“Okay, speak to you in a minute.”
Shoulders back; head high. Walk with confidence. Take your time, scope the place out; locate the lifts as quickly as possible. Smile at the night staff behind the big black slab of a desk, but not for too long or you’ll stick out in his mind. Even as you’re smiling your eyes stray from the man’s podgy face, just like his have strayed from yours.
Lifts – a gift to the whore and the vain. Check your reflection, make some last-minute tweaks – face is bright red, nothing you can do about that, straighten out your clothes, make sure your boner isn’t sticking out, fiddle with your hair – ding! – you’re here. Plush grey carpet underfoot, soft enough to sleep on. Stalk down the hallway like a cat to room 703.
It’s always a rush, meeting a client for the first time. Even though we’d exchanged numerous emails and texts – well, you never can tell, can you? He could be hideous; he could be drop-dead beautiful. Or he could be a deranged serial killer.
This could be the time I meet my maker.
Three short knocks. My cheeks and cock throb with the pounding of my heart.
The door opens.
His hair is short and silver, bald at the crown and dark grey at the base of the skull and beneath his large ears; glass green eyes, pale skin. Late fifties or early sixties – he obviously looks after himself. Expensive pale grey suit, scarlet tie, silver tiepin. The tie should look ridiculous, but somehow he makes it look classy. His teeth are perfect, obviously fake – no one has teeth that white in real life.
No it’s the pope. Smile. “Yes. John?”
“Yes. Please, come in.”
The room is expansive, expensive. The 32-inch tv is playing a quiz show, volume low.
“Can I get you a drink?”
Never accept a drink, unless you get it yourself and you know it’s not been tampered with. You never know what someone could have put in it.
“No, not for me, thanks.”
Fawn coloured curtains are open just enough to see floor-to-ceiling windows, wooden slatted balcony beyond and metal and glass railing. The bed is queen, white, soft. Sleep here, it says. Not much bloody chance of that.
“Please, have a seat.” John motions to the small circular table and two chairs set up near the window. The talkers normally book for more than an hour.
Quick smile, “do you mind if I use the bathroom first?”
Always check the bathroom, have a feel for the place –be aware of your surroundings at all times!
The bathroom is as luxurious as the rest of the place. Grey tiles, square sink, dark wood paneling and shelves. I flush the chain and splash cold water on my cheeks in vain effort to cool them down. Come back out.
“Yes.” Another brilliant smile. Someone once told me that my smile was my best asset, that it was ‘disarming’ and that I could probably charm my way into – and out of – any situation with my smile alone. Of course he was trying to get at my cock, so he probably would have said anything.
I take off my grey jumper, smiling at myself and at the memory. I match the bathroom. “I’m just going to call my buddy, let them know I’m here okay.”
John nods. “Of course.”
“Hi, it’s only me, just got here and everything’s fine… yup… yeah. Okay. Speak to you in a bit.” Another smile. “Sorry about that.”
“No, absolutely. I’m glad to see you’re taking your safety so seriously.” Odd thing to say. “Shall we?” He motions to the table and chairs; again, odd. They normally go straight for the bed.
“Sure.” I move around him and around the bed and take the seat next to the wall, rather than the one next to the window. In this profession it pays to be paranoid.
“Shall we get the formalities out the way?”
“Oh, of course.” He reaches into his breast pocket and produces a thick white envelope. Too thick.
“Uh, I think you may have…” Open the envelope. Thick wad of pink-red notes look back. “I think you’ve overpaid me.” Blood pounds hard, thrilling across my scalp and making the money jump in time with the throb of my veins. On the one hand, ohmygodlookhowmuchmoneythereisinthisenvelope, on the other, he probably wants something weird, unpleasant and quite possibly dangerous.
“I’m sorry, I can’t-”
“No no, that’s yours.” John holds up a hand, warding off the return of the money. “And I can assure you, I don’t want anything kinky, and you won’t be harmed. At least not tonight, not by me.”
“Okay… so what’s this for?”
The silver-haired man produces an A4 manila envelope from a black briefcase at his feet, from which he withdraws a large glossy photograph. “You know this man,” he says, tapping the aged face of the man in the photo with one blunt finger. It’s a statement. My scalp prickles again and my mind starts running in a blind panic, so fast I barely know what I’m thinking.
“I’m sorry, I’m not-”
“Don’t worry, that wasn’t a question.” He draws another photo, this one taken from afar. There’s me, naked, on all fours, with the man from the previous photo fucking me from behind. The photographer had caught me looking up almost directly at the camera.
My blood, my whole body, feels like that moment you stick your hand in the bath and for a second it’s freezing and then the pain receptors kick in and it’s actually melting your arm off.
“What do you want?”
“I mean you no harm, Matthew.”
“What did you call me?”
“Your name. Your real name, Mr Robinson.” The man with silver hair leans back and steeples his fingers over his stomach. “He’s a regular client of yours, yes?” Without waiting for an answer he continues. “I want you to kill him.”
John hands me a bottle of water, unopened. The seal cracks and I gulp. Continue reading