by J. M. Hall
“Don’t stop,” Bianca pleaded. “Almost there.”
“You’re so fucking tight. Come for me, babe.”
Bianca slipped a finger inside her pussy and tickled the shaft of my cock -- a trick that always made me come. With one final thrust, I shut my eyes and cried out her name, collapsing atop of her.
“You know that always sets me off,” I said, panting.
“It works for me, too.”
I slid out of her, then quickly darted into the bathroom. After I’d taken off the condom, washed my hands and splashed some cold water on my face, I went back into the bedroom and crawled into bed beside her. We lay there in silence, the sounds of the city a white noise between us. There was something soothing about it, the way traffic and car horns and the dull roar of the heater combined into a singular soundtrack.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“What is it?”
“If you hadn’t seen someone in ten years -- and then suddenly, you were reunited again -- would you think it was just a coincidence? Or would it mean something more?”
“Depends on the person, I guess. If it was someone I really cared about, I wouldn’t think it was a coincidence.”
“You’d want to settle whatever happened in the past, right?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Thanks for listening.”
“Do you want to talk about this more?”
“Not right now,” I said. “Can we just go to sleep?”
“All right. After tonight, I’d say you’ve earned it.”
Chapter 7
Nothing said luxury like a rooftop swimming pool.
Perched on the forty-second floor, the pool at the Parker Meridien Hotel boasted floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, along with an onsite masseuse and food and bottle service. Available only to hotel guests, it was one of the more exclusive places to go for a swim in New York City.
I’d slept like a log after Bianca and I had sex. So hard, that I hadn’t even heard Bianca get out of bed and head to the pool herself. I awoke to a note scrawled on the hotel stationary, instructing me to come join her. Resting atop the sofa in the living room was a shopping bag from Bloomingdale’s, where I found a Ralph Lauren bathing suit in my size.
She’s certainly seen enough of my body, I’d thought. I guess she would know my size -- in more ways than one.
I scanned the room, found Bianca sprawled across a lounge chair with a glass of orange juice in her hand. Her brown skin was offset by a jaw-dropping white bikini, one that was skimpy enough to make men drool and women scowl. I kicked off my shoes, peeled off my shirt, and sat down on the chair beside her.
“Figured you’d wake up sooner or later,” she said. “Drink?”
“I’m good. Hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”
“Long enough for these botoxed bitches give me dirty looks. Though now it looks like they’re green with envy over you.”
“Come again?”
“You’re better looking than their husbands, Jesse. They’re envious. They want to have sex with you instead of the baldies and fatties they married.”
“I see…”
“Don’t tell me you don’t notice these things the moment you walk into a room,” she said, her tone somewhere between teasing and chiding. “That face? That hair?”
“I didn’t realize I was ‘attractive’ -- whatever the hell that means -- until I was around sixteen or so.”
“Really? What happened then?”
Bobby happened, I thought.
“Jesse?” Bianca said.
“Nothing.”
“If you say so.” She arched her back, let out a long sigh. Had we been on the beach, I’d have offered to take off her bikini top and lather a layer of sunscreen on her back. Suddenly, I didn’t want to be in New York at all. Gorgeous as the rooftop swimming pool was, it was no match for the springtime excursion Bianca took last year.
If New York was the city that never sleeps, Miami was the closest thing America had to the French Riviera.
“You’re thinking about Miami, aren’t you?” she said.
I smiled. “Stop doing that.”
“What?”
“Reading my mind. It’s eerie. Sometimes you know what I’m thinking before I do.” I paused, thought of our pillow talk last night. “And look, about last night…”
“The part when you were inside me, or…?”
“After,” I said. “I didn’t mean to sound so cryptic in bed. My personal problems aren’t your problems, after all.”
Bianca sat up, ran her fingers through my hair. I couldn’t help but shut my eyes, surrender to her touch. Her palm cupped my face, and for a brief moment it was like we were back in South Beach, with the sand between my toes and the waves crashing onto the evening shore.
“You’re awfully young to have such a heavy conscience.” She tapped my temple with her index finger. “What the hell are keeping up there?”
“If I start confessing now, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
“I highly doubt anything you say can shock me. Consider it a side effect of growing up in New Orleans, the most debauched city in the nation.”
“And that’s not even counting Mardi Gras.”
“It seems college girls will never pass up an opportunity to flash their breasts to a bunch of drunken strangers.”
“I’m not one to complain. And for the record, if we were back in Miami, I’d have taken your top off by now.”
“Is that a fact?”
“And if the beach was empty, your panties would have followed.”
“I do recall seeing a story in The New York Post about how it’s legal for women to go topless in Central Park. Not sure if full-frontal nudity is permitted, though.”
“Though as the saying goes, the ones who get naked are never the ones you want to actually see naked.”
“True story.”
“How much longer are you in the city?” I asked. “I have work tomorrow, but we could try and meet up for a drink?”
“I’d like that, but under one condition: I want to know everything that’s going on with you, Jesse. Beginning to end. Lay it all out on the table.”
I literally bit my tongue to keep from speaking. One of the dumbest things an escort could do is become emotionally attached to a client, let alone reveal their deepest secrets in the middle of a crowded rooftop pool. And yet… that was just what I did. Beginning from my upbringing in Philadelphia, to my “seduction” at New Hope Academy, all the way up to being introduced to the world of escorting in college.
I talked about the shame I carried from letting Bobby do what he did to me. I revealed my deep seated fear of being discovered, of having my life in sex work splashed across the tabloids and losing everything: my friends, my job, even my family.
“For most people, escorting is just a stopgap,” I explained. “But for me, it’s almost become a second career. What does that say about me?”
“You’re ashamed?”
“I don’t even know anymore.”
“There’s something else,” she added. “Something you’re not telling me. What is it? Something about this Bobby guy? Who, for the record, sexually assaulted you.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I said. “I mean, he shouldn’t have done what he did -- but I didn’t exactly put up a fight either. But…”
“Go on. Out with it.”
I dragged my face across my palms and took a deep breath. While I’d revealed what Bobby had done to a group of close friends over the years, no one knew the souvenirs Bobby had kept for himself after we’d finally parted ways. No doubt, he still had them in his possession. I was sure of it.
“It wasn’t just sex between Bobby and I. He took pictures. Video. Of the two of us… together.”
“Oh, God.” Bianca closed her eyes and shuddered. It was just the reaction I’d been afraid of: anger, disgust, then nothing but a sea of pity.
Poor little pretty boy, she mus
t have thought. How could he have done this to you?
I didn’t need pity. I just needed someone who would listen.
“Please, don’t do that,” I said. “It happened a long time ago. I’m dealing with it. I’ve been dealing with it for years now.”
“And would you say you’ve resolved all of your inner demons?”
I shrugged. “No one’s perfect.”
Bianca leaned in, kissed my forehead. It wasn’t a romantic gesture. Rather, her kiss felt as if she was apologizing somehow. But for what? My past? Any perceived injustice I’d experienced as a teenager?
“Thanks,” I said. “So, what are you getting up to?”
“I have some friends I’d like to visit here in the city. And you?”
“Work tomorrow,” I said, sounding utterly defeated. “But it’s good. It’ll give me some time to think about something other than my adolescence.”
“We should get together before I leave,” Bianca added. “Assuming you don’t have any other plans, of course. Do you go away for the holidays?”
“I’ll see my folks Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Other than that, I typically stay in the city.”
“I’ll be back in New Orleans on the twenty-second,” Bianca said. “But I do love my time here in New York. And seeing you.”
“The feeling’s mutual.” I held her face in my hand, kissed her forehead, cheeks, lips. “But for right now? Let’s just sit back and enjoy the peace.”
Moments after I made that suggestion, a family of six -- two parents, four rowdy children -- entered the pool and shattered any semblance of tranquility. Bianca and I turned to each other and laughed.
“Just think, Jesse. That poor, exhausted father could have been you if things had turned out differently.”
True, the father did look exhausted. But oddly enough, he also looked happy.
Chapter 8
Whoever said drinking alone was a sign of depression had obviously never been to a wine bar.
TriBeCa had no shortage of watering holes, but Terroir had always been one of my favorites. The low lighting and exposed brick walls gave the space a modern, almost industrial feel. Patrons sat atop the wooden barstools and long black tables¸ sipping wine and losing themselves in conversation.
Others, like me, were lost in a sea of work.
The waiter brought me a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and left me in peace. I reached into my messenger bag, took out my iPad and accompanying keyboard. Within minutes, I was summarizing the weekend’s events: beginning with my reunion with Vanessa and ending with the rooftop kiss with Bianca. It was my own version of therapy, really. There weren’t that many people I could confide in.
To date, I had seventy-thousand words compiled into an ongoing diary.
It would have been a perfect way to end a rather eventful weekend, assuming my mother hadn’t decided to call me in the middle of a bar.
“Hi, mom,” I said, sounding like a complete tool. “How are you?”
“It’s noisy! Where are you?”
“I’m at a wine bar.”
“A what?”
“A wine bar,” I said, ducking my head. “You know, where they serve glasses of wine instead of mugs of beer.”
Knowing that my mother had a tendency to talk on the phone as if she were shouting across a football field, I asked the bartender to watch my things, then stepped outside onto the street.
“Is everything OK?” I asked. “How’s dad?”
“Don’t ask me. Haven’t seen him in close to a year.”
My parents had been divorced for close to seven years now, though each time one of them referenced the split, it still rubbed me raw. For years they’d been quarreling, bickering, parting ways only to reunite a few months later. They’d kept up appearances for my sake while I was still living at home, but once I’d graduated high school, moved to New York City for college, things quickly began to deteriorate.
“I’ll give him a call soon,” I said. “Wouldn’t kill you do to the same.”
She ignored my suggestion and said, “Have you seen the news?”
“Same old, same old. Broken government in Washington, retail sales are lagging, people blowing each other up in the Middle East.”
“I meant the local news, here in Philadelphia. Don’t you watch that for work?”
“No clients in Philly, mom.”
“It’s the Academy,” she said. “Your old high school. A teacher got caught having sex with a student! Can you believe it?”
I was certain I’d misheard her. “What?”
“A teacher at New Hope Academy got caught having sex with a student,” she said. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear about it yet.”
My right hand began to tremble, and I nearly dropped my phone on the street. I steadied myself against the front door, took a deep breath. Calmly, I asked my mother to tell me what she’d heard so far: when the news first broke, how old the student was, and whether or not the media had named the teacher.
“Hold on,” she said. “Let me bring it up on the computer…”
“Hurry,” I pleaded. “It’s important.”
“The student is a boy. Imagine that. Seems to be the trend these days. What is it with these perverts and teenage boys?”
Bile threatened to bubble up from my stomach and shoot out my throat. I felt hot, nauseous, shaky on my own two feet. Bobby’s face flashed across my mind’s eye, as did every sex act him and I performed together. Was he really dumb enough to screw around with another kid?
“Did they name the teacher?” I asked. “Do you see anything?”
“Oh yes, here she is.”
“Wait -- what did you say? She?”
“That’s right. The teacher is a woman. Thank goodness the principal is there to handle it. Such a nice man.”
A wave of relief fell over me like a summer rain. “Thank God. And yes, Principal Kramer was a very good principal.”
“Oh, he’s not there anymore, honey. Says right here he retired back in 2008. There’s a new headmaster now.” She paused, said she was scrolling down to catch his name. “Yes, right here. Principal Allen.”
“Allen…?”
“That’s what I just said! Principal Robert ‘Bobby’ Allen.”
* * *
I’d rushed back home after taking my mother’s call. Within seconds, I’d logged onto Philadelphia magazine’s website and pored over the articles detailing the scandal at New Hope Academy. I read The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal and countless online outlets every day, and none of them had picked up the story. For now, it was a regional scandal.
However, it could blow up on the national stage at anytime.
The teacher in question, Simone Martin, was accused of carrying on a sexual relationship with an unnamed student that was sixteen when the sex started, though was now thought to be closer to eighteen.
Simone had managed to keep the relationship under wraps -- until someone had tipped the magazine about the so-called “affair.” The rumor spread, until the teacher in question was finally put on administrative leave pending an internal investigation.
Standard-issue procedures for such an incident. Terminate her without sufficient evidence, and she could have filed a lawsuit for wrongful termination, a lawsuit she stood a good chance at winning. More than anything, the alleged “affair” sullied New Hope Academy’s pristine reputation. Things like that just didn’t happen there.
Of course, I knew better.
I took a sip of beer, clicked a link to open another article. My bedroom was dark, save for the white light of the computer screen and the city lights outside my window. The case didn’t interest me so much as the fact that Bobby was now the principal of New Hope Academy.
“How the hell did this happen?” I whispered to myself. “Why him?”
A quick stop by the Academy’s website confirmed my mother’s report. Robert “Bobby” Allen had been promoted to principal after serving as vice principal, assistant vice principal, an
d head of the English department.
A ten-year education veteran, Principal Allen began his career at New Hope Academy as a teacher in the English department. Despite considerable offers in higher education and the private sector, he remained at the Academy, assuming an administrative role in 2010.
I rolled my eyes, wondering which PR firm he’d hired to write such a complimentary bio. Such an honorable man he was for staying in education when he could have gone onto the private sector!
Yet the worst part -- the part that genuinely made me sick -- was that Bobby was going to condemn Simone for her actions, when he did the same exact thing to me. No doubt, he had a legal team determining how to minimize the Academy’s liability, a PR firm ready to spin the story and maintain the integrity of the school’s reputation.
I did a bit more digging, found a photograph of Simone. Much to my surprise, she was a certified knockout. Whatever happened to the days when teachers were all middle-aged men and women with lives and spouses of their own? Had the recession caused that many people to use academia as a safe haven when Corporate America brought down the hammer?
Though she’d taken her Facebook page down, there were still plenty of other photos of Simone online. One in particular caught my eye: she sat alone in a slinky black dress, a glass of red wine in her hand while her long brown hair swayed in the breeze. Large black sunglasses covered her face, which made her full red lips all the more striking.
If she’d been anything like Bobby, Simone had probably showered this young man with attention before making her first move. Before long, the poor kid was probably infatuated with her -- and when she’d finally lured him into having sex? He’d be her willing slave.
It was a scenario I knew all too well.
* * *
“Come here,” Bobby had said. “Come on, that’s it…”
I’d leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder. His fingers circled the nape of my neck before he’d dragged his nails through my scalp. It felt good -- good enough for me to let out a moan and melt into him. That time, I was the one who took his face into my hands, kissed his lips, his forehead, then threw back my head to let him kiss a trail across my throat.
