me in an English that I really can’t understand much of at all. Knowing that for where we are headed, very few words will be necessary, I simply smile at him. Our eyes do most of the talking. Within minutes, he arranges to have someone cover his shift. We take off hand-in-hand to a hotel nearby.

Just a short while into doing “the nasty,” Lustania complains that this feels as if she were laying on an ice shell at the Antarctica. Like a heroin addict running haywire on empty, she prods me to angrily claw my nails deeper into the cutie’s back. I do.

Lustania:
I can’t take another minute of this
.

Hot Shot:
I wanna have some fun, damnit, before I have to get back into that fuckin’ lion’s cage again.

Pretender Babe:
Chill girl, I’ll take it from here
.

All activity stops.