“I need you to do something for me,” he says walking out of the shower with the towel wrapped around his waist.
“Alright,” I respond eyeing him with raised eyebrows, “What is it?”
“You’ll find out eventually,” he says, “Just don’t schedule anything for tonight and be ready by 8.”
I know what he wants; he wants me to beg for information, so I don’t. I walk out of the room and into the kitchen. Caffeine is a more important morning requirement than information on sick perversions borne out of the mind of a very innocent-looking man.
He gets dressed while I stand on the balcony reading the newspaper and drink my coffee. He eats his toast. Just as he is leaving I realize I cannot spend all day with no information whatsoever, I’m way too curious not to probe. Why pretend to be something you’re not?
“What do you mean by ready?” I ask as he walks out of the door ready to leave, “Are you taking me to another horrible party with boring people?”
He laughs, and slaps me jokingly, “You are so judgmental.”
He starts walking down the stairs; I follow him.
“But you still haven’t told me how I should getready?” I ask again as he starts running down the stairs.
“Don’t act like a child, you know what ready means,” he says turning around suddenly, “Now will you please stop following me?”
I stop in my place, put on an innocent face and watch him disappear from the stairwell. I sink down and sit on the stair, within minutes I am lost in my thoughts.
‘What could he possibly want me to do that requires getting ready? It has to be sexual, right? Oh lord. What if he’s tricking me into having dinner with his family? I would know if they were in town, right? Not his mother, please.’
A few hours later, I am at work and happily distracted from whatever it is that I’m not supposed to know when the phone rings. He almost never calls me. Not unless someone died, he’s urgently in need of food or he locked himself out of his apartment. I get up from my desk and go out on the balcony.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
“Wear your black dress,” he says.
“First of all, I’m at work,” I say slightly irritated, “And if you knew what you wanted me to wear why did you make me chase you halfway down the stairs this morning?”
“I like it when you chase me,” he says.
“Look, why don’t you just come right out and tell me what you want? Aren’t we too old for these games?” I say convinced that I have cracked him.
“What is wrong with you?” he says with feigned agitation that masks his mockery, “Can’t a man surprise his woman anymore? What is your problem?”
“My problem is that I know you,” I say in my best sassy tone.
“Good,” he says, “If you know me so well, figure it out.”
I walk back to my desk thinking, ‘It can’t be his mother, she’d have a heart attack if she saw me in that dress. It has to be another man. Or maybe it’s just him. Why would he want me to get dressed though? Maybe he wants to take me out? What would we do out? We’ll just end up bored and back on my roof in an hour like last time. He knows that.’
And just like that, the work day disappears.
As I’m putting on the eyeliner and fishing out the only decent pair of heels I now own from the bottom of my laundry basket, the phone rings again. Twice in one day, this hasn’t happened in years. By this point, I’ve had the sudden bout of anxiety, and been past pretending I’m totally cool with anything that might come up and transitioned into the calm detachment phase.
I let it ring for a while and just stare at the phone. And then slowly as I watch myself in the mirror, I put it to my ear.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“To fuck some random guy?” I ask smirking at myself, “This is getting old love.”
“I sent you a cab,” he says, I can hear the smile in his voice, “His name is Lalit Aggarwal.”
“The car has a name?” I ask enjoying the mischief in my eyes.
“The random guy,” he responds ignoring my silly joke completely, “I’ll text you his hotel details. Oh, and he’s not paying you.”
I’m really enjoying this conversation now. I love his tone when he’s giving me details to do things; it’s authoritative but at the same time it’s gripped in intensifying arousal and a dash of shame.
“So I’m completely worthless now?” I ask lighting my cigarette and admiring the orange fire reflected back at me.
“Just go,” he says, “I’ll pick you at 11.”
I stand there and continue looking at myself for a while. I read the text he sends me and realize it’s a fancy hotel. Slightly disappointed, I throw a jacket over my whore-clothes.
I get to the hotel and tell the receptionist who I am there to meet. She gives me directions and steers me in the direction of the elevator. The elevator door closes and suddenly I realize I am nervous. I look at my reflection in the elevator doors and talk aloud, “You have done this hundreds of times before.”
I smile nervously at myself.
‘I haven’t done this in a long time though. Maybe I shouldn’t have spent all evening being so cocky and actually thought about this. Who is this guy, even? What do I say to him? Do I tell him who sent me? Why the hell does he always send me in with no fucking information? I’ll tell him who sent me, I mean, what other option do I have? Why would he give this guy his real name? Why do I always have good questions when it’s way too late to ask them?’
I get off the elevator and find the room. I remove my jacket and hang it over my bag. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Because, you know, these days the answer to everything is breathing exercises.
A man in blue jeans and a maroon shirt answers the door. He’s old-ish. Looks 50, at least.
“Mr. Aggarwal?” I say with my head down and eyes up, you know the look (it works very well when you combine it with a cock in your mouth), “Santiago Nassar sent me.”
(I had to change his name for the story, I made a literary choice.)
“He called me,” he says, “Come..come in.”
I’m surprised real names were given out during this encounter. I enter and look around. The room is clean and smells like all fancy hotel rooms do. Like boredom. I’m bored with this guy already. We talk inanity; names and weather. I can tell he primped..for a prostitute. He smells of cologne and his face looks washed. Even his mustache, is perfectly in place.
I move towards him on the chair he is sitting him. I stand in front of him.
“Do you like my dress?”I ask finding an insane-chirpy-whore-girl character.
“It’s very nice,” he says putting his hands on my hips. His touch isn’t bad but his look is killing me. Every man I’ve been with in this capacity share this look. I look down innocently and smile at him. This character is fun, she’s young and carefree.
“What do you like?” I ask coming close to his face, “Want me on my knees?”
He pulls me down towards him. I put my hands on his thighs and my face is his lap. I squirm all over him breathing him in.
My mind wanders as he’s undressing me.
‘Who is this guy? Why did Santiago give him his name? Oh yeah sweetheart squeeze my breast like a stress ball and lick. Lick me because such is destiny, I am yours to lick. No chance you’re going to be thrusting into me furiously soon, is there? Goodness this is still fun… is he, kneading me?’
I walk out of the room and call him. He tells me he is waiting in the parking. I leave the jacket off and walk out through the lobby. I smile at a few people and play with my still disheveled hair. I thank the doorman and walk out into the parking. I look around for him. He finds me. I get into the car and take off my shoes.
“So what’s the story?” I ask looking pretty pleased with myself, “Who was the guy?”
“Business associate,” he says looking at the road.
“Seriously?” I ask genuinely surprised. He’ll go very far but rarely does work or family get involved in the mix.
“Yeah,” he says still dispassionate, “He got me a big order.”
“So I am…” I start when he cuts me off and says, “…a business favour? Yes.”
I make a face at him and a disapproving sound while I smile slightly.
“Shut up,” he says, “You love it.”
“Still…” I say blushing slightly, “It’s work. Why me?”
He looks at me and smilies that cocky smile of his that makes my toes curl, “Things took a weird direction with this guy and I realized, you’re the only whore I know anymore.”
Ah, the grown-up life.