by J. M. Hall
If I ever got married and had kids, they would be raised right here.
“This is nice,” Vanessa said. “Beautiful, actually.”
“Sometimes I forget that I’m even in New York. And it’s a hell of a lot closer than Central Park.”
A brother-sister duo, no older than four or five, ran past us in their winter coats. Their squeals and cries dripped with joy, a subtle reminder that children were capable of being adorable under certain conditions. A smile spread across my face, at which point I felt Vanessa staring at me intently. I all but waited for her to make a joke about my biological clock ticking away, but she didn’t utter a word.
The memory of our own impending parenthood hung in the air between us, until I finally brought it to the forefront.
“We weren’t ready, Vanessa. I understand that. And I understand why you had the abortion. Even if it hurt that you didn’t tell me you were pregnant.”
She slid closer beside me, and before I knew it I’d wrapped my arm around her shoulders. It was mid-December in Manhattan, the air crisp but not quite frosty. Flakes from last night’s snowfall rose into the air and fell like powdered sugar to the ground. A few kissed my cheeks, all but melting on contact.
“Eric’s never asked you for children, has he?”
Vanessa shook her head. “No, that’s a hard line I won’t cross. I may be stuck in this marriage, with nothing of my own, but I’m not bringing a child into a loveless home.”
“So, what then? You’ll just stay with him for good? Bringing in male escorts to have sex with you along the way?”
“You know, for someone who has sex for a living, you’re awfully judgmental.” She slid out of my grasp, putting a good six inches between us. “Look, I’m sorry my gay husband made a pass at you in the shower, okay?”
And then we both burst out laughing.
I leaned forward, kissed her forehead. Pulled her close whether she liked it or not. Her situation was far from perfect, and being stuck in a loveless marriage out of financial necessity was a particularly demoralizing fate. But the fact remained, after nearly ten years, Vanessa and I were together again.
I didn’t take that lightly. She was the one who’d stolen my heart in high school and then shattered it into a million pieces when she’d told me it was time for us to go our separate ways.
“Can I ask you something?” she asked. “If you’re comfortable sharing it?”
“Sure.”
“Whatever happened between you and Bobby?”
My eyes fell to the ground. I shook my head, felt my hands ball into fists in my lap. Bobby was the last person I wanted to think about at the moment -- but part of me felt that Vanessa had a right to know what she’d stumbled onto so many years ago. But how could I summarize such a complicated experience in my life?
“Do you think we can save that for next time?” I asked.
“Next time? So you want to see me again?”
“I’m not a religious person by any means, but I feel that things happen for a reason. There was a reason you decided to book an appointment with me, wasn’t there? I mean, of all the escorts you could have chosen…”
“Honestly? I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“You were checking up on me?”
“When you go online and see the first boy you ever loved is having sex for a living, it’s a little disconcerting. But you seem to have a handle on things.”
Indeed I did have a handle on things. So much that I had another appointment scheduled for later that night. Bianca, a longtime client of mine, would be waiting for me at the Parker Meridien on Fifty-Sixth Street, not far from Central Park South. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Bianca. In fact, she was one of my favorite clients to be with, particularly after her husband passed away and essentially left her a free woman.
At the same time, I didn’t want to part ways with Vanessa just yet.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked. “There’s something going on behind those green eyes of yours.”
“I have to work tonight.”
“And by work, you mean…?”
“I’m seeing a client. Her name is Bianca; she’s from New Orleans. She’s here in New York alone -- her husband died last year.”
“New Orleans? She’s come a long way for a quick booty call.”
“Not sure how I feel about you calling my work a ‘booty call,’ but I suppose I’ll let it slide. At the very least, I’m a classy booty call. Remember that.”
A comfortable silence grew between us. I kissed Vanessa’s cheek, buried my nose in her hair. I didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to ruin what was the closest thing we’d had to a perfect moment in a decade. So much had changed since high school -- and not all of it for the better. But in this moment, we both had our happily ever after.
Vanessa was the first to pull away. “I need to go.”
“Me too.”
We stood up, a sharp wind blowing off the Hudson. I moved in, took her face into my hands. I kissed her cheeks, her lips. Her hands circled my back before snaking up my shoulders and settling around my neck. When I broke off the kiss, I brushed a thumb across her lips and told her that this wasn’t the end.
“I’ve never believed in coincidences,” I said. “And there has to be a bigger reason that we’re back in each other’s lives again.”
“Things are only going to get more complicated, Jesse. Do you really want that?”
“I can deal with complicated. And I’d rather have you in my complicated, fucked-up life than to never see you again at all.”
“Flatterer.”
“Like you’ve always said, men never change.”
Chapter 6
Columbus Circle was one of the biggest clusterfucks in all of New York City.
Essentially a roundabout intersection of Eighth Avenue, Broadway, Fifty-Ninth Street and Central Park West, it was a hectic scene of pedestrians, motorists, tourists and horse-drawn carriages. Locals did their best to avoid the area, or at the very least, make their way through as quickly as possible.
Why did Bianca want to meet here?
The sun had just begun to set over the horizon. Soon enough, twilight would throw its navy blanket across the sky, and that is when the city truly came alive.
I continued forward along Fifty-Ninth Street, weaving between slow-walking pedestrians and darting through the crosswalks. My phone vibrated in my pocket; I took it out and saw that Bianca had texted to tell me she was waiting at the Merchants Gate entrance to Central Park. I slipped my phone back in my pocket, then hustled over to Fifty-Ninth Street and Eighth Avenue.
It took me a moment, but soon I spotted her. She wore a white trench coat and matching black slacks, her brown skin glowing from the southern sun. Her black hair billowed like a curtain in the breeze, and when she spotted me walking towards her, her smile was more brilliant than any star atop a Christmas tree.
“Hope I haven’t kept you waiting long,” I said, wrapping her in a hug. “It’s cold out here! Are you sure your Creole blood can handle it?”
She kissed my cheek and said, “Whenever I’m in New York, I just don’t seem to care.” Her drawl was delectable, a mix of Louisiana charm with a dash of urban grit. “I actually went ahead and planned something for us.”
“Did you?” I looked around, not quite sure what she’d had in mind. “I figured we would go to the Christmas Village and buy tacky knick-knacks like we always do.”
“Oh, there’s time for that. But I wanted to do something different this year, too.” She reached into her coat pocket and took out a slip of paper. Though she’d been to New York many times over the years, Bianca always found a way to play the part of the wide-eyed tourist. And there was nothing more touristy than a carriage ride through Central Park.
“You’re going to make some poor horse drag us through the cold?” I teased. “Honestly, I never knew you were so cruel.”
“I’ve wanted to do this since I was a twelve-year-old girl grow
ing up in a shotgun shack near the French Quarter. We’re going on the damn carriage ride!”
I knew better than to argue with a woman and expect to win.
By the time we met our “driver” it was well past sunset. Bianca and I climbed into the carriage and wrapped ourselves in a thick wool blanket. Snowflakes sprinkled from the night sky, dampening my hair and twirling in the lights of the streetlamps. Before I could even suggest snapping a photo of us together, the horse took off galloping, his speed punctuated by the occasional neigh! that only added charm to the experience.
Bianca rested her head on my shoulder, squeezed my thigh with her right hand. “There’s something on your mind. I can tell. You’re not all here.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”
“What is it, Matthew? You can tell me.”
The fact that Bianca had called me “Matthew” only underscored that all of my client relationships were predicated on lies. How many years had Bianca and I been seeing each other, professionally speaking? Two years? Three? And now, as a horse pulled us through Central Park on a beautiful winter night, she didn’t even know my real name.
“Jesse,” I said. “My real name is Jesse.”
She lifted her head up her shoulder, clearly surprised at this reveal. I felt a weight lift off my shoulders, as if I’d finally confessed to some long-ago crime.
“Your real name is Jesse?” She took a moment, processed this newfound information. “I like it. It suits you.”
“Does it?”
“Much more so than Matthew,” she added. “Now, are you actually from Philadelphia? Or is that a lie too?”
“I prefer the term ‘modified truth.’”
“I’m sure you do.”
I told Bianca what I could: That I came from a working-class neighborhood in Philadelphia, the only child of two hardworking parents that had no idea I sold my body for cash on a regular basis. As far as they knew, I had a high-paying day job at a PR firm, one that afforded me the kind of cosmopolitan style neither of them could have ever dreamed of.
“They can never find out that I’m an escort,” I said. “Ever.”
“Do you really feel that they’d disown you?”
“No, of course not. It’s just…” I trailed off, imagined how ashamed my parents would be if they knew about Bobby, or how many times I’d heard my father use the word faggot growing up.
“Jesse?”
“It would open a Pandora’s Box that I prefer to keep closed.”
Bianca didn’t press it further. In fact, she changed the subject entirely. She spoke of her life back in New Orleans, about how the city was finally itself again -- more or less -- after the destruction of Hurricane Katrina. The French Quarter, Garden District, even the Central Business District had recovered, but it was the Lower Ninth Ward that was still in a state of disrepair.
“I do what I can,” she said. “I donate money, try to work alongside city officials to ensure that the area continues to get the funding it needs. Like anything else, the wealthy recovered just fine. Hell, there wasn’t even much damage to the main parts of the city.”
“It’s always the poor who take it on the chin.”
“Exactly. Even more so in a city like New Orleans. All this talk of a gap between the rich and the poor? It’s been like that in New Orleans for years.”
“Not much better here in New York. Look at me. I have to whore myself just to pay the rent!”
I was rewarded with Bianca’s laugh, which always brought a smile to my face. We’d become so engrossed in our conversation that we didn’t even notice that the carriage ride through Central Park had come to an end.
We hopped out of the carriage, found ourselves back at the entrance to Central Park. I suggested going over to the Christmas Village, where we could sip hot chocolate and buy ugly Christmas sweaters for our own amusement.
“Let’s head back to the hotel,” Bianca suggested. “My ‘Creole blood’ is getting a little cold. And if there’s anyone I want to spend tonight with, it’s you.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. Now hail us a cab, and let’s head home.”
* * *
Bianca stepped into the bedroom wearing nothing but her white coat. Her bare legs peeked through the fabric. She moved towards me, but I held up my hand and told her to stop right where she was.
“Take off the coat,” I said. “Slowly.”
She unfastened the buttons, then opened the coat for me to see her beautiful naked body. She ran her hands over her breasts, then turned around to show me her bare ass. I got up from my chair, told her to stay right in that position.
“Don’t move,” I said, whispering into her ear. “I want you right here…”
I slipped the coat off her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. I slid my left hand around her waist, while my right gripped her ass. I kneaded the flesh, gave it a few light slaps before telling her there would be more severe punishment on the way. Making me run around Columbus Circle like a goddamn tourist?
“You had it coming, Bianca.”
“You’re all talk, no action so far…”
I grabbed her hair and gave it a quick tug. “You’ll be sorry you said that.”
We moved over to the bed where Bianca got on all fours, her ass held high in air, a perfect angle for me to do my work. I reached into the black bag on the nightstand and took out a leather riding crop. It was one of her own, purchased from a store in Chelsea if I remembered correctly. I made a few light taps against my palm, my grin growing wider by the minute.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
I brushed the tip along the flesh of her ass, then made the first strike. She gasped for air, trembled. I waited a moment, then struck her again and again, until I brought the cool tickle of leather against her pussy.
“Mmm,” she cooed, spreading her legs wider. “Don’t stop.”
Bianca liked what I was doing, though it’d been a few sessions before she formally requested that we bring S&M into the bedroom. Since then, we’d done everything from a riding crop on her bare ass to candlewax on my stomach.
“Why should I continue?” I asked. “If I really want to be cruel, maybe I’ll just stop right now.”
She groaned in protest. I dropped the riding crop, stripped off my underwear, and told her to roll over onto her back. I took out the silk restraints, tied her wrists to the headboard. I crawled into bed, straddled her. My erection slid between her breasts and it wasn’t long before I started to thrust back and forth. Part of me wanted to finish things right there, to come on her face and chest before I knelt between her legs and ate her out until she came.
“Think I’ll save this for next time,” I said, then slipped my cock out from between her breasts. “Now, what else can we do tonight?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Bianca said. “Can you…?”
“What? Tell me.”
“I want to watch you jerk off.”
I was surprised but not too taken aback. I stepped out of bed, far enough so that she had a good view. I ran my left hand across my chest, then dragged my right over my abdomen before wrapping it around my cock. I stroked once, twice, three times before throwing my head back and shutting my eyes.
“Do you know what I think about when I masturbate?” I said. “I think about my favorite clients. Their lips. Their breasts. How quickly they get wet and what their pussy tastes like.”
“What do we taste like?”
“Sweet, if I’m lucky. Warm. Wet. But it’s the moans that turn me on. Or the way they’ll run their fingers through my hair, and squeeze the sides of my face with their thighs.”
“Keep going…”
“But when I’m licking them, sometimes I get so hard. It’s like my cock is aching -- and soon I start to drip.”
“But can you hold on?”
I swallowed a moan. “I can try…”
I picked up the pace, started str
oking myself even faster. When I opened my eyes, I saw Bianca writhing against the sheets, trying in vain to break free. Her wrists thrashed against the headboard and before long, I had to stop the show and let her free. She threw herself at me, her arms wrapped around my neck while her mouth plunged onto my own.
We fell into bed together. I reached for the nightstand, fumbled a condom out of the box of Trojans we’d left out. I tore open the packet, then flipped onto my back and let her put it on for me.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
I nodded. “Just do it carefully.”
She took my cock into her hand, steadied it so that I was no longer bobbing around. She rolled the condom onto the length of my shaft, topping it off with a cruel squeeze that nearly sent me over the edge right then and there.
“So, how are we going to do this?” I asked.
She rolled over and gave me my answer.
I reached for the lube, slicked it onto my fingers and rubbed them together until they warmed. I slipped one digit inside of her, worked it back and forth, mindful to give her enough time to open up. A second finger followed, then a third. Finally, I pressed the tip of my cock into her ass, and gently made my way inside.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
“Keep going…”
It was the first time she’d called me by my real name -- and I don’t think I’d ever been more aroused in my entire life. I gave one small thrust, wary not to go too fast. Before long we’d worked ourselves into a rhythm: moving deeper inside while she relaxed herself inch by inch, until I was finally home free.
I leaned down, kissed a trail up her back before burying my face in her hair.
Whenever I’m with you,” I whispered to her, “I never want to fuck another woman again.”
“Then shut the hell up and fuck me now!”
She didn’t need me to hold back any longer. I straightened my back, gripped her hips, and fucked her with everything I had. I grunted with each thrust, my hands smacking her ass and reaching up her ribs to squeeze her breasts. I closed my eyes, realized that I could feel myself teetering on the edge.
