a teaser excerpt by Escort Sephe Haven from the upcoming series…
“It is a silly question to ask a prostitute why she does it. These are among the highest-paid professional women in America”
He said his name was Robert Morgan. That he worked for a company called “South Coast Realty.” I should have looked it up but he sounded so nice.
He said he was down in Orange County.
I said I was in LA, that Orange County was too far for me to travel to and suggested he find someone in his area.
He said that it was only me he wanted. He saw my ad, my picture, loved what I wrote about myself. He didn’t do this very often and wanted a special experience.
I said I understood what it felt like to want an experience like this to be special. I wanted it to be special for me too. I said I would be happy to call him if I had occasion to be in his area.
Several weeks later, I had an audition in Orange County, remembered Robert Morgan and called him through his company. But instead of answering, “South Coast Realty”, a dark gritty voice growled, “Yeah?”
This should have been a clue.
Legit companies answer their phones with their company name.
I asked for Robert Morgan and when he answered, he scheduled a time with me for the evening after my audition.
Because I was traveling so far, I asked him if he could book a two-hour appointment and my rate would be seven hundred dollars; four hundred for the first hour and three hundred for the second.
“No problem.” He said. “I just got my tax return.”
“Well now that’s dangerous,” I said in a flirty voice.
He called me twice that day to re-confirm our appointment. Which is not usual for a client. Both times, he repeated, in step-by-step detail, the directions to his hotel, as if I were disorganized or listening-challenged. This too should have been a clue.
The address he’d repeated over and over, turned out to be a cheap motel with a blinking vacancy sign and a chintzy name, the Lazy Boy Motel. I thought he had said a ‘hotel’. This place was transient-looking, not what I expected from a rich real estate broker.
I park my car into the open space in front of his room, #48. The light above the paint-chipped door swarms with moths. I tell myself the car is only a few feet away, I can always make a run for it.
Although he is quite average looking, something about him seems—off.
He wears gray slacks, polyester and a maroon pullover sweater of synthetic knit; kind of like an Anglo-Saxon ‘guido’. Is there such a thing?
He has no suitcase so he must have rented the room only for our rendezvous, and it appears he’s been waiting a long time. Open newspaper sections blanket the bed. A can of Hawaiian Punch and an empty bag of Fritos sit on the nightstand.
Vending machine cuisine. Fritos and Hawaiian Punch? This should have been a screaming clue. My clients are not Fritos and Hawaiian Punch people.
The air around him is cold and I can’t tell whether it’s him or the temperature in the room.
“Hi, I’m Natalie, as you’ve probably guessed.” And I launch into a clicky-clacky apologetic giggle titter-tatter about the traffic. He offers no conversation. His mouth curves up into a semi-smile, but his eyes remain blank. ‘Like a shark’ I remember thinking.
(Looking back, it’s not what he was that confused me but rather what he was not. There is a muted excitement that even the most disconnected of clients have when they first open the door that Robert was vacant of.)
My nervous chatter wears itself out. I smile as I scope out the room. Typical cheap motel room. Double bed with a wooden headboard attached to the wall. Dresser opposite the bed with a mirror above it. Metal luggage rack. Plastic brown trash bin. Old faded green shag carpet. Fluorescent lights. A beige pocked metal heater/air-conditioning unit attached to the wall under the window by the door, a no-frills bathroom.
I put my bag down on the dresser opposite the bed and say,
“Would you mind if we take care of the business side of things first so we can forget about it and just have fun?”
(That would be the last time I’d ever do that. From that day forward, I take my chances and never get the money up front.)
He says “Sure” and places seven one hundred dollar bills on the dresser between us.
I remember finding it odd that he just didn’t hand them to me.
“Would you mind giving me a hug to make me feel more welcome?”
I place myself against him. He puts his arms on my back and pats me like he is burping a baby. I look up at him, my eyes seeking his, and lean in to kiss him. He turns his face away leaving my lips to kiss the air; very different than the man on the phone that couldn’t wait to see me.
I seat myself in a graceful pose on the rayon, 1960’s-paisley-patterned bedspread fanning my long black velvet gown around me. He collects the newspapers and sits back against the headboard.
Somehow we end up in an animated discussion about the evils of customer service and soon we are comrades in the ‘small man’s struggle against systemic corporate dehumanization’. Time flies.
It is now almost 8:30. An hour has passed and not wanting him to think I am wasting his time, I ask if he would like a massage.
“Why don’t you get comfortable,” I suggest, picking up my bag, “and I’ll go change. I don’t want to get oil on my dress.”
I head off into the bathroom.
The toilet still has the paper strip across it and it looks like it has been peed on. I change as fast as I can, wipe myself with an Eve feminine cloth, spread on the obligatory KY and re-enter the room. I am wearing my favorite turquoise push-up bra and matching panties, Victoria Secret stay-up black lace thigh-high stockings and a pair of black ankle strap heels. It’s the same outfit I am wearing in the ad he saw me in.
He doesn’t notice. He is lying on his stomach, his face smashed in a pillow, naked but for a pair of horizontal-striped grownup boy briefs. I place my dress over the arm of the desk chair, take out my goodie bag, (filled with condoms, oil, and KY), setting it on the bed next to me, and put my purse down on the floor.
Again I feel the chill in the air and again I can’t tell whether it is him or the room.
“Robert?” I lean into his ear. “Would you mind if I turned the heat up a little?”
“No, go ahead.” He mumbles into the pillow, eyes still closed against me.
I hop off the bed and futz with the damaged dial on the tin heater that sits low to the floor by the front window.
“I think it’s broken. I guess you’re just going to have to keep me warm.” I tease and jump to the bed, squishing myself into his back. I lay flat on top of him aligning my body with his—legs to legs, feet to feet, chest to back, head to head and press my weight into him. My lips find his cheek and I kiss him softly, roaming with my mouth to his ear, his neck, his forehead. He responds, not at all. As if I’m not even there. Another missed clue?
I sit straddling his butt and pour some oil in my hands. I rub the oil fast between my palms heating it and gently place them open-palmed upon his back. I close my eyes and let go of my uneasiness, giving way to the antennae in my fingers.
When I have run the terrain of his back from neck to tailbone, I open my eyes and notice for the first time, three separate, exact size round scars. Two, like eyes, are close together on the left side of his lower back and one is high on the scapula of his right shoulder. With tender swirls, I circle one of the beebee shaped scars with my pinkie. He shifts as if this is making him uncomfortable.
“Robert? What is this scar?” I murmur into his ear.
“It looks like you have bullet holes in your back.”
“I was in a fight once.”
Maybe this should have been a clue. He looks more like your conservative uncle than a barfly with a gun.
“That’s some fight. Are they bullet holes?”
“Yeah. It was a long time ago.”
“Wow. How scary that must have been for you.”
I lean down and place a soft warm kiss on each of the scarred holes.
“I’m sorry that happened to you.”
I want to heal him. I want to make those holes dissolve. I want to erase that moment of pain and fear from his life. But through my thighs I can feel he is starting to get antsy, starting, I imagine, to think about the time; starting to wonder if massage is all there will be to this encounter, so I know it is time to move forward.
Inching myself backward so I am now sitting on his upper thighs, I massage beneath the top seam of his briefs, then slowly glide them lower and lower off his buttocks with each downward stroke until I have eased them off completely.
“Listen.” He says, jarring me off as he’s suddenly sitting up on the edge of the bed. “This is great but do you have a condom or something with you?”
This is an odd thing for him to say at this point in our encounter. We are not there yet. Not even close.
“Yeeeessss I have condoms,” I say, playing it off. “I’m a single girl in the ’90s. But Robert, you don’t need a condom right now, okay? Come lay back down and let me finish the massage.”
“I would just feel more comfortable if I had a condom.”
He is pouting like a child, staring down at his un-aroused, shy like a little boy’s, weenie.
“I promise if we need one, I have one.”
“I’m afraid of AIDS.”
“Oh sweetie.” I laugh. “I’m just giving you a massage. Even if I did have AIDS, which I don’t! I promise you, you can’t get AIDS from a massage.”
“I would just feel better if I had one.” He says with an incongruent forcefulness.
There is no winning, so I toss him a Trojan. He tears at the wrapper with his teeth, freeing the rubber and begins a desperate battle to force his soft, hibernating member into the latex circle. He pushes down first this side then that side, then the other side again, then grabs the scared little head, pushing it roughly, stuffing it into the tip of the balloon- his cock behaving like a stubborn two-year-old who won’t be held.
I wait and watch until it starts to get embarrassing.
“Robert, why don’t we wait? I don’t have AIDS.”
“Can I ask you a question?” He says.
“If I ever get this thing on, would you give me a blow job?”
“Robert, my darling,” I say, “If and when you get that thing on, I would consider it.”
Although I’m sure that in ‘real life’, the next few events happened quite fast, for me, they took on the surreal pulse of slow motion.
“Robert, my darling.” I say, “If and when you get that thing on, I would consider it.”
At that moment, Robert jumps up, grabs his clothes and runs to the bathroom slamming the door.
My mouth is open. Voiceless. Where is he going? What happened?
Before I can call after him to see if he’s okay, the knob to the front door of the motel room, just like in a horror film, begins to squeak, turning by itself left and right. I am kneeling alone on the bed in my lingerie. This area of town is not good. My heart pounds. What if it is a burglar? What if the robber has a gun? What if he kills us? Or rapes me? I twist my body backward toward the bathroom door and begin to call to Robert for help.
“Robert! Someone is trying to break in—“
That’s as far as I get. The door bursts open.
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