“Come on, admit it, it’s something you’ve always wanted to try.”
Rick was doing his I’m-right-and-you-must-be-crazy thing. He did it a lot when it came to talk of sex and women, because like all single men he thought he was an expert. Markie still hadn’t gotten his head around that notion. To him it sounded more rational to have actually experienced a few relationships before you went around calling yourself an authority on the subject. Hearsay and studying the matter from afar hardly accounted for being an expert.
But that was Rick. The guy also thought Serena’s best friend Tabitha was a babe so what did he really expect?
“No, I honestly haven’t ever had the desire to give it a go. I don’t believe a man should have to pay for sex.”
“Ooooh,” Rick replied, waving his hands towards the sky. “Aren’t you Mister High and Almighty? I should have kicked you off your pedestal a long time ago.”
Yep, it amazed Markie every day how a person with such low emotional maturity could function well in society, as a top creative director no less. You could take the boy out of high school but not the high school out of the boy. Good thing Rick didn’t display this childish temper tantrum side to clients and staff alike.
Bad manners aside, as a team he and Rick admittedly worked great together. Markie had all the organization know-how and get-up-and-go while Rick was blessed (or cursed, he believed) with an over-worked imagination and artistic genius. Together with Rick’s guts and Markie’s burning ambition, they had picked up quite a few lucrative clients and built their little advertising agency The Guerrilla Zoo to a respectable level in less than three years. It took other agency’s at least ten to get to the same spot.
“It’s too late; the girl has been arranged. The boys and I all pitched in forty bucks.”
“But I don’t want to go to a hooker; I don’t need to go to a hooker.”
“Listen the girl isn’t a hooker, she’s an escort. Big, big difference, so grant her some respect.”
Oh yeah, very big difference. Next thing you know they’d be sending him to ‘respectable’ swinger parties.
“Sounds more like same shit, different smell to me, Rick.”
“Very funny, but you won’t be laughing tonight at eight o’clock.”
“Why, what’s happening at eight?” Other than the football match that is - he did mean the game, didn’t he?
“Boy tonight all your dreams are finally gonna come true. Put on your spiffiest shirt and aftershave because rumor has it Biffy loves to please.”
“Biffy!” Rick couldn’t have come up with a more bimboesque name if he handpicked one out of a porn flick. “Don’t tell me you’ve given her my bloody address!”
“Course I did. How else is she gonna find you and tear off your clothes. On second thoughts maybe it’s better if you open the door completely nude. You only have an hour with her so why waste any time?”
Rick put his pointer finger to his chin, as if considering more timesaving strategies.
“You’re really serious?” Markie asked again. He still wasn’t sure whether the escort thing was totally legit. It could easily just be Rick’s way of testing him. You know, of seeing whether his manhood was still in place and jumped to attention at the idea.
“Markie, you think I’d lift your spirits like that?”
“Yes, definitely; you get off on that crap.”
“Then I suppose tonight is going to be a pleasant surprise. Don’t worry about getting me a Thank You card though; a case of beer will do just fine.”
Christ he really was serious. Rick was intent on getting him screwed by a harlot. And Markie wasn’t sure how he felt about that. While other men might consider visiting a brothel an appropriate stop-off after work or a night on the town Markie had never taken that route. No he was lucky in that respect. He’d even managed to avoid the compulsory rite-of-passage of losing it with a prostitute as a birthday treat during high school. Blessed are those who are born on Christmas day and manage to keep their virginity out of harm’s way and their even hornier friends.
This was not to say Markie wasn’t curious, he was. He understood where men were coming from when they forked over the hundred or so dollars. They were in effect paying for the privilege of a quick orgasm with no strings attached: I’ll tell you what to do and how to do it and when we’re done, you are welcome – no, required - to leave and never pop up in my life again. Normal chicks did not put up with that crap, and if they did you had to worry about whether your thing was going to drop off the next day. The only thing that stopped Markie all those years was the thought of his future wife. If she, whoever she was, were to ever sit him down and ask:
“So Markie darling, have you been with a prostitute?”
Markie hadn’t known whether he would’ve been able to look her in the eyes if the answer was yes. Even if push came to shove, lying was never an option, unlike other guys who kept their secret paid liaisons just that – secret.
Except with Serena now it was different. He wouldn’t need to lie to her. Markie could sleep with this unknown thing tonight and really it wouldn’t change a thing.
So why not do it, a voice whispered. You’re on a break. Why not? came the question again.
You could always tape the football…
One would think that in the lead up to his encounter with Biffy, Markie would be like most full-blooded males, popping bon-bons or something. Common sense would have you believe it but guess again. It wasn’t even seven thirty and Markie was already pacing the living room, working up a sweat.
“Why, why, why did I let Rick talk me into doing this?” he scolded himself.
Why, when he could be lying back on the couch, with some hot super supreme pizza and beer, about to watch the game instead. Trust me, it was a tempting alternative. Markie would happily forgo a night with the sauciest chick, to watch the all-important game.
“But it’s not even the finals,” Rick had said, as if that made it a lesser event. “And you’re gonna record it anyway, plus I’ll tape it too as backup, just in case you’re worried about your stupid machine going on the blink again.”
“Can I have your word on that?” Markie had asked. Because bloody oath he was worried! For a while now, he’d felt quite anxious depending on technology, on account of the fact he and technology weren’t really on speaking terms anymore.
“Look, don’t be a party pooper, Markie, just go and enjoy it,” Rick had winked, giving him a friendly nudge in the shoulder (or was it a jealous thud?) “Just remember to get our money’s worth.”
Damn maybe he should’ve asked exactly what value for money entailed. Would sixty minutes of straight head do the trick? Probably, if not Markie was more than happy to run through a few other scenarios… He let his mind go drifting down some very attractive unexplored paths, while the clock continued to tick away. Eleven minutes, ten minutes, nine minutes to go. Before Markie knew it his body was pumped and it was time for one last reflection check. He rushed to the gold encrusted hall mirror, where the light was most flattering and worked his way through the three-point test: hair –check, all tamed and glossy; teeth – check, brushed and flossed; skin – freshly shaved and cologne applied.
There, that was it, pretty impressive. For the first time Markie realized how little time one actually needed to get ready. What was the deal with spending hours primping oneself up? Not that Serena was the fussy type, but from the way other men spoke you’d think women spent more time in the bathroom than out. That went totally against Markie’s philosophy of less is always more.
In the case of Biffy, Markie was fairly certain she’d be trained in that art: less clothing, less foreplay and the like. Mmm, he decided he could handle that. In the space of fifteen seconds, Markie gained some much-needed courage but where did it all disappear to at eight o’clock when the doorbell rang? It suddenly hit Markie that damn he was really going to have to go through with this. Too late to back out now; he couldn’t switch off the lights, hide under
the bed and pretend he wasn’t home. Biffy knew he was there; she’d surely heard his humming, his galloping across the floorboards, and if he could see Biffy’s silhouette then she could surely see his.
In the split second before he opened the door, Markie felt like a contestant on a dating show. He could hear the smarmy host booming down the microphone right now. “And the contestant you have chosen is Biffy Lasbiyan, ex Playmate, cover February 2010. Biffy is currently working as a freelance nude body double, while taking a break from her pretty impressive acting career. Nineteen-year-old Biffy has already clocked up a starring role in fifteen movies, among which Let’s Lay Outside and Big Breasts Are Beautiful count as her biggest hits.”
The doorbell rang again as Markie was contemplating another escape.
“Hello,” a wispy voice called from outside. ”Is anybody there?”
Yes, yes, say yes, Markie’s hormones were screaming. So he did and opened the door to his fate.
“So how did it go?”
The call came from Rick at about half past nine, two minutes after Markie stepped out of the shower.
“You couldn’t wait until I even dried myself off, could you?”
“No way,” Rick replied, lacking the slightest touch of guilt, “the boys and I are dying to know. Did she know how to rock or what?”
“Yeah she rocked,” Markie said, putting their minds at ease.
“Meaning…?” Ricky’s voice tapered off into the inquisition.
“Meaning what?” Markie repeated.
“Come on man, I didn’t call you to get a summary, I called to get a thorough report. So start at the beginning and make sure you don’t leave out a scratch.”
A scratch, it was funny Rick used that term considering Biffy’s long perfectly French manicured nails were the first thing he noticed about her. They caught his attention immediately when she proffered her hand for an introductory shake. Delicate yet ultra feminine, Markie had often encouraged Serena to go and get her nails done in a similar way. But she’d never wanted to, writing the exercise off as too much hoopla with little staying power.
“I guess that’s what you get for being complex, Serena,” Markie had thought, happily taking Miss Biffy by the hand. If you don’t want to accommodate then chances are someone else will be more than happy to.
“I’m Biffy,” the brunette wrapped in a fur shawl had said, as she passed through threshold, “in case you hadn’t quite worked that out.” She had looked at Markie and beamed him with that laser strength smile. This, just between you and me, nearly knocked Markie out.
“Yes, I was expecting you,” Markie had replied, getting his head around the fact Biffy was a brunette and not a blonde. In his imagination, he had pictured her to be peroxide Penthouse type, sexy despite the depressing stereotype. But the Biffy before him was anything but. She looked rather like a young Catherine Zeta Jones, all sleek and sophisticated with cutting cheekbones and luscious bee-stung lips. Oh Lord it was at that moment Markie knew he could go through with it.
“Where shall we do our business?” Biffy had asked, dropping her coat to the floor.
Her body was naked underneath. Lithe yet voluptuous, the girl was obviously an advocate of waxing.
“Um, how about right here?” Markie had replied, his manhood getting the better of him.
Right there on the cold slate tiles would be quite soothing to his overheated body. On second thoughts maybe Biffy wouldn’t consider tiles to be exactly the most comfortable of surfaces. He had to think about Biffy’s feelings here too.
“How about we take it through to bedroom instead?” she had countered, voicing his exact thoughts. “Is it over…?” Biffy had nodded to the door on the right, leading to the guest bedroom.
“Yes it is in fact.”
With each passing second, Markie had become more and more enthralled with Biffy’s tact and intelligence. You see he’d been planning to take her to the master room. Of course now that didn’t seem very fair given it was Serena’s bed.
So that was how the two strangers ended up together, intimate as newlyweds. Markie had thought as the master in this master/servant relationship, he’d have a little more say in the goings-on but it turned out Biffy knew exactly what was expected. He didn’t even need to utter a word. She just got on her knees, buried her head in his lap and once he was sufficiently (violently) aroused, she guided Markie back against the mattress and straddled his hips like a horse. After a good ride, incorporating some rather intense pelvic muscle tightening exercises, Biffy then rolled over to her stomach and begged him to take her from behind.
Before he knew it Markie had blown his load and Biffy winked back at him in response. Yet seeing her bent over like that unfortunately got Markie all excited again. Without as much as a “please can I?” he thrust his swollen pain inside her again, for one long last time. The goodbye bang; lucky for him he was exploding just as Biffy called “Time’s up.”
Chapter 5
“When you said we’d be going out this weekend, I thought you meant out, out. Not on a bloody spying mission!”
“Shh,” Serena hissed, “not so loud, someone might hear you.”
“What? Here, in the middle of whoop-whoop? I severely doubt that.”
“You never know; sound travels much faster and further during the night.” Especially after midnight if the Wes Craven films were anything to be believed. She and Tabitha, like all good amateur spies, were slouched deep into their seats, swathed by matching red itchy blankets. That had been one of Tabitha’s pedantic requests: warmth, in addition to the colored popcorn, a thermos of hot chocolate doused in brandy and full control of radio dial.
“So, how much longer?” Tabitha’s voice was not so much weary as annoyed.
“Just a bit,” Serena cringed, clinging to the hope.
After all he could be coming home any minute now. Who was to say he wasn’t maneuvering his car into the street and then down the long pebbled driveway in the next coming second, or the next? Unfortunately no one could knew and worse still, she and Tabitha had clocked up too much time to leave now. How could they? Serena’s biggest fear was that he’d enter the picture just as they were exiting it. And wouldn’t that make for a wonderful waste of a Saturday night.
“Another fifteen minutes,” Tabitha said in her authoritative voice. “Then we’re out”, she added silently.
“Don’t think we need to wait that long,” Serena smiled, forcing Tabitha’s shoulder southward.
“Ow!”
“Stop being a baby and get down. He’s here.”
With her head barely level to the dashboard, Serena watched the sleek black Mustang glide across the dewy bitumen. Moonlight hit the chrome and ricocheted off the windows, sending sparkle splintering in all directions. As prayed the car veered off to the left and descended down toward the Spanish-type villa.
“Oh my gosh, it’s really happening,” Serena heaved, her chin pressed against her chest.
“Ah ha, the opening of door-number three,” Tab observed, “wow, three men pulled out of a hat in seven hours; this must be some new slow-poke world record.”
“Maybe, but it’s worth the wait,” Serena sighed, ignoring the sarcasm. “Can’t wait to see what lies behind this door…”
“Well here he comes.”
The girls focused their eyes squarely on the driver’s side of the car as the figure did the usual things. Switch off ignition, turn off headlights, unleash seatbelt then fish out keys... Any minute now he, her ex-lover, would be extracting himself out from the seat and ejecting himself into the real world. A world that, once again if only for a moment, they would share.
“When’s the last time you saw him?” Tabitha asked, also on edge of her seat.
She’d never met this one, despite being Serena’s best buddy since kindergarten, and as such this contender had her as intrigued as her friend. This one-off lover, Brent, had taken place during their Cold War period, a rift set off mainly due to Serena’s inability to read T
abitha’s mind. The girls had of course resorted to bedding men until the mind-numbing lack of a proper two-way conversation had sent them running back into each other’s arms.
Brent had been one of her better choices.
Tall, athletic-looking and single, he was the one who’d hesitated at Serena’s advances. He called her “too hot for him”; though Serena secretly knew she wasn’t too hot but rather that he thought of her as a slut. Most people wouldn’t take being called “full-on” as a compliment and neither did she.
If he was still good-looking, Serena would tell him she’d changed.
She watched Brent emerge from the car; the long silhouette of man who’d touched every inch of her body when he was a boy. It was funny; up until then, Serena hadn’t been able to picture his face. Her memory was a blur of separate features – straight nose, grey eyes, wide smile and shiny white teeth, which she couldn’t put together no matter how hard she tried. But now, after seeing him in the flesh even if from fifty meters away, everything fell into place with a clunk. How could she have forgotten?
“Well, well, well Serena, I think we’ve hit jackpot this time!” Tabitha whistled.
“Maybe.” Serena replied, biting her lip. Because same car, same house, did not necessarily mean same boy.
“How about we just tick him off and leave the plan of attack until tomorrow?” Tabitha garbled, reaching down for the last of the popcorn, which lay at her feet.
“Sure…” Serena strung out, unable to take his eyes off Brent, who was walking back from the now opened garage door to the car’s passenger side.
“Uh oh…”
“What?” Tabitha jumped. She looked back to Mustang, clutching the purple, yellow and pink popcorn pieces near her mouth. “Oh crap.”
For there he was, Mister Congeniality, Mister God-Damn-Gentlemen, opening the other damn door. A second later a willowy blond princess ejected herself into the damp cold, and Brent gave her shoulders a quick rub. The princess stood there shivering as the Mustang rolled a few meters forward into its haven and then she followed it in once the red brake lights were extinguished.
The Numbers Game Page 4
