This trick sounds like the same flake I got two weeks ago, the one who called me at 3 a.m. and then didn't even bother to answer the door when I arrived. The guy tonight has a different phone number and address, but something about his voice sounds the same. They always say trust your intuition, it's always right, but I've learned that's not really true so I head out in a cab.
I get to the trick's apartment and he lives in the building on Avenue A that must be the ugliest thing in the East Village: this brick building from the '60s with huge concrete balconies. They were renovating it last year and I couldn't understand why they didn't just tear it down. I look inside and it's kind of posh.
The guy buzzes me in and I go upstairs. His door's got a police lock in the center--I'm in a paranoid mood, hoping the extra lock isn't there to keep the neighbors or the cops away from the stench of rotting flesh on the other side. He opens the door and he's studying me with this scowl on his face; I guess another whore might have a pose to go with that scowl but I've got nothing. He's tall, too--I think for a second am I really six feet?
He offers me a drink and I ask for water; his apartment's beautiful. I say from outside, I never would have expected the apartment would look like this. It's a two-story loft--sleek and modern and spare in that Europe-meets-Japan kind of way. Dining-room table that looks like it's ready for a conference and a black-leather sofa with--is that really a fur?--on it. Gross.
We go into the bedroom and he says is this okay? I say sure. He says I'd like a massage first, so I get lotion out of my bag. Still can't tell if he likes me. There's a futon on the floor and everything in the room is on the floor too, only there's not much in the room. I wonder about rich people who don't have anything laying around: where do they keep it all? The radio's tuned to the BBC; they're talking about the bombing of Kosovo, and the trick says this ought to relax me.
I start to unlace my boots and he pulls off his clothes and says which way should I lie on the bed? I say you choose; he's obviously tense. I take off my clothes and I straddle him, start to rub lotion into his back. He says I like it deep, so I push hard and it's nice feeling his skin, being on top of him. I get into the massage, letting my tension leave my body as I push into him. I try to get aroused, but my dick doesn't budge. I push into his body with my elbows, forearms, and then wrap my hands under his stomach to his armpits, and suddenly I'm hard, grabbing him under his armpits and up to his shoulders, feeling his sweat on my fingers.
I move to his ass and then down his legs to his feet. Rubbing his feet against my chest, I'm turned on and then he flips over, picks up the remote control to change the radio to music. He says that was great, and starts sucking on my chin. I get on top of him and suck on his neck, he puts his arms around me, then picks them up and replaces them, over and over, hugging me from different directions. I relax, lie in his arms and then lick down his neck to his nipples, to his crotch, to his dick.
His dick is big and it curves upward. I'm nervous about getting fucked but excited about sucking. I start with the cockhead and then move slowly down and then back and forth until my throat relaxes and his dick pushes back. He puts his hands on my neck and pets me gently, moaning, and I'm sucking up and down, hoping he'll suddenly get close to coming and I can jerk him off. I suck for a while and he's shaking, but I can tell he's not going to come, so I move up to kiss him on the lips, lying on top of him.
He flips me onto my back and then he's on top of me, my legs in the air and his dick right at my asshole. I'm thinking this is definitely not the way I want to get fucked, but I figure I'll let him tease my asshole for a while then we can change positions, put a condom on, and go from there. I pull his hands to my chest, then lean my neck up to take his dick in my mouth and he grabs my head, fucks my face for a minute, and then I relax onto the bed.
His dick pushes against my asshole, I can feel the heat of pain going through my body and I'm thinking it's going to hurt too much to get fucked, and then his dick inches into my asshole and slides gently all the way inside. I know I should sit up and pull myself away but I don't; he's fucking me and it's so easy without a condom. He says this is so beautiful, and it does feel amazing, though I'm thinking about which emergency safer sex workshop I have to go to--is there one for whores who let their tricks fuck them without a condom because it doesn't hurt as much?
He's fucking me and he says it's so beautiful again and I kind of want to cry, and I want to say don't come inside me but I can't even say that, I don't know why. I can't believe he's fucking me with his whole dick in my ass and it's so easy. I'm so hard for him and I'm not touching myself at all. I can feel myself getting close to coming, I'm moaning and then I shoot all over my chest. I've never come like that before--without someone touching me--I ease myself off his dick and I'm lying on my back wondering what I'm feeling, the rush and the crash.
He asks me to turn over, so I'm on my stomach and he gets on top of me; he's one of those guys who needs to at least pretend he's fucking in order to come. His dick's right up against my asshole, and I reach back to help him get off, but really I'm covering myself. I'm worried some of his come might get in my asshole, even though I realize that's kind of ridiculous, considering his whole dick was just in there. He starts moaning like he's crying, and then I can't tell if he's coming but I figure that's what happened because he lies down next to me and puts his arms around me.
The radio's playing some old song and I struggle to catch the words, "Maybe you're not just another one-night lady." It's always funny like that. I'm looking at the black pillows, white sheets, and the room in tones of grey, flickering in candle-light, looking out the window at the building across the street and everything's so still. I'm filled with a sad sense of paralysis but there's comfort there too. I'm letting my body release all of its pain instead of pretending everything's casual. Me and this guy are lying there together and it's like we're one body until I move slightly to reach for some water, and he says do you need to use the bathroom?
I go to the bathroom and it's all black and white--stark--and I look at my chest in the mirror and there's dried come all over me, how'd that get there? Oh right, I came on myself. I look in the shower and there's Japanese shampoo--the only thing in the room except Japanese liquid soap. I think it's funny the way everything is so blank on purpose. I wash up and then go back into the bedroom.
It's dark in the bedroom and he says are you okay? I almost want to answer him, but I say yeah. The whole room smells like come, and he's sitting on the bed with his laptop. He's put my clothes in a pile and I get dressed, follow him into the living room, and he goes into another room--filled with computers and stacks of videos--there's his stuff. I notice a spiral staircase that leads to another room, I guess. He gives me the money and we kiss goodbye; this feels too monumental.
I get to the street and I'm thinking about something I heard on the radio, how everyone needs at least four hugs a day, and I'm wondering if that trick counted as four hugs. I get to the store, and there's the guy I usually give money to, slumped over; he says I only slept three hours last night. I'm choosing vegetables, and someone's screaming Pancho Villa, Pancho Villa. I turn around and there's this guy in a huge Mexican hat, grinning at me in that way straight guys do when they want sex. He says I like your jacket and I say thanks, laughing; I go back to choosing vegetables, and someone walks by with a dog. The guy screaming Pancho Villa says I like dogs--with a little garlic, some chiles, and jalapeņo--and I turn to go into the store.
Mattilda, a.k.a. Matt Bernstein Sycamore, is the author of Pulling Taffy and the editor of Tricks and Treats: Sex Workers Write About Their Clients (Haworth 2000) and Dangerous Families: Queer Writing on Surviving (Haworth 2003). His writing has been widely published, in places as diverse as Best American Erotica, Best American Gay Fiction, Women and Performance, and Slingshot. He is an instigator of Gay Shame: the Virus in the System, the radical queer activist group that celebrates resistance by fighting the monster of assimilation. He lives in San Francisco, where he is at work on a new anthology, Resisting Assimilation: Alternatives to the Gay Mainstream, and a second novel.
