Ragelina: I’ve seen enough for a first date. Was für ein Arschloch.
Hot Shot: He, for sure, needs an attitude adjustment.
When voicing my concerns at the table, Ray states that he is not big on public display of affection. As the rest of the evening drags on, I hear him salute the waitresses with “Babe” or “Honey” on several occasions.
Romy: Look out. We’ve got a player here.
Avengelia: You know what you do with men like that, don’t ya?
Pretender Babe: Use them before they use you?
Hot Shot: Precisely. Or simply dump ‘em.
So, as I get ready to call it off with Raymond today, Scaredy Cat alerts me to the fact that he is not always a jerk, that most times, he is actually pretty nice, even funny.
Scaredy Cat: You need an ally in this ginormous country.
Fantasia: If anything, let’s first see what he’s got to offer in the sack.
Judgment night arrives. Raymond rents a motel room. We do it, but I sense Lustania yawning.
Scaredy Cat: He can be worked with, I’m sure.
At any rate, I keep going out with Ray. Soon though, more aggravation comes my way as he repeatedly badgers me with black power issues, slamming me with names of people in the movement, folks I, for the most part, have never heard of in my life. Plus, he lectures me about his favorite topic of all: God.
Hot Shot: Ooohh…not another one of those. But don’t worry, I am sure in time I can convince him that he’s wrong about it all; that there is no such thing as a God, that religion is for uncool, boring people who have no life.
Scaredy Cat: Yeah, just gotta try a little harder.
“Why are you with a white girl if you feel so strongly about all this?” I ask him today after lunch when the issue of racial conflict resurfaces.
“You are European, babes, that’s different,” he exclaims.
Doubt Cloud: He’s probably screwing someone else behind your back, considering the hard time he gives you. The other shoe might drop at any minute.
Avengelia: I hear ya’. I’d be damned to let anyone ever catch me off-guard again.
Evening comes and I set out for the nearest nightclub in Santa Monica. Once on the floor, Lustania inspires me to ogle a promising looking colored hottie who answers my alluring gaze. We dance for a couple of hours before we take our worked up physiques to his house. Once parked, I step out of his black shiny sport mobile, watching the fellow pull out a dust rag from his trunk. He walks over to the passenger car door and starts wiping it down.
“Your car is already clean,” I blurt out.
“Gotta get the fingerprints off my baby, ya’ know.”
“Uh-huh. Oookay.”
Hot Shot: That dude’s straight trippin’.
Once he finishes, we enter the duplex and get busy right away. The sex does not leave me reminiscing. I meet with the fellow twice more this week, then start looking for validation elsewhere.
Meanwhile, Raymond’s attitude shows no improvement. How ironic though, that at those times that I come close to kicking him to the curb, he conveniently turns into “Mister Nice Guy.”
Another week goes by, this time my mind is truly made up. If he calls, I will hand him the final dismissal papers.
The family I work for leaves for the weekend this morning. With excitement, I look forward to having a couple days to myself. Tonight I hit the sack around nine o’clock in order to be fit for tomorrow’s plans for multiple activities. A sudden dull tapping sound that appears to be coming from the bedroom window has me sit up straight in bed. My heart races as my eyes slowly adjust to the room’s darkness.
Scaredy Cat: It’s a burglar. Hilfe.
After careful investigation, I detect Raymond’s smirking face behind the curtain, signaling me to let him in.
Hot Shot: Shit. Now what?
Scaredy Cat: How chivalrous. I certainly don’t mind a warm body next to me to hold me and tell me that everything is going to be all right.
Romy: I like my man to be taller and sweeter for sure, but oh well. Let’s hold on to him while I remain on the look out for the right match.
I invite Ray to enter. Steamrolled by his renewed charm, I am moved to keep him around for the night. I do just that and even keep him hanging with me for most of the weekend.
Crocodile Rock
With the return flight to Germany and my visa about to expire, the choices lay cut and dry in front of me. I can stay and face immediate illegal status, or fly back and return with a renewed visa, which entails starting over at ground zero with neither job nor shelter. Discussing this with Raymond, he offers to scout out an apartment where we both can live at the time of my return. I gratefully accept the generous proposal and take off for the homeland by the end of the week.
~~~
Getting back to Los Angeles this evening after a month of moratorium, Ray helps me to settle into the cute one-bedroom flat near Venice Beach that he rented. A sense of relief comes over me as I hear him declare that he is going to hold down the fort while I get situated. In the hopes of having him extend the contract of serving as the main breadwinner, I turn into somewhat of a domestic genie, although most of my attempts at keeping his mood pleasant remain unsuccessful.
“You are only with me to get a green card, eh?” he asks as we sit at the breakfast table.
Ragelina: That’s such an insult. I wished he’d stop saying that.
“I wonder why the many other foreigners I meet are capable of becoming functioning parts of society, but you can’t,” he voices.
Blushetta: Can he not sense, I already reproach myself with that exact same question 24/7?
As the weeks pass, Ray’s rigorous “I’ll ignore you” campaign drives me to seek solace in the short-lived happy moments of binging on sugary, gooey, chewy, sticky, rich types of foods. The unremitting “eating for calmness” rituals balloon my weight to one hundred forty three pounds within weeks.
“You used to be fine,” says Ray after sex tonight, admitting that he had felt moved to stare at my modeling pictures on the nightstand to maintain an erection while he pounded me.
Avengelia: His ass is going to pay for that.
The coming weeks, Scaredy Cat incites me to try my best at keeping Ray calm and cheery. A few times I await him in lingerie, but he either shoves me aside or comes in so late that I’m no longer awake. If not working, he spends many of his free hours at the gym or his mother’s house whose home cooking he prefers to mine and happily admits to.
He shows up as promised this evening, but tires me with a lengthy speech about his goddess-like soul sisters, praising their abilities in bed, pointing out that they sing to their men during humping, complaining that I do not deliver in that area. From their curvy butts to their braided hair, and soulful voices, he gloats on and on. It appears as if the once inviting rock that came across safe enough to catch my breath on, now turns out to be nothing more than the scaly back of a crocodile that lies in waiting to tear me to pieces. I see huge storm clouds cover the horizon and hear thunder roll…
A few weeks go by. I am keeping supper warm, expecting Ray at any moment, like he assured me hours ago on the phone. Eleven thirty strikes and there still is no sight of him. Mighty frustrated, adding to the ample times that he pulled this type of thing on me in the past, I walk over to the corner supermarket and return with a super size bottle of Amaretto liquor. I empty it within the hour. Feeling super woozy and mighty mellowed out, I drop onto the living room floor and stare at the ceiling. Seconds later, I go unconscious.
It’s 9:00 a.m., the morning after, and my eyes stick together like glue, my head weighs a thousand pounds, and I just do not understand why I wake up with my face on top of the bathroom rug, hugging the smelly toilet bowl. I think I am still drunk because my breath tastes like it could light a torch. It is already bright outside and it dawns upon me that it must be at least morning.
Scaredy Cat: Where is Raymond?
Slowly, I pull myself up
on the armature and cautiously peep around the corner into the bedroom. The bed’s untouched.
Ragelina: How dare he not show up at all?
Nausea strikes as the taste of schnapps pops into my head again. Ihhhgitt. I promise to never touch that stuff again for as long as I live. Ray turns up in the evening, although dialogue remains at a bare minimum.
A week zooms by. Tonight, Ray and I dine at one of the eclectic restaurants on the “Third Street Promenade” in Santa Monica. A few gorgeous guys wink at me while his attention is focused the other way.
Romy: I’d give anything to be single right now and hang with that good-looking fellow over there. Feels like they can literally see it in my face how deeply unhappy I am.
Hot Shot: Yeah, I can hear ‘em now saying, “She can do sooo much better” and “Why doesn’t she lose that fool?”
Romy: I think a little flirting certainly would lift my spirits.
Scaredy Cat: Be careful. This is not the time and place to act stupid.
Hot Shot: Oh, shut up. I need what I need.
Overcome by the powerful craving to engage, I let my eyes do the talking, especially during the moments that Ray is not looking. When he finally excuses himself and marches off to the restroom, I pass out generous smiles at every nice-looking man who comes in on my frequency. One of the cuties from earlier walks by and slips his number into my hand, raising his eyebrows up and down in consecutive motion, like some guys do in lieu of saying they like what they see. He quickly dives back into the thick crowd, missing Ray by only seconds.
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?
Dealing Flesh Page 12
