S/M
FLOWERS
I dropped off Shannon at Marty's door and waited in my
car around the corner. When you run an escort service,
it's better to stay close to the girls, drive them on
calls, make sure everything is cool.
Tonight I'm worried. Marty is into S/M. I told him Shannon
was just getting into that, and he said fine. But he usually
sees hardcore doms who know how to shake his shit. I called
her 50 minutes later and she said he wanted another hour.
Great. Going well, I figured. Then an hour later she buzzed
me on my cell and said Marty didn't want to pay-up. So
now I have to put the squeeze on.
"So what's the problem?" I asked, stepping inside
his apartment. Marty, standing barefooted in the living
room in sweat pants, no shirt on, a beer in hand, looked
grim. "This is bullshit. She can't do nothin' I want,"
he slurred, weaving about in a drunken stupor.
"A little late for that," I said. "You've
been with her for two hours."
"That's cause I was trying to tell her what to do
for the first hour," he said, crashing on a couch
under a painting of a windmill.
Shannon chimed in. "Well, you seemed to be enjoying
yourself."
Marty closed his eyes, threw his head back and stretched
his arms out over the back of the couch. Marty looked
about 30, long brown hair and in pretty good shape, though
he did have a beer gut. In our phone conversations, he
frequently talked about how much money he was making,
so I had expected more lavish quarters than the sparsely
furnished room.
He glared at me, blinked a few times and said, "I
got a gun in the bedroom. I could shoot you."
"You're far too sophisticated to do that," I
replied. "If you were not satisfied with the arrangement,
you should have let Shannon know as soon as she arrived,
not two hours later. Two hours, may I remind you, during
which Shannon provided you with her time, her company,
and I suppose, her strict instruction. You can't go to
a restaurant, order a four course meal, finish it and
then complain about the fly in the soup and decide not
to pay the check." Shannon rolled her eyes and stifled
a laugh. She was standing by the cabinet. I stepped over
next to her. Marty snickered and stood up, stretching
his arms.
"What did you say?" he asked, blurry eyed.
I held out my hand, rubbing my forefinger and thumb together.
"Time to pay Marty. We have to get going. The bill
is eight hundred bucks." (My escort service is high
endfive hundred an hour, but a break on the second
hour.)
"I
got a gun in the bedroom. I could shoot you."
He grumbled under his breath, approached
the cabinet, his head sunk in his chest. "Could you
back away a little," he said to both of us, motioning
with his hands. We stepped away from the cabinet. He bent
down and opened one of the drawers. For a split second,
I panicked, thinking he might whip out a gun. But as he
opened the drawer I saw a pile of green inside. So did
Shannon. The look in her eye said grab it all, but she
knows better.
He pulled out a wad of bills, all Jacksons. Approaching
Shannon he drew them off one at a time, frequently pausing,
holding them back with a twitchy smile, each pause demonstrating
his pathetic power over her as he mumbled his dissatisfaction
with the night's events.
Shannon picked up a book on S/M he had given her, thanked
him for it and put the money in her purse. We both moved
toward the door. As I opened it, he said, "Wait a
moment, and stepped forward in front of Shannon.
I noticed he had one hand behind his back. Again, I thought
it might be his gun. Instead, I watched as he dropped
down on one knee, swung his arm around, held up a bouquet
of roses and gazed at her teary eyed.
Shannon placed a motherly hand on his head as he handed
her the flowers. "That's very sweet of you, Marty,"
she said.
We all posed there for a moment, as if waiting for the
shutter to snap on a portrait: The pimp, the Whore and
the John fallen on his knees.