Dealing Flesh (14 page)

Hot Shot:
Who would have thought? I’m still the shit.

Working hard on hiding my elation, we leave the restaurant. Woooeee…

Avengelia:
Gotcha
.

Chameleon

My eyes glide across the words in the classified ad again and again. “Massage Therapists For Sensual Massage Wanted.” Hmmm, pretty sure I can give a massage, but what do they have in mind by “sensual”? I grab the receiver and dial the number. A woman answers. She invites me for an interview. It turns out the ground rules are simple - no sex with customers, but each masseuse is expected to provide a full body massage including a hand release. Furthermore, it is explained that in order to make better tips, one has the option to conduct the service in lingerie, topless, or in the nude.

Doubt Cloud:
You’re not going through with this, are ya’? I thought you were done having sex with men for money?

Whip Cracker:
Stroking a guy’s penis isn’t considered sex, unless it actually penetrates you, or bodily fluids are otherwise exchanged.

Doubt Cloud:
Hmmm.

Scaredy Cat:
I guess I must decide what I fear more - Ray’s wrath if I continue to be without income, or working here subjecting myself to the perverted minds of men.

I talk to the woman for another five minutes.

“I think you’d do really great here. Are you interested?” she asks.

“Would you mind if I try it out once and see how it goes?”

“Not at all. When do ya’ wanna come in?”

“Monday, maybe?”

“You got it.”

I drive home in deep thought about how to run this by Raymond.

Doubt Cloud:
I highly doubt he’s gonna give you his blessings.

Hot Shot:
He has no say so on what I can and cannot do. Besides, he should be pleased that I finally found a means to make money without the hassle of needing additional documentation.

Ray gets in early tonight. His mood seems pleasant, and therefore I let him in on the developments, giving him the basic rundown of the duties of the job, although I leave out the part about masturbating guys and possibly giving massages in the buff. Appalled at first, he eventually concurs.

I enter the building in Lakewood this morning, feeling mighty raw inside. The dwelling looks like the average professional complex in “xyz” neighborhood. I open the door to the massage parlor on the first floor. Once I slip into a tight zebra patterned, spaghetti-strap dress and silver stiletto heels, I am directed into one of the rooms to greet my first customer.

The space is well-lit and covered by wall-to-wall mauve colored carpet. A musty odor hangs in the air. On the table to my right lays a fifty-something-year-old naked fellow with a hard on. I grab one of the towels from the shelf and instantly cover up his part. Once he tips me for stripping down to lingerie, I begin to knead his legs. Knowing I have to fill thirty minutes of acting sensual, I concentrate my effort on providing a truly relaxing massage. The man, on the other hand, keeps hurrying me to move toward paying more attention to his extra appendage. I smile in his face while doing the deed.

Ragelina:
I wished he’d die?

By now, the overpowering scent of baby powder and oil has turned the musty air just a tad more pleasant. The fellow gets dressed and takes off, handing the door handle straight to the next guy who has me do it all over again, this time for an entire hour.

As the day progresses, I distract from the task at hand by comparing the various sizes of cocks and balls on each new client. The shift ends, and I rush back to my house, exhausted but high from seeing all that cash in my wallet. Raymond initially gives me attitude, but rests his case when I wave the money in front of his face.

Two weeks go by. By now, I stroke cocks as habitual as I floss my teeth. But it does not keep Ragelina from threatening homicide each time a guy grabs her breasts, or ass, squeezing it tightly during splash off.

Whip Cracker:
Think about the money, dummy, and the peace you’ll have without Raymond breathing down your neck
.

I admit the papery green has soothing effects on me.

Terrified of catching a disease even just by using my hands, I invest in eighty dollars worth of professional massage ointment that promises to wipe out the most common germs plus a long register of those I never heard of. So each time before even one finger goes onto a guy’s body, I drench my hands in the colorless gel.

After tonight’s shift, I return home with a nicely wrapped, fluffy-cozy sweater for Raymond. He is in a decent mood, and hence, I take him out for a four-course meal at the upscale Italian eatery a few blocks from the house. Paying for the entire bill without having hurt my pocketbook feels awesome. Once back at home, Ray demands that from now on, I report my income to him after each shift and spend the money I take in on either household purchases or our combined personal fun. Consequently, I immediately place part of my earnings inside an envelope and hide it in a spot within the bedroom.

I walk in from work at around 6:00 p.m. Ray sits in the living room, immersed in the show on television, mumbling a muffled “hello” through his teeth. Assured that he is occupied, I swiftly proceed to the bedroom and instantaneously pull out the emergency fund envelope, adding several new bills to it.

“What are you doing?” I hear Ray bark at me seconds later. As I turn my head to the right, I see him standing in the doorway.

Scaredy Cat (screeching):
Fuck. He’s going to hurt me.

My heart races like mad when seeing the crazy look in his eyes. Drenched in cold sweat, my mouth gets ready to formulate a lie, but I cannot come up with one, and therefore I serve him the truth, hoping he will understand.

“You fucking cunt. You are keeping secrets from me, eh?”

Scaredy Cat:
Ahhhhh. What do I dooo?

It is too late for another thought. Ray grabs my arms and pushes me backward into the walk-in closet. I fall. I watch how he wildly pulls apparel off the hangers and throws it at me, concurrently bombarding me with demeaning words that cut like knifes. I try getting back up, but he jostles me right back down. This time, I tumble on top of the pile of clothes. I halt all resistance and start crying.

Scaredy Cat:
I didn’t come to L.A. to die.

I beg him to call off the madness, but he pulls even more items down from shelves and hangers, dispersing them on top of me, until I eventually vanish underneath the mountain of garments and shoes.

“You are moving out tonight with all your shit.”

I can feel Ragelina getting ready to tell him to go fuck himself, but I gag her because I know not to trip when standing in the eye of a hurricane.

Scaredy Cat:
I must calm him. Otherwise, where am I going to go?

Ray walks out into the hallway. Like a phoenix rising out of the ashes I leap over to the bedroom entrance, making a death-defying attempt to shut the door, but just shy an inch of reaching my goal, I feel Ray struggle against it from the other side. Developing super human strengths, I manage to close it after all, hastily flipping the latch to a locked position. He bangs on it hard, ramming his whole weight against it while threatening to break it down if I don’t open right away. I sit terrified and motionless on top of the bed, hoping for the storm to cease. I exhale now that the commotion abruptly desists. Thirty minutes elapse. Hyper alert, I open the door just a crack. A spooky silence emanates from the rooms, the hallway seems clear.

Scaredy Cat:
Don’t go any further, please.

I quietly sneak over to the entrance of the living room and cautiously peer inside. Ray is sitting on the couch, looking somewhat absent-minded. Courageously, I flop down next to him.

Pretender Babe:
Try to make nicey nice.

I grab one of his hands with one of mine and gently stroke his right cheek with the other. He brushes it away like someone would shrug off a bug.

Pretender Babe prods me to say, “I am sorry, sweetie, for keeping a secret from you. I really don’t want to lose you. I love you. Can we start again on a clean slate?”

Ragelina:
Oh please, I hate that son of a bitch
.

Blushetta (sniffling):
I am nothing without him.

The words must have done wonders because he drops his grudge instantly and make-up sex follows. During the ordeal, I feel Ragelina performing a death dance inside me. Her wrath scorches my insides in ways that feel as if someone is pouring acid onto my organs.

Tough Gal:
Keep what you got, but I highly advise that you never let him have the real you…ever, you hear?

Gotcha.

~~~

A soft marine layer covers Los Angeles this morning. With Ray having left the house already, I slip into a pair of midnight blue tights and a white thong leotard that perfectly splits my cheeks.

Arriving at Venice Beach, I skate down the curvy bike path, voraciously assimilating the whistling compliments of guys that are getting a kick out of staring at my ass. I reach an area hugged by soulful music where a bunch of colorful skaters perform courageous moves to happening tunes. Amongst the hipsters, I spot a brawny bald-headed African-American in tight, green-and-blue striped spandex who rides his skates as if he popped out of the womb with them on. The defined cuts on his biceps keep me staring, so do other parts of his anatomy.

Lustania (salivating):
He’s a must have.

Failing to create a connection, I promise Lustania that I will take her back here again tomorrow.

Morning comes, and I am back at the beach, seductively leaning against the fence where the skaters perform, giving the cutie from yesterday an extra beguiling smile when he looks my direction. He eventually comes by and we start conversing. Thirty minutes later, we perform in sync acrobatic moves at his house. I do not see the limber man ever again after sexing each other up, but it doesn’t matter because details around this event draw a blank in and of itself anyway. I figure it must not have been good at all.

~~~

The rumor that undercover detectives may possibly show up at the massage parlor I work at, to bust the girls for giving hand jobs, inspires me to quit.

A few months go by. Today, I start at another establishment near the beach. The owner, Preston, a well-dressed forty-something colored man from the Islands develops a thing for me as time goes on. Although I like his neatly groomed Rasta locks hanging down the middle of his back where they are held together by an elegant golden colored scrunchy, he certainly isn’t the type of black man that I normally feel attracted to. But as time passes, his charm, funny accent, and dark aura lasso me.

Some more time passes. This afternoon, Preston inquires if I want to have dinner with him after the shift. I accept the offer. After finishing dinner at the high quality Asian restaurant, he takes me back to the office where I let him bang me on top of the lobby’s black leather couch.

Lustania:
Now that we fucked, what can it hurt to do it again?
Ssss…
Sort of like eating cookies. One is never enough.

Later this week, Preston pulls his black Lexus over to the side on Mulholland Drive and turns off the engine. Lustania, steadfast on blowing his mind, has me slide up my dress and straddle him while facing the steering wheel. I wildly grind around in his lap as we continue to go at it like two actors starring in a porno film. Every once in a while, I do get a brief glance at the delightful city views surrounding us.

Avengelia:
It’s all for you, Raymond baby. And fuck you, too.

This morning inside the break room at the parlor, a conversation with some of my co-workers brings to light that Preston occasionally has sexual relations with some of these women as well. Appalled, I make my exit a few weeks later.

~~~

I show up for the rehearsal of an upcoming designer fashion show to model some of the pieces of their brand-new line. Two sessions into it, I bail because maintaining a double identity and dealing with Ray’s unpredictable mood swings are taking too much of a toll on me.

Weeks pass. A
Hollywood
talent agent on Sunset Boulevard signs me on a year’s contract. He arranges free acting lessons but I never show up. How dare he believe in my talent? Does he not know I am despicable? Well, he would know if he ever found out about Blushetta.

Round Trip

Ray and I move to a one-bedroom flat in Culver City hoping that it will improve things between us. Within days, the invisible hand of loneliness strangles me again.

Romy:
I can’t stand it any longer. Please, you must get me out of here.

Doubt Cloud (sarcastic):
Good luck.

Romy:
Love can conquer all. How about running an ad to find the man that makes the perfect fit for you?

Hot Shot:
Makes a lot of sense to me.

Hyped about the concept, I instantly place several lines into a paper, expressing my search for a good-looking marriage-minded black man. Once the ad hits, roughly thirty messages pour in. I interview a total of five men, meeting a guy at a time at diverse coffee shops this week. Not one of them appeals to me.

Doubt Cloud:
Ehh, let’s just forget it.

I check the voicemail once more. A message from a fellow named Theo stands out. I call him and we meet later this afternoon. Although he does not hit all items on my wish list, he’s certainly winning out over the ones I interviewed so far. His tenderness entices me, the way he attentively gives consideration to every word that falls from my lips. A head taller than I, he makes me feel taken care of and protected.

Theo and I embark on three more rendezvous before we sleep with each other at his house. Not getting much from it, I am ready to relinquish him. Hearing Romy’s disheartening cries saying that he is otherwise perfect, I keep hanging on. When coming home this evening around nine, Raymond starts a brawl. He impounds my treasured modeling portfolio book, saying that I will not get it back unless I tell him where I’ve spent my time today. I don’t.