Welcome to Gaia! ::

Which is about a prostitute. And a guy who plays the piano.

warning: sex duh. Not anything really bad.

He first saw her sitting on a dingy street curb, staring with an intense, penetrating gaze into space. Her stance was bored and her expression vacant; her clothes quite frankly alarmed him. But her gaze made him pause--take a second look.

She really was beautiful.

He took a few steps nearer to her, paused. The pungent fumes from a pile of garbage down the street wafted over on a breeze from the bay. New York City never quite knew what to do with its garbage. Run-down apartment buildings and office rooms towered above the ordinary man, not a single building under eight stories high. When a city could no longer move outward, it moved upward, then downward, then at a sharp angle, in that order.

She was beautiful. More than beautiful….

The woman sat with her black-clad legs spread in an absently provocative pose, pleated miniskirt stretched tight, her red top barely containing her full, braless chest. Her hair was black, thick and lustrous and straight, and her lips were very red. Her dark eyes bored into the restaurant next door as if she saw all its secrets, its weaknesses and pathetic cover-ups and filth that not even the brightly colored decorations could hide. As far as race, he supposed she looked Italian--she had the nose--but the air around her vibrated with the tang and potency of a Moorish conqueror, a Mongolian warrior, a Viking, an Aztec, a Spartan.

She fascinated him. He stepped off the curb.

She looked up, her eyes taking a long time to focus. Finally: “Yes?”

He kept watching her, struggling for something to say.

“Can I help you?” she asked again, raising an eyebrow. Polite for a New Yorker; but then one could never assume.

No, she was not of common beauty…her nose was too large, her eyebrows shapeless and thick, her hands too big and fingers too long. But she was still very pretty…. What did he say to her? Oh…yes….

“I…um, I was…wondering….”

/I was wondering if you’d like me to walk you home, ma’am./ It was ten a.m., yes, a very quiet time in NYC, relatively; but nonetheless it was still dangerous for anyone, let alone a lone woman wearing clothes like THAT. Besides, this was a terrible neighborhood; he’d seen three hookers already just walking down this street.

“Oh?” The woman nodded, rising to her feet; she threw her cigarette indiscriminately into an ashtray perched atop a garbage can, brushed down her skirt. It swished comfortably around her thighs, flattering her; she wore it like she and the skirt were old friends. “Fine. C’mon.”

She beckoned for him to follow; he did, bewildered but eager to keep her in sight. She led him through a small lobby of some sort, like the kind in cheap motels, and up two flights of stairs.

“It’ll cost you, you know,” she warned him suddenly. “50 bucks.”

He nodded, completely lost. She nodded too.

“Making sure….”

She unlocked a door bearing a small brass plaque: 303. She beckoned him inside; he followed, and she locked the door behind him. He found himself in a small, dingy kitchen/living room combo; it was poorly lit and furnished, but friendly and clean.

“In here.” She led him into a small bedroom to his right. It was bare; chilly. There were only the essential pieces of plain, Spartan furniture ; there were no ornaments at all except for a small porcelain jar sitting innocently on the dresser.

The woman locked this door too; she opened the top dresser drawer, pulled something out of a box, and tossed it to him. He caught it, fumbled, observed the small square in his hand. A condom?

The woman kicked off her clunky, solid shoes, stretched, and pulled her shirt over her head.

Oh.

She let him look at her a minute, facing him openly and without shame--she seemed almost bored--and raised her eyebrows again; then she laughed. “Need some help, lover boy?” She stepped over, deftly unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it aside. He shivered a little. She unfastened his pants, laughed at him. “You’re cute.”

She unzipped her skirt, let it fall; then she peeled off her tights and sat casually on her bed, falling back onto the covers.

Waited.

His legs were shaking. He should have said no, there had been some kind of mistake. He should have left immediately, rather than put himself in this kind of situation.

He should have.

Instead he stripped and stepped closer to her, his entire body, every pore singing out.

He had 50 bucks.

~~~

The man’s name was David. He wasn’t any fellow in particular; rather ordinary, even dull if we were to be perfectly honest with him. At least, that’s how the rest of the world saw him.

But we look deeper. We see more.

David has a job playing piano at a bar. Every afternoon he practices. Every night he plays. He isn’t alive until he sits at the keys’ then passion flows out of his fingers, devotion composes a masterpiece, beauty in the form of sound waves and vibrations. He doesn’t get paid much, but he doesn’t need much; and when he plays, he is content.

We know just a little about David. Not much.

We know he lives alone, in a small flat almost as gloomy in one way as the one of the woman from the curb; and in quite another way, much, much more depressing and sad.

We know that he--probably--has no children, and he--most likely--has no wife. Not that he, or we, know about.

We know that he goes to the corner market every Sunday after church and buys a half-gallon of milk, four apples, a square of cheese, bread, and whatever else he might need. We know this menu rarely varies or deviates to other food groups; and yet at times it does.

We know that breakfast for him is cereal--Frosted Flakes--and a cup of coffee; lunch is a hot dog or pretzel from a street vendor; snacks are before work, an apple and a chunk of cheese and buttered toast; and dinner is at two in the morning and consists of food from any of various nearby restaurants open at such a time. There are always some.

We know that he gets free drinks, usually, from men who are so drunk that they think he’s Mozart reincarnate, or men who are not drunk, but generous (or are both). We know that on Fridays, he treats himself to a pastry from the bakery down the street. We know that he’s fond of Asian food, particularly sushi and rice, but has goodwill toward most other cuisine, and can make spaghetti, macaroni and cheese, French toast, and mashed potatoes.

We know that his mere existence is adding to many problems of the world, such as monotony, heartbreak, traffic, hopelessness, garbage buildup, lack of self-confidence, the decay of the human soul, and the hole in the ozone layer. We know that David is, like billions of other souls, one man in the crowd.

We know that he doesn’t expect much of the world, his fellow man, or himself. We know that for the most part, the feeling is mutual.

We know that most, when viewing these facts in the harsh light of American society, would consider David very dull indeed.

But we also know that he can love, unconditionally and frely.

And that, you see, makes him one of the rarest and most precious creatures the earth has ever beheld.

~~~

DAVID IS NOT VERY good at sex. He only ever had the patchy knowledge of the act granted to the average teenage male in an American city; thus, his skills can be considered sub-par, if we wish to euphemize.

The woman bore his ineptitude with resigned patience--after all, she was getting paid--and said nothing; let him fumble in the semidarkness.

And thus, they made love--well, no. “Made love” implies consensual and affectionate sex, for no other reason than because the two parties want to. “Had sex” isn’t the right term either; too vague and forbidding, “Partook in sexual intercourse” is too stiff, biological; “Did it”, too colloquial. We quite honestly are forced to be crude for the sake of honesty in this situation; forgive us for being blunt.

In all honest: he ******** her.

And then he fell asleep.

The woman shook him gently awake after awhile; she was still laying next to him, though she’d put her panties and tights back on.

“C’mon, lover boy,” she teased him gently. “Wake up.”

He blinked, forgetting for a moment where he was and why he felt so funny. He shifted; he was sticky.

“I’m sorry,” he said automatically.

The woman sighed, brushed a strand of hair back. “Your money,” she said. She seemed practical--to the point of cynical--to him.

“I….” He didn’t know what to say to her. “Thank you.”

She smiled. “Sure.”

He reluctantly, slowly, tried to push himself out of her bed. It shouldn’t have been so hard; the mattress wasn’t exactly comfortable. It wasn’t the mattress.

The woman took pity on him. “You’ve still got a few minutes left, you know….”

It definitely wasn’t the mattress.

She rolled onto her back, stretched her arms over her head. “What do you want to do?”

He had no idea. At all. His mind was frozen. He searched for words, saying the first thing that came to mind.

“What’s your name?”

She blinked. “Janine.”

“Can I see you again?”

She shrugged. “It’ll cost you.”

“When?”

“Whenever. I’m usually outside around this time.”

He nodded, slowly. He didn’t want to go.

But she had to go outside again, and he couldn’t stay.

“Thank you,” he told her again, after walking her to her spot at the curb, then forced himself away. When he looked back, Janine was lighting another cigarette.

He passed a clock on his way back home; then he stopped and looked again.

50 bucks an hour. Janine had taken 53 (did you tip prostitutes, like waitresses?). He’d gone up there at 10.

It was past noon.

He felt something stirring near his heart. It wasn’t a mistake. His curiosity was piqued.

He was already making plans to return as he walked away.

~~~

DAVID WALKS AND HE thinks; we dive into his head and look around.

He had lost his virginity when he was in high school, on a blanket on his couch when his parents weren’t home. The girl had been a girlfriend of his; she’d asked him if he’d do it with her, and he’d happily obliged. He had tried to act offhand, like he’d done it a hundred times before, but really his insides were shaking themselves to millions of nervous fragments. He had wished desperately that he could have practiced, but didn’t know how he could, so he had just tried not to think about it.

The girlfriend had come over; he had lit candles and given her flowers and tried to be smooth and romantic and sexy all at the same time. Then they had stripped and gotten busy.

David had felt elated, empowered, happier and more in love than he had ever been. He had wished it would never end. He had thought his girlfriend must have been feeling this too.

He had thought.

After thirty-five minutes, she pulled away and asked him if they could stop. Then she went home.

He never heard from her again.

~~~

DAVID CAME BACK TO that dingy street the next day, a little earlier this time. He gets up early, no matter how late he has stayed up; he could never make himself sleep in past nine-thirty.

He likes to take walks in the morning. On this particular morning, what he really likes to do is walk in a direction that leads him to Janine.

He arrives. His legs are tired from walking so fast, but his nerves are electrified.

She gives him a tired smile.

“Hey, lover boy. Back so soon?”

~~~

DAVID IS NOT THINKING about the girlfriends who broke his heart years ago as he follows Janine up the stairs again. He is wondering about her. Asking her questions in his mind.

How did you become like this?

Do you enjoy it all the time?

Did you choose this?

Are you ever scared? Lonely?

Why do you live this way?

Do you have a boyfriend?

When did you lose your virginity? To whom?

Why do you act so cool about it?

How do you find the courage every day to take 50 bucks from a man and tell him to do whatever he wants to you?

Do all of these men just ******** you and leave?

Has anyone ever called you beautiful?

Have you ever been out on a date?

Have you ever been in love?

Has anyone ever loved you?

Could you ever love me?

David is a silent sort of man; he places these, the Questionnaire for a Prostitute, carefully in a safe file in his mind, and instead prefers to let Janine, unperturbed by his mental demands, slowly and apathetically remove every piece of clothing from her body and, again, let him do what he wants.

He doesn’t do what he wants. Instead, he ******** her again.

~~~

HE CHICKENS OUT. HE does not say anything to her except to thank her. She doesn’t say much either.

He spends the rest of that day and night in a daze; returns like a lost, hungry sheep the next morning.

Janine welcomes him, surprised to see him yet again. They go upstairs. Anything that sex inspires and encourages him to say is lost in his short, harsh breaths. Afterward, he sleeps again.

He is silent as he pays, and leaves, a hundred thoughts swirling around in his mind.

That night, he plans. Then, returns.

~~~

FOR THE DURATION OF high school, David reflects, he is too heartbroken to look for a new girlfriend. The girl who rejected him finds another man, one who can better give her what she wants; then she splits up with him, moves on.

Around her, his fellow classmates ******** each other indiscriminately. The boys brag. The girls remain silent. He hears them talk of STDs, abortions, dissatisfaction, and wants to scream, You wanted it! You wanted to! Why are you never satisfied?

He came to the inaccurate conclusion that girls just didn’t like sex. He would figure out in college that he was wrong; they wanted true love.

But that was only after the handful of girlfriends he had, none of whom he could ever love.

He believed in love as well; he tried to be modest and chaste with them, trying to hold onto his religious beliefs as if he could hide the chasm where his virginity used to be from God by good, healthy, sexless relationships.

But his first college girlfriend convinces him to go to a party with her; she gets drunk, he feels tipsy, she persuades him, and they do it. She stays with him a little longer, but he soon realizes that she only wants to ******** him when she’s completely wasted, and sees that she doesn’t care about him.

His next girlfriend cheats on him. The third girlfriend blatantly tells him that she hates sleeping with him. He stops trying after that, realizing that the real problem was him all along.

He is alone all throughout the rest of college; the loneliness rents a tear in his heart, and he wonders if it will ever heal.

~~~

HE DOESN’T FALL ASLEEP this time, though he is just as tired; he wants to spend more time with Janine. He watches her, waiting for words to materialize in his brain.

But before he can speak, she sighs, buries her head beneath her pillow, and falls silent.

He wants, very badly, to touch her. He wants to do more than that, actually. It is strange that, after having sex with her three times, kissing suddenly seems forbidden.

Time ticks on. Janine’s clock sits on the bedside table and ticks. His hour is almost over.

But Janine seemed, to him, to have a very exhausting life. He couldn’t bear to wake her up.

The conflicting urges fought in his mind; he struggled for a minute, then, slowly, feeling like a thief all the while, he carefully pulled the pillow off of her head. She didn’t stir. He sighed with relief, resolving to do nothing more. Not today.

She looked worn out, even as she slept; there were deep, permanent shadows underneath her eyes, and her mouth curved into an unhappy frown. He found himself wishing that he could comfort her, wipe the shadows and tiny wrinkles and frown away like erasing coffee rings with a damp rag. He wondered what she looked like if she smiled; really smiled. And laughed.

He watched her closely, intensely, as if unimaginable secrets lay behind her closed eyes. And for him, they did. His Questionnaire.

Minutes ticked away. He moved closer.

He reached out his hand…surely he must have touched her hair while they were…doing whatever that was. But now…when she seemed so vulnerable and sad…how nice it would be if he could touch her again…make her smile, and feel….

He hesitated, was overcome. He laid his hand very softly on her head.

Janine gave a start and awoke.

“Huh? What…? What time’s it?” She glanced blearily at the clock. “s**t….”

“I’m sorry,” David said, quietly withdrawing his hand.

She stared at him, propped up on her elbow. “Why are you still here?” she demanded.

He couldn’t really answer. He just stammered. Janine interrupted.

“What’s your name, lover boy?”

“David,” he replied.

She sat up, turned to face him, the covers falling away from her skin. There was a challenge in her eyes. “Are you going to come back tomorrow?”

By the way she was flaunting her bare chest at him, he could believe that she wanted him to want her. For whatever reason.

He nodded meekly, cowed in the face of such beautiful, severe, intense flirtation. She laughed at him, flopped down again.

“You’re funny…well, as long as you’re paying me….”

She yawned. Closed her eyes again.

“Are you okay?” he asked her on a reflex.

“Tired,” she murmured. “Didn’t get any sleep…gotta go back outside though…”

“You can sleep,” he told her; just to give her something. “It’s okay.”

She laughed, bitterly. “No one out there is going to pay me 50 bucks to sleep….”

“I will.” He blushed at his own daring. Her eyes snapped open.

“What?”

He shrank back, just a little. “Well…I have a twenty…and some change….”

She stared at him; then she burst into laughter. It didn’t seem like real laughter to him; it was heavy, mocking. “Are you SERIOUS?”

He nodded. She waved it away, like a pesky insect.

“Seriously, lover boy, what’re you trying to do?” she demanded. “What do you want? A b*****b or something? ‘Cause, I’d rather be awake…I don’t mind, if you just ask me….”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

He shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

She stared at him like he was insane. “And what are YOU going to do? Sit there and watch me?”

He flushed again, nodded; it was true after all. She looked carefully at him as if still suspicious that he was going to make her earn the money somehow; then she laughed, kicked the covers off and lay flat on her back, closed her eyes.

“Might as well get your money’s worth…I’m not going to sleep,” she added, as a warning. “I don’t sleep by clients. Just with them.”

He was surprised, again, by her bluntness. He quietly reached for the edge of the blanket, pulling it up to both their waists; it was cold in there. She laughed again.

“You’re cute, lover boy….”

He said nothing. He was thinking.

Silence, but for breathing.

“Were you up late?” David asked, abruptly. It was his way.

Janine gave a short, humorless laugh. “I’ll say.”

“What happened?”

She yawned. “Worked ‘til midnight,” she sighed. “And then I had to ******** my boss.”

He blinked. “Oh.” He pondered. “Why?”

“I borrowed money. 200. Couldn’t really pay him back. He heard about me though; so he said if I screwed him, we’d be even.” She made a face. “He went overboard though. That b***h still owes me 400 bucks….”

He stared at her, not understanding. After a moment, she opened her eyes, then smiled at the look on his face. “Want to know a secret?”

He nodded.

“I charged him twice as much, 100 instead of 50. Poor b*****d didn’t know any better,” she smirked. “I could’ve charged him 300 if I wanted. It’s what he gets anyway.”

“Did he hurt you?” David demanded.

“No,” she sighed. “He’s just disgusting.”

“Fat?” he pressed, curious.

She grimaced. “Not that kind of disgusting….” She closed her eyes again. She was silent for awhile.

Then out of nowhere, as if vocalizing the end of a train of thought, she murmured, “He isn’t going to pay me for a long time….”

“Why not?”

“Why do you think? He treats me like s**t, everyone does once they find out--”

She cut herself off. Scowled. Then she sat rigidly upright, jerking on her tight t-shirt and underwear. “Well, I hope you enjoyed your small talk,” she said acidly, turning to glare at him. He blinked; she pointed to the door. “Your time is up now. Get your s**t and go. I’ve got some paying customers to screw.”

He felt a tired sort of sadness rest on his heart; he got up, pulled on his clothes. Then, as she glared bitterly at him, he unfolded his wallet, opened the center compartment, and emptied it onto the dresser.

Then he went home. And all that day and night, he replayed that hour and a half in his mind, pondering the look on Janine’s face as he had gone--a look that betrayed her thoughts as she wondered if maybe, just maybe, she had misjudged him.

~~~

~~~

“Janine?” he asked her as he stood on the curb the next day. She was wearing a short, pretty blue dress and flat white shoes. Her hair was messy and wild.

“Hey, lover boy,” she replied, smiling. “Back again?”

She didn’t look angry. He nodded. Then, in the way he had: “Are you….” He swallowed, looked at his shoes. Rephrased. “Do you do…this…every day?”

She stared at him; then she started to laugh so hard that she couldn’t quite catch her breath for a long time. Passersby stared. Finally she gasped, “Do I? Do I whore myself out every day? What d’you think? I’m a HOOKER! All I do is answer booty calls from dawn to dusk!” She giggled. “Damn, lover boy….”

He smiled shyly at himself, and her laugh. Janine smiled amiably back, jerked her head to her apartment.

“C’mon up, lover boy.”

He followed. She locked the door behind her, turned to him, started to pull off her underwear. He flushed; laid his hand on her arm. “Janine.”

She stopped. “Hmm?”

“Don’t.”

She blinked. “What,” she asked him, her eyebrow arching, “you want to do it?”

“I don’t…want….” David does not have good articulation. He never has.

She stared; then laughed. Tossed her panties at him, just to see him jump. She stepped over to him; his heart started to pound, like it always does with her.

“I see what you’re doing,” she smirked. “Playing hard to get, huh?” She wrapped her arms around his waist. She came up to his chin. His breath caught in his throat. She laughed. “I didn’t know men did that.”

She had frozen him to the spot; he struggled with himself as his breaths and his heart quickened. She unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside, hugging him tightly, licking at his skin. He shivered involuntarily; she laughed again, unzipped his jeans, wrapped her leg around his waist. He didn’t think he could hold her off for long.

She tilted her head up, smiling sweetly up at him. “This dress is so suffocating, lover boy,” she said innocently. “Can’t you get it off me?” She reached for his wrists, placing his hands on either side of her chest. His left hand brushed against the zipper.

She jerked his collar down, her face very close to his. “Please?”

He would have fallen under her spell at once, his entire strategy defeated, had he not looked timidly into her eyes. Her body was practically bleeding flirtatious enthusiasm, but her eyes were blank, and unfocused, and sad.

He gently pushed her away. “I don’t want sex,” he said in his blunt way.

She blinked. Separated herself. “What?” she demanded.

He shook his head; he’d lost the nerve to repeat himself.

Janine’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you want then? What else can you expect from a cheap prostitute on a street corner, huh? A back massage?”

David flushed, not having the nerve to stand up to her. Instead of responding, he reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. He took two twenties and a ten and set the money in her bewildered palm.

“Why don’t you go back to sleep?” he asked her quietly.

Janine stares. “BACK to sleep?” she said numbly, as if she can’t quite believe this. “I’ve ******** three people since 7:30, including some cheap a** who wanted fifteen minutes for five bucks…and after all that…no, there is no going back to sleep. There is no sleep,” she said, staring blankly at him with an odd emotion in her eyes, “not until three in the morning, maybe. There are no naps, or rests, or….”

She didn’t quite know what she was saying. Finally, she fought with the words choking her and spat them out. “Are you ******** serious?”

He blinked. “Yes,” he said cautiously. “You look tired.”

She stared at him in utter confusion, nodding very slowly, digesting this. Then she glared again, turned away from him, rummaged roughly in a dresser drawer. She pulled out a brush and began yanking it through her hair. “Gee, thanks, Jesus,” she said sarcastically. “Can you turn the leaky faucet into a wine tap now? Why don’t you try walking across the bay?”

“What?” David was bewildered.

Janine slammed the brush down. “What do you WANT, /lover boy/?” she demanded. “What do you WANT from me?”

He takes her question seriously. He has never been good at taking a joke. He thinks about it; then, in what he sees as a soft and romantic moment, he tells her the truth.

“A kiss.”

Her fire dimmed in an instant. She deflates; her feathers lay flat again. She gazes at him like she’d never seen anything like him before. She blinked. “That it?”

“Yes,” he replied.

She nodded, steeled herself, strode over to him, wrapped an arm around his neck, and kissed him hard. Her kisses are rough, messy, provocative, and hollow. He pushed her carefully away again; then he took her face in both hands and kissed her his way.

David’s way of kissing is very like him. It is soft, it is slow, it is hesitant, it can strike at any time, and it is full of indescribable emotion.

Janine, in her way, stood still and let him go. She realized that he didn’t want her to kiss him, but wanted to kiss her; so she stayed out of it.

Her apathy fractured his heart. He wanted to make her whole again. He pulled away, gave her a sorrowful, empathetic gaze, and kissed her once more, just touching his lips to hers.

She stared blankly at him as he looks at her, his hands on her shoulders. “Was that all you wanted?” she said quietly. It hurt him.

No, it wasn’t. He didn’t like to lie. But he didn’t know how to say the truth. Instead, he reluctantly took his hands back and sat on the bed, staring unassumingly at the wall.

Janine looked at the fifty dollars sitting on the dresser. She frowned; then suddenly she dived on David, sitting on his lap with her legs wrapped around his waist. He blinks, overwhelmed.

Janine meshed her fingers in his hair. “C’mon, lover boy,” she almost hissed at him; she was trying to be provocative, but sounded too frustrated. “You came up here to ******** something. I’m right here. What’s your problem?”

He didn’t know what to do; he tried, very carefully, to push her away. She pressed closer, pushing him roughly down onto the bed. “What’s wrong with you?” she insisted. “You know you want it…you can do whatever you want to me, didn’t I tell you?”

He didn’t respond. Truthfully, he couldn’t. Janine scowled at him.

“All men are the same, lover boy…I can make you want me….”

She struggled out of her dress, threw it aside; flaunted herself. She knew what to do. She had the power to make any man fall to his knees. She only had to try one of her tricks, sliding her hand into his jeans. He became hard; but he fought.

“I don’t want sex,” he repeated firmly. Once he said something once, it became easier and easier for him to say again.

Janine sat up; she looked like she wants to hit him. “Are you insulting me?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want sex,” he said again.

“Well, what then?” she demanded.

He slowly sat up, removing himself from her clutches. He zipped his pants again. “Put your dress back on,” he suggested.

Janine raised her eyebrow. Grabbed the dress from the floor and pulled it over her head. Zipped it up. “Kinky,” she commented dryly.

David nodded to himself, satisfied. Then he fell sideways, resting his head on a pillow, and turned his back to her.

She was very quiet for awhile. Then she flopped down beside him. “Okay, fine,” she sighed. “Sleep. Whatever you want, lover boy.” Her voice sounded pained. “Just please don’t say I never gave you anything….”

“Thank you, Janine,” he said politely.

She made a funny sound with a breath. “For what?”

“My kiss.”

She didn’t know what to say. She stared at the wall, as if the secret to her happiness was written there. She sighed.

He took pity on her, and--in his sudden, honest way--said what he needs to say.

“Janine?”

“Mm?”

“You’re not a hooker.”

She turned to face him. He couldn’t see her expression. “What?” she half-laughed, as though he was joking.

He rolled over, looked her in the eyes. “You’re not a hooker. You’re a prostitute.” It seemed like a huge, vital difference to him.

She stared at him. A slow smile curved her lips. “Wow, lover boy,” she said quietly. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

She beamed at him, genuinely grateful; and he wondered what kind of life she’s led, and why no one ever cared enough to discover the light behind her eyes.

~

So he asks. The former part anyway. For the next forty-five minutes, Janine, responding to David’s quiet, earnest persistence, tries her best to answer part of his questionnaire.

INTERVIEW WITH A PROSTITUTE:

D: How did you become like this?
J: Become like what?
D: Become…a prostitute.
J: *laughs* You’re cute.
D: How?
J: I was sixteen.

A silence.

D: Then what?
J: Why do you want to know?
D: I want to know all about you.
J: *laughs* What’s so interesting about me?

(David could say the obvious: You’re a prostitute on a street corner! How common is that? And he could say the truth: You’re beautiful and there’s something about you that scares me, and yet at the same time, draws me closer. But he is a very inarticulate soul, and has to search for something very simple to say.)

D: I think you’re interesting.
J: You’re easily amused, lover boy.
D: Please?
J: All right…well, when I was sixteen, I ran away from home.

A silence.

D: And?
J: And I became a prostitute. That’s what usually happens.
D: There has to be more to it.
J: You want details, do you?
D: Yes.
J: …all right, lover boy.

She thinks.

J: Well, I went for a walk…and I never went back. I used to live in Virginia; I took a bus to NYC, I’d always wanted to go, then looked around for a place to stay. Well, you know this place…no room. I ended up drifting around real late, into a bad…well, a worse part of the Bronx. There were some guys smoking on a doorstep. They followed me, asked me where I was going. I said I was looking for a place to stay. One guy said that up there was his place, he’d let me stay. If I ******** him. *shrugs*
D: And you did?
J: I made him buy me some booze first. I played it pretty cool so he wouldn’t take advantage of me…but really, I just thought, why the hell not?
D: Weren’t you scared?
J: Not after the booze.
D: Before?
J: That’s why I asked for it.
D: So you stayed with him?
J: One night. Then I figured I’d be better off homeless.
D: Did he hurt you?
J: No, Jesus, lover boy. The place was filthy, was all. Too many drug dealers.
D: What did you do?
J: I went looking for a job. I searched for like, a week, but I didn’t find one. No one wanted to hire me. So I went back.
D: And then?
J: I didn’t stay. I just waited outside. And one of the drug lords *scoffs* came eventually, with a couple of girls behind him. I talked to them, asked them straight if he was their pimp. He was. I talked my way into a job; the guy I’d ******** before vouched for me.
D: So you worked for him?
J: For a while. Then I found a nicer guy; then one that was a total d**k. By then I thought I knew enough to do okay on my own, so I worked alone. Once I was eighteen, I got my own place, got a job…*shrugs* et cetera.
D: What job?
J: Waitress. Really that’s the only job I’ve ever been able to keep.
D: Why?
J: *scowls* Didn’t you figure it out yesterday? No one likes people like me.
D: Like what?
J: Whores. You’re doing fine in a nice job, but then one of your ******** blabs, and you lose it all…the customers treat you like s**t or like a piece of meat, staring at your a** all the time, asking if you’ll ******** them too…your boss finds out, fires you to keep the place’s “image” and “respect”, assumes that you’re a good enough hooker to take care of yourself without another job. One boss, if you’d believe it, found out, and said he’d fire me if I didn’t screw him every time he asked.
D: What did you do?
J: I told him only if he paid me, or he could go ******** himself if he preferred. Then I walked out.
D: Where do you work now?
J: A coffee shop around the corner. Boss treats me like a walking pair of boobs, but what can you do? I think that’s the only reason he keeps me around.
D: Do you like your job, besides that?
J: Nah. It’s boring. But it gets money on the table.
D: Does…doesn’t this job give you enough?
J: It’s too unreliable. I can get over 300 bucks a day if I play my cards right, and if people come along. But sometimes I don’t get anything. I like to have a backup job. If the coffee shop job wasn’t s**t, I’d prefer to do that all the time.

Which brings David to:

D: Do you enjoy it all the time? This job?

Janine stares at him for a very long time. Finally:

J: I hate this job. I never enjoy it.
D: But you get all the sex you want.
J: No. THEY get all the sex they want. They don’t care about me.

David is puzzled. He has never figured out if girls like sex or hate it.

D: That’s terrible…they should.
J: Why would they? It’s a business.

D: Janine, do you live here all by yourself?
J: No.
D: Do you have a boyfriend?

Janine laughs, then glares at him as if she thinks he’s mocking her. He assumes that means no.

D: Who do you live with?
J: Sorry. It’s too dangerous to discuss my family life with customers.
D: Janine, you can trust me--
J: I can’t trust anybody.

A silence.

Are you ever scared?
J: I…. Yes. I really am….
D: Why?
J: Long story, lover boy, and you haven’t paid enough.
D: What are you most afraid of?
J: Jesus…I guess what I’m really scared of, is that one night while I’m gone someone--some client--will break in…and….

David reaches boldly out, takes her hand.

D: It’ll be okay.
J: You can’t know that.
D: I really want to help you, Janine….
J: As long as you keep paying me.

David nods.

J: So my turn. Why the ******** are you paying me to talk to you?
D: I like talking more than sex.
J: …but you’re a man.
D: *flushes* Yes?
J: Men don’t like talking more than sex.
D: I don’t like either. I like to listen.
J: Holy s**t, what planet are you from?
D: Not every man likes sex that much.
J: Every man I’ve ever met likes sex more than food and booze. And that’s saying a lot.
D: I don’t. I don’t really like any of that. Well, maybe food….
J: Jesus, lover boy, what is WRONG with you?
D: *looks away* I just don’t like sex is all.
J: Why the hell not?
D: …I’m not very good at it.

Janine contemplates lying. Decides against it. She is not paid to compliment; she never advertised herself as a geisha.

J: No, not really. So?
D: Well…all the girlfriends I ever had….
J: Ah. I see.

She seems to sympathize; understand. She places a hand carefully on his chest, as if cautious of what he might do. He feels his heart pounding; wonders if she feels it too.

J: I know what you mean. See, men were so busy way back with trying to make themselves superior to women that they put all the pressure of things on themselves. Like sex. Men made women think they were in control; women gave up, they thought they were supposed to just lay there and take it. Like what I do I guess. That’s what a lot of men want. But even though men gave women their rights back to get rid of all the pressure, they couldn’t change the sex thing so quickly. So women still think it’s up to the men to learn how, and they didn’t have to know anything; most women think that men are just born knowing how. It’s not fair that your girlfriends were total whores. At least one should have tried to teach you.

D: I really liked a couple of them.
J: I’m sorry.

A silence. Her hand is still on his chest. He wants it to stay there forever.

J: You know, lover boy. I could teach you.

Relief floods through David; relief and something else.

D: Could you?
J: Well, not many’d know better than me. And I don’t mind doing you a favor; you’ve been real nice to me.
D: You can really teach me?
J: *smiles* Don’t get too excited, lover boy. It’ll have to wait until next time.
D: But you’ll do it?
J: Yeah, sure. As long as you’re paying, I’ll do whatever you want.

David is silent; he doesn’t like it when she says things like that. Finally, he says:

D: Thank you, Janine.
J: Don’t bother thanking me, lover boy. I get paid.
D: Still.
J: You’re sweet, you know that?
D: I just want to be polite.
J: Don’t bother.

David then asks, in his way:

D: Has anyone ever called you beautiful?
J: What?
D: Have they?
J: …no. Well…not exactly like that.
D: You are.
J: I’m pretty?
D: You’re beautiful, Janine.

Janine is silent, her brow furrowed, for a long time. She gives him a look that he can’t understand. Finally:

J: Lover boy…I think your time is up.

David thanks her, pays her, and goes on his way. He isn’t done questioning her. Not yet.


~~~

As Janine watches him leave, she glances toward a cupboard in her kitchen. Thinking.

She has a small notebook, used as a diary, in that cupboard, hidden at the back. Lately, she has not been writing in it, just tearing pages out and ripping them to shreds.

The last entry is dated some time ago, long before David. She doesn’t want to write a new one just yet, in case this one’s importance is undermined. She won’t write in it again, not until her feelings completely change. She finds this particular entry relevant, applicable, and insurmountable. Every day, it says almost exactly what she is feeling.

It reads:

Dear God, <******** YOU.

~~~

David returns the next day, contemplating flowers, and whether she likes them. But Janine isn’t there.

He stands there for awhile, thinking. Maybe she will be right back. After five minutes, he rejects that theory.

Maybe she’s with someone else.

He feels sick. Of course, she wouldn’t refuse someone just to teach David how to properly have sex. She wouldn’t refuse anyone. She needed the money.

He gives her another half hour; he sits in the restaurant across the street and sips at black coffee. Then, when she does not reappear, he crosses over to her apartment building and climbs up.

He knocks on her door. No one answers.

He listens. Nothing.

Would he be able to hear from the doorstep?

Would he want to?

He reluctantly turns away from the door, supposing at last that she’d just gone out….

But to do what?

Maybe she worked mornings at the coffee shop. Maybe she was taking a walk. Maybe she was mad at him, purposely making him think she wasn’t home. Maybe she didn’t want to see him anymore.

He tries to convince himself that she is just gone, perhaps to go shopping or run errands. But then he remembers her job--letting herself be ******** and pushed around by heartless men--and feels sick.

He wonders what bothers him more: the fact that the men are heartless and sick, or the fact that they are not him.

~~~

He comes back that evening, for reasons he can’t explain to himself. He does not linger in the dark; instead, he tramps up to Janine’s room again.

He knocks. He hears a television.

No one answers.

He knocks again. He hears a small, thick, solid noise; and then nothing but the hum of the television.

He knocks for three minutes straight. Nothing.

Then he leaves, heartbroken, but resilient.

He will come back tomorrow.

~~~

A reasonable question: where is David getting all of this money?

Answer: his EuroFunds.

David, you see, has lived in the northeastern United States all his life. When he was younger, he dreamed of travel. He liked to stand at the bottom of a skyscraper and look up (though not on the top looking down; he felt too superior, too important, and too acrophobic); but he dreamed that maybe one day, he could go to a place where there were no skyscrapers. And he could look up and see the entire sky, no longer obscured.

He remembers the suburbs where he lived when he was small. He remembers how the landscape looked like a crayon drawing: bright and surreal. He remembers a free, open sky. He wants to see it again.

He becomes a teenager, then a young man. He is deeply cynical of the world and its people. He wishes he could escape it all. He takes up piano. One day he stands beneath a skyscraper and looks up, just to remember the feeling of infinity; but all he feels is a headache. He is suffocated by the city. He wants grass and open sky.

He searches and finds out that open sky exists in many places. The hills of Germany. The rocky shores of Norway. The Azores, in the middle of the ocean. The ruins of South America. The plains of Africa. The beaches of California. The Alps. The Himalayas. The desert.

He ponders. He plans. He starts his EuroFund.

He has it all worked out.

He will fly to Ireland: emerald hills and old castles. Then on to Germany: more hills. Then Norway: mountains and scrubland; then Italy: grasslands and vineyards; then the Alps: snowy peaks. Then the Azores: ocean and endless sky. Then cross from Spain to Africa: deserts and plains. He’d go from there.

On the day before he met Janine, he’d almost had enough to go to Ireland and back. He’d been halfway there.

But now she seems much more important.

~~~

David returns at his usual time the next morning.

It is a Sunday, but he feels that it is hypocritical to go to church. He doesn’t think he’s doing anything wrong; but still, something told him that Catholicism and prostitution didn’t mix.

Janine is not there. He starts to get worried. He doesn’t wait; instead he runs straight up to her apartment and knocks urgently on the door.

No one answers for awhile, but he persists. Finally, the door jerks open, and Janine steps into the hallway. She is wearing a bra, for once, and normal, modest clothing.

“Lover boy?” she exclaims, shocked. “Oh.” She relaxes her aggressive stance, leaning against the doorframe, still clutching the doorknob behind her. “You scared me.”

“Where were you yesterday?” he asks her, sounding naïve and childish, but he doesn’t care.

Janine’s eyes widen with sudden realization. “Oh!” she says again. “That was YOU! Oh, thank God,” she sighs. “Don’t scare me like that, lover boy! I don’t work on weekends! At least not that job.”

“Oh…so you that was you last night, in there?” he inquires.

Janine scowls; a warning. “Yeah, sure.”

He doesn’t believe her; he tries to peek behind her, but she blocks his view. He listens and hears the same sort of music as he had the night before on the television. This time he recognizes it: the theme song to the most popular young girl’s show on air. It clicks.

“Oh,” he says stupidly. “I see.”

Janine’s scowl enhances. “What?”

“You’ve got a daughter.”

Her eyes widen; she quickly snaps the door shut. “I don’t,” she snaps. “What are you talking about?”

He refuses to back down. “You do. But you don’t want anyone to know about her. Because….”

“Just shut UP, idiot!” she hisses, glancing covertly around.

“Because you’re scared for her,” he completes nonetheless. “Oh. I get it.”

Janine reaches up and grabs the collar of his t-shirt, pulling his face down to hers. “Listen, you,” she whispers fiercely to him. “I swear if you go downstairs right now and forget all about this I’ll do anything you want, free…just, please….”

He carefully pulls himself out of her grasp. “I understand,” he assures her, in just as soft a voice. “You don’t want any of your…your clients to come up here when you’re not home….”

“That’s why no one can know,” she insists, angrily brushing away a small pool of tears. “For the love of God…. Lover boy. David. Please.” She’s begging him. “They’ll take her away from me…she’s all I’ve got….”

He nods, surprised. “You can trust me, Janine,” he insists. “I won’t let that happen.”

This isn’t what she wants to hear; she grabs the front of his shirt, desperate. “Jesus Christ, David, what do you WANT from me?” she half-sobs. “Just name it, fine, I’ll do it if you just forget about the whole thing--”

He takes her hands in his, looking right into her eyes so she could see his sincerity. “Janine. Believe me. I won’t tell a soul, you can trust me. I’ll forget all about it if you want me to.”

“Please, David,” she pleads quietly.

He nods. “Okay.”

Janine breaths a relieved sigh. She stares wearily at the floor by his feet.

“What’s her name?” he asks her, curious.

Janine looks sharply up, suddenly angry. “She doesn’t exist, remember?” she reminds him sharply.

“I know. I’m just curious.”

She runs a hand through her hair. “Nina,” she finally says.

He smiles. “Sounds familiar.”

“It was my nickname when I was a kid,” she says softly. “Now can you please go?”

“Okay.” But he doesn’t move. “Janine, I want you to trust me.”

“Don’t tell,” she begs him. “And don’t come on weekends. You scared her.”

“I won’t,” he promises.

But he hasn’t convinced her yet. She grabs his wrist, meeting his eyes, with a sort of desperate grief hidden within. “David,” she says softly, “my little girl is everything to me. I can’t stand even thinking about someone hurting her…or taking her away from me…David, she doesn’t even know what I do when she’s at school, she can’t ever find out, for the love of God…if you have any heart at all….”

“I swear,” he tells her solemnly, seriously. “I swear on everything I’ve got.”

She gives a watery smile, letting her eyes fall to the ground. She traces a casual finger down his zipper. “Agreed then. If you tell I’ll castrate you.” She gives a short, bitter laugh. “Haven’t got much else going for ya, huh, lover boy?”

He frowns. The teasing hurts. She doesn’t know him well at all. “I can play piano,” he says, defensively.

Janine laughs in a soft, hollow voice. “I bet you can.” She turned to the door, addressing one last comment without looking at him.

“Come up here early tomorrow, lover boy…I’ll give you the time of your life….”

She sounds so sad, so dejected. David’s heart throbs painfully in his chest.

“I’ll come.”

She nods, opens the door, ducks inside. “Thanks again,” she says quietly, and then she’s gone.

David goes home again. He is thinking, on the way, about Janine, and her daughter, and her promise.

Who is Nina’s father?

Why is Janine so scared?

And when, David asks himself, when, exactly, did anyone give JANINE the time of her life?

~~~

Dear ******** YOU.

She doesn’t want to ruin it, still, so in the margins of a previous page she writes today’s thought.

Dear God,
Thank you for Nina. And thank you for the love that brought her into existence.
But not for the man.

She flips back, stares at the last page.

Dear God, <******** YOU.

Janine secretly wishes that someone really would ******** God instead of her. That would show him.

~~~

On nine o’clock Monday morning, David climbs the stairs again. His legs are shaking; his nerves are tingling with the excitement of what’s to come today.

He knocks on the door of 303. Hears a faint, “Come in, lover boy.” His hands are shaking; he clenches them to make them stop.

He step inside. Sees no one. He closes and locks the door carefully behind him, looks around. The bedroom door is open.

“Janine?” he calls.

“In here!” Her voice comes from the bedroom. He follows it, closes the door behind him.

Stares.

Janine gives him a seductive smile; she is laying on her back, the blanket’s edge hovering suggestively across her breasts. Her arms are stretched above her head; a silky scarf binds her wrists together and attaches them to the bed, the end dangling close to her face. When he comes in, her knees rise under the covers, far apart, creating twin mountains and an extremely provocative valley.

He stares. He thought this only happened in porn movies. “Janine?”

The smile is still pasted onto her face. “I owed you a treat, lover boy,” she says sweetly. “A present. And see, it’s all ready and waiting for you.” She lets her hair swing over her face, only one eye showing from beneath her thick locks. “So come unwrap it,” she challenges him, her entire demeanor uncharacteristically flirtatious.

He doesn’t like it. “Janine, I thought…we were doing….”

She shrugs, with difficulty. “I took the day off,” she explains, forcing a laugh. “Just for you. You own me until three o’clock, lover boy…take all the time you want. I’m yours.”

He doesn’t like it--no, he despises it when she talks like that. “I don’t own you,” he tells her quietly.

She doesn’t seem to care. “C’mon, lover boy,” she says. “Come keep me company.”

He cautiously obeys, slipping off his shoes and kneeling on the bed beside her. He pulls the blanket off of her. She overwhelms him for a moment.

She laughs. Rubs her knee against his arm. “C’mon, lover boy,” she persuades him. “Come let me thank you.”

He shakes his head, ignores this. The look in her eyes scares him. He reaches over her, tugs on the scarf. “How do I untie this, Janine?”

“What?” she demands.

He pulls on the long end; the scarf unravels. He throws it aside. She lets her arms fall.

“What are you doing?” she says incredulously. Obviously, no man had ever refused her “gift.”

“Janine, you could suffocate like that,” he scolds her. “What were you thinking?”

She props herself up. “I was trying to thank you, lover boy. You’re doing me a favor.”

“I don’t like that,” he says firmly. “I don’t like it….”

“Well, okay then,” she shrugs. “I have other ways.”

She reaches for his shorts and unzips them. Pulls them down to his knees. He kicks them away; she smirks.

“Now lay down, lover boy….”

David feels that Janine isn’t understanding something important. He resists her pushes and falls down on her, wrapping his arms around her. He kisses her with all his strength, securing his tongue tightly with hers, trying to say something without words.

She conforms to his desires, kissing him back, hard; and again her intensity scares him--it’s detached, apathetic. He pulls away.

“What are you doing?” he demands of her.

She spreads her hands across his chest, underneath his shirt. “What d’you mean?”

He struggles for words; lets her pull off his shirt entirely, press his chest to hers. She’s still hollow, an automaton. “You’re scaring me,” he finally says; and he pulls himself away. Sits up. “You’re…completely emotionless, you’re…you’re acting like…a sex doll!” he says, frustrated with her apathy.

She raises the eyebrow. “I am a sex doll,” she says blandly.

“Not to me,” he insists.

She blinks at him.

“This isn’t like you, Janine. You’re not someone’s slave.”

“How would you know what I’m like?” she snaps.

“You’re strong. And you’re smart, and independent. You could never be anyone’s slave.” He flushes at his boldness, as he usually does, but doesn’t take it back.

Janine stares at him; then she flops back onto the pillow. “What do you want from me, lover boy?”

He lays beside her, takes her hand. Gently squeezes it. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do something you don’t want to.”

She stares at the ceiling. She is not emotionless; her emotions are just not surfacing. Rather, they are battling beneath the surface.

He spreads her hand on the bed, traces her fingers with his. She glances at it, as if she had forgotten that she had a hand.

“What do you want, Janine?”

She frowns. Thinks. Then she rolls over, rests her head on his shoulder. She closes her eyes. He holds onto her hand.

He isn’t sure if that was what she wants--though he hopes--until she says, suddenly, “I want my Nina to have a better life than me. I want her to be happy. I want her to have the choice to wait for the right man…if there ever is a right man….”

He nods. He closes his eyes too; he likes the way this felt. He searches for the blanket and covers them.

“What do you want for you?” he asks.

She doesn’t answer him. “What do YOU want, lover boy?”

“I asked first,” he objects.

She smiles; he feels it against his skin. “Oh, but I live to serve.”

“I think you have it backwards, Janine.”

Her eyes open. She stares in surprise at his collarbones. She chooses not to respond.

Instead, she gives in for once. “I want,” she says slowly, “to stop laying still.”

He wouldn’t know what she meant by that until much later.

“What about you, lover boy?” she asks.

He smiles, wraps his arms around her waist. “I want sex lessons.”

She laughs at him. “I have never taught sex before. I don’t know if I’m a good teacher.”

He says nothing; just smiles. She wraps her arms around his waist, but doesn’t move.

“Before you get riled up, lover boy…how far have you ever gone with a girl? I mean, successfully.”

He flushes, prefers to look at her neck rather than her eyes. “Um, I dunno…third, yeah…maybe…well, not so much. Second base….”

“Your girlfriends weren’t very nice at all,” she says kindly. “Well, look. Call me a hypocrite, but as far as real sex goes, it’s about both people. You have to figure out what the other person needs as well as make sure you’re getting what YOU need. And it’s important to communicate, somehow, and try new stuff once in a while….”

He pays careful attention.

“You’re a good kisser, I’ll give you that. When you want to go further, though, just move your hands here.” She takes his hands and lays them on her chest. He flushes, but doesn’t move them. “It’s all body language,” she says matter-of-factly. “You use your whole body to say, hey, this is what I wanna do now. Right now, on second base, you’re saying that you like her for more than just her personality. It’s hinting that you want her body.”

He nods.

“And if she likes you, she should try something like this….” She places her hands on his stomach and moves them up, pressing hard. “Moving your hands around--slowly though--and massaging sensitive places create a very nice feeling. Also there could be some leg action.” She moves his hand from her breast to her thigh. “Under or over clothing. It’s still pretty suggestive. And that goes for you too.” She touches the inside of his leg with her fingertips; his heart jolts and starts to race faster than ever. “That’s implying that she wants to get closer, and more intimate.”

He realizes, insanely, at that point that he’s touching her. His hands tighten involuntarily; he’s starting to get nervous.

Janine laughs at him. “Exactly. Now here’s where it gets tricky; lover boy, remember to always keep it SLOW. You want this to last. And going slow helps both of you communicate and enjoy yourselves. So you really like this girl. You want to tell her that you don’t want to go all the way, just yet, but you want to give her some pleasure. You’ll probably still have your clothes on, that’s not really important anymore, unless they’re in the way. What you do, lover boy, is get the very tips of your fingers, and real softly touch her right here.”

She moves his fingers. He thinks he might asphyxiate with ecstasy any moment now.

“She’ll probably still have her panties on,” she says with a devious smile. “Eyes up here,” she adds, and he meets her eyes. “Focus. So you don’t actually have to use your fingers if you don’t want to. You can use…well, pretty much anything. It just depends. Usually your fingers or your mouth work best; or you two can just hump each other.” She can’t always control the bluntness of her nature. “What you’re doing is, you’re helping her masturbate. And it sounds like a nasty word, especially for a girl, but it is what it is and there’s nothing wrong with it. And, lover boy? Don’t freak if your girl starts making some weird noises.”

She is teasing him. He smiles. He likes her eyes better than her body, he decides.

“Just remember to be real gentle with girls, they’re sensitive. She, on the other hand, will be blowing your mind. She’ll either be doing the same thing to you that you are to her, in essence, or she might lead you to the right spot to touch. You’re working together. You’re both enjoying it. And you both might get a little wet.” Again with her crude references. At least she is honest. “Just make sure you’re paying attention to her. This is where communication gets very important. She might ask you to do some weird things, but if you can and you don’t mind, it shouldn’t be a problem. Do her a favor, then let her do you a favor. It’s cooperating.”

“I never thought about sex as a compromise,” he smiles. And he laughs, too. He has never been a laughing person.

Janine makes a stern face at him. “It’s not usually a compromise. That’s when both people give something up. Sex is becoming selfless and generous enough to give someone what they need, then becoming humble and grateful enough to accept what you need in return. It’s nothing nasty or dirty, not if both people are working together.”

He nods. “Go on, Janine….”

“Okay, okay. So after that…you go all the way. Now listen, lover boy, you can get all the pleasure and orgasms from tons of stuff, porn and masturbating and touching and oral and a**l and all that s**t. But take it from me; when you’re doing this for real, sticking to the basic route is the most intimate gesture you can make. Everyone nowadays is all about sex adventures, trying crazy new things, but it’s the original way that’s best…there’s only one way a girl can get pregnant, and it’s also the best way to make her enjoy herself. It shows you trust each other, and truly love each other.”

He takes everything she says to heart.

“Now, take it SLOW, lover boy. You don’t just aim and fire. Once both of you are all excited and everything, you take it really slow. It takes a lot of self-control for both of you, but since you’re the man, you’re the one who has to pace yourself. Trust me, the worst thing you can do to a woman is shove something into her really hard, and really fast, when she doesn’t want it. You have to let her trust you. You just do your thing, whatever you boys do, real slowly…the outside parts, and the parts just inside, are the most sensitive. You sort of wake everything up with friction. You start slow, then work up to the pace she wants. That’s the trick.”

She doesn’t demonstrate this time; he tries not to be disappointed. Her fingers are resting in the bend of his legs; he is very aware of every part of her that touches his skin.

“And you keep going, lover boy, even if you’re tired, until she starts to freak out. Because I’m pretty sure you’ll be feeling ecstatic after ten seconds, but for women it’s harder. It takes patience and skill. And if you respect her enough to have sex with her in the first place, then she deserves that much at least. Plus, if you’re trying to have a kid, it’ll increase your chances way more if she orgasms. Just remember: it isn’t all about you, lover boy.”

He knows it isn’t. It isn’t about him at all.

“And then you’ll probably get tired, that’s normal. Just don’t STOP; that ruins everything. Work your way back down the bases. And this whole time, you shouldn’t ever have stopped kissing her. Your mouth never leaves her skin except to say something dirty, got it?”

He nods. He understands.

“Think you got it, lover boy?”

He is too nervous to lie. He gives her a helpless glance. He isn’t sure.

She smiles at him. “Perk up, c’mon. You need to have confidence in yourself, or no one will. It just takes practice. We’ll take it easy, we’ll start with first base. When I change bases, so do you, understand?”

He nods. Waits. She hands him a condom, then it’s her turn to wait. Then she thinks about it for a moment, then suddenly thrusts herself at him, kissing him hard. She is not the automaton of before; nor does she really mean what her lips are saying. But it is an improvement; and it feels wonderful. She’s a great kisser, and she knows how to work with her tongue; he keeps up with her as best as he can, in seventh heaven, trying to focus as much as one CAN focus in a situation like that.

Then her mouth roamed to his neck; he gasps; no one had ever kissed him like that before. He enjoys it so much that he doesn’t want to do anything more but sit there and enjoy it. But Janine’s hands move to his chest, then the tops of his legs; he remembers, and hesitantly feels her up.

“Bit harder,” she tells him quietly between kisses. “You’re not hurting me.”

He does what she says; evokes a laugh from her. This game he is used to. He kisses her all over her chest, refusing to let up until he makes her laugh with pleasure.

Then she switches to third. He feels nervous again. This part, he wasn’t so good at.

Janine makes him “practice” different kinds; hands, mouth, skin friction. He gets almost no response out of her (apparently it “tickled”); however, she blows his mind away at least three separate times in three separate ways. He is on his knees for her to do it again--he’s never had anything NEAR that before--but she refuses; instead she eases onto his lap, and she, his teacher, guides him, instructs him as they….

Well, no. It was still ********.

He was disappointed that he couldn’t get a sound out of her. She wouldn’t even fake it to make him feel better. But he was improving.

They cool down, take a break; then do it all again. And again. David improves.

And then he goes to sleep.

~~~

He has an interesting dream. In it, he and Janine are lying, nude, on a beach with white sand, rocks, and two endless mirroring voids of sky and sea. The sun is shining brightly down on them, illuminating hundreds of strands of Janine’s hair.

In the dream, she is herself. Her eyes are free and clear. They are making love, for real, with no money or bargains or bribes involved. His breaths are short and tight; Janine is making soft, contented sounds. And no matter how much he may have loved it when she had masturbated him, in the dream, her lips never left his, and her arms never moved from around his neck.

He wasn’t wearing a condom, either. And she had no shadows underneath her eyes.

He had the skill to make her happy. She was past all the things that would stop her from being happy. They were both, when together,

You forgot the second E in freely. Beautiful hookers cost more than 50, but other than that it was good.

hmmm for the second part it makes us wonder what was going on thru the mind of his high school girlfriend... 1) she could have been playing him just for sex 2) she might not of liked the way he looked or acted... and 3) she mighta jus been tired and nothing interesting at all but all the same this has obviously caused emotional trauma to David. As we see he has trouble making decisions on his love life balance and he is very nervous on how to talk to women that are beautiful. This was likely caused on a psychological level when his first girl left him without ever saying anything... this obviously left him without closure which ultimately hurt him in the end. Nice work! can't wait for the next segment ^^

As for part three it seems the sex can warp his little mind into doing what he does not want to deep inside. At the same time he also enjoys this quite a bit so it all turns out good for him in the end. Pleasure over will power...Hmmm its quite possible but expresses a weak mind. Davids mind has been warped by the sex he had the first time and the sex he had the second time along with the emotional issues he has built up over the years from no closure with his first girlfriend.

Hmmm, it seems in segment 4 the power of the will has more to it than just pleasure. It also seems that Janine seems to be depressed on her own level. She also might have had her share of bad experiences likely worse. It also makes me wonder if women are able to handle depression/trauma more than men. Because she doesn't seem too worried about it all the other times she has sex... it only truly bothers her when she is asked up front and when she talks about it. The bitterness at the end is likely her rejecting compassion because its an emotion she has not felt in a long long time... If you keep writing I have thoughts on what could further happen... smile excellent work btw!

yeh the questionnaire really gave a clear idea for what David truly wanted deep in his heart.

Well I'm only able to read into it because you write it so well. xp

no I'm being quite honest here, if you hadn't shown me your book senior year I wouldn't be so into reading as I am right now.