After an hour Kathy suggested it was time to leave for dinner.
Phil allowed his guest to move first towards the hallway leading to the front door. She had a great ass - full and round and tight against the Wrangler jeans - not the nine hundred dollar jeans like Tanya’s. Phil watched her move to the door. How beautiful some women could be in the simple act of walking. Then, praying that Herb was right, he told her to move faster. “Got to eat,” he exclaimed, “we don’t have all day here.” As he predicted, Kathy slowed down to playfully spite him. So far so good. Measuring what he hoped would be just the right amount of force, Phil slapped. Not too hard, but hard enough. One careful step in force above a playful tap. No matter how careful, it was a hard slap on the butt. To a woman he had just met. Kathy whirled around in surprise.
“What the hell was that?” There was anger in her voice but something different in her eyes.
Phil calculated it was fine to stand his ground.
“It was Phil’s Grade-A-Premium-Love-Tap on that beautiful butt of yours and if you don’t get a-moving, there’s another one coming your way.” And with that he held up his hand, his palm waving, like a bird gliding over the air currents.
“No there isn’t, not on my body.”
“Get moving or yes there is.”
Phil counted to two and slapped her butt again.
“Umm” was the soft response.
The third slap pulled her body close to Phil and they went at it in the hallway before Phil picked up the woman and carried her upstairs to the bedroom.
Kathy returned on Wednesday and again in Thursday. The two never made the dinner at the wine bar, enjoying, as Herb foretold, rough sex in the bedroom, in the kitchen and in the shower.
After the third night both felt a break was necessary and Phil dutifully arrived at Herb’s shop on Friday and reported the full details. What he did, how she pleaded for more, what she did back to him. Phil spared nothing, knowing this was the agreement, and the price to be paid for access to Herb’s clients.
Herb responded by giving Phil the phone number of a Brit named Liz. A very pretty woman, short, about 5 foot 2, with an angular, bird-like face and great knock ‘em dead body. She was in the country illegally, having overstayed a work visa. According to Herb, nothing defined this woman better than being turned on by danger. Her first boyfriend here was a Maryland boater turned drug dealer, his arrest returning from Jamaica aboard his marijuana-filled yacht lead to immigration focusing hard on Liz, and she was in Herb’s shop twice a month to track her chances of being deported.
Liz’s next lover, explained Herb, was a married congressman from New England. “She gets off on danger, pure and simple. Anything else bores her.” Once the congressman agreed to help her immigration case, Liz lost interest, not just in the congressman, but in having sex in America. Just wasn’t fun if there wasn’t a hint of danger.
The new date arrived that Saturday and like Kathy, came into the house for a perfunctory drink. She was dressed in the shortest dress Phil had ever seen on a 32 year old woman. The bright yellow dress ended soon after it began, just below her crotch line. She had on three inch silver shoes, beautifully toned legs and not much else on except her Scottish accent. Big B and his girlfriend both nearly fell off the kitchen stools when the Scot glided in.
Phil again believed that with Herb’s instructions he knew exactly how to play out the evening. After a quick gin and tonic in the den it was time to head to dinner. But Phil suggested to first show Liz around the house. With a wink to the couple, Phil took her upstairs. It was quite a show: clearly visible as she mounted the steps were her panties. Eighteen wonderfully voyeuristic steps. At the top of the stairs they walked left into his bedroom, a small college-decorated room with a queen size bed, a poster of Bruce Springsteen and a small bathroom. Two of Phil’s suitcases taken from the warehouse lay on the floor, with clothes scattered about. Phil could tell Liz was on guard. It was not the classiest move to show a woman the bedroom 45 minutes after meeting. So when he lightly touched her waist and pulled her back towards the door, he could feel the relief. But, he had a hunch, a feeling, a belief, that there was a path to some quick action. If he was correct, then Herb had indeed put together a powerful, powerful recipe.
Instead of going down the stairs Phil innocently suggested a quick peek into his roommate’s bedroom. This room was far larger, filled with Pennsylvania Dutch hand-crafted furniture. A huge poster of a Harley with a bikini clad biker hung over the bed. On the far wall was a black POW flag for missing Vietnam soldiers.
“The man downstairs is one crazy dude,” Phil conspiratorially whispered as soon as they walked into the bedroom. “Carries a gun at all times.”
“Sounds sexy” was the woman's calm response. As the Scot took in the room one arm rested on her right hip. It was a massive turn-on, with her micro-dress and high heels, the Scottish accent and what’s more, Herb had said she had given up sex for the past three months. No danger, no fun, Herb had warned. Fine. Just fine.
Liz’s last night out was with a guy from the National Security Agency up in Maryland. That alone had intrigued Liz until she met the blind date and, it turned out, he was an Agency accountant. No danger, no sex.
Standing in the room Phil slowly played out the line with the hook.
First Phil needed to sprinkle some fear. “Sexy because he has a loaded pistol?” He finally answered back to Liz.
No answer.
“If the cop catches us in here, messing with his stuff, he could easily go crazy. And," Phil added in a low voice to drive home the point, “he’s been drinking since this afternoon. You saw the gun, right? Black, sitting on the kitchen counter, all loaded up?”
This got her attention.
Though part of Phil’s strategy, it was also true. Phil had no idea how Big B would react if they started messing with his bedroom. But, Phil optimistically concluded, no danger, no fun.
Phil pointed to the POW banner. “For some guys, there is nothing more sacred than this flag. You know, for the vets who were over in Viet Nam, it means more to them emotionally than the American flag. You never, never, mess with that banner.” As he finished explaining, Phil took Liz gently by the arm, and she dutifully let him lead her over to the flag.
“Touch it,” Phil unexpectedly commandeered. There was a moment’s hesitation, but Liz turned to face the wall while raising her right arm onto the black nylon flag. It was a pretty awesome sight, her lean body stretched up against the banner, with one arm embracing the POW banner.
But knew he needed more. “And the other arm,” Phil barked.
Liz hesitated longer this time, just enough for a flicker of fear to zap into Phil’s brain. Good god, if she refused, it would be a damn awkward moment, with the woman questioning what the hell was he trying to do? But just as fear threatened to envelope him, Liz did raise her left arm. Both arms were now stretched up onto the black POW banner, her lean body hugging against the bottom of the banner, her legs spread slightly to balance herself.
“If he comes into the room, we’re dead.”
Liz’s right leg began to tremble. Phil was himself afraid. This was crossing every line he lived by.
Let the woman show signs of acceptance.
Don’t do anything that could later be called date rape.
Don’t push.
But trusting Herb, he stood behind Liz, watching the leg trembling quicker and quicker, up and down, up and down.
Phil moved even closer and whispered “at best we have five minutes.”
Liz took a sharp intake. And with that Phil prayed all was fine as he jerked up the micro skirt. Phil wanted her. Right now. He could feel her fear and the anticipation. Her taunt back muscles quivered. Still there was a moment of hesitation. What if Herb was wrong? But the woman had not moved away from the wall, motionless like a lizard in the sun.
Five minutes he had warned. Probably true. So right there, in the Vietnam veteran’s bedroom, with him downstairs, and his prec
ious POW flag as the pillow, both bodies thrashed silently against the wall, their heavy breathing the loudest sounds, and Jesus, almost ripping the banner down from the wall.
Herb heard about the incident from both clients.
Liz confided a PG-13 version of the incident explaining, her face blushing, how she had never in her life allowed a man to do what Phil had done to her. Not that she minded, she hastened to comfort a worried Herb. Phil seemed to understand her. He had a sixth sense that could feel what mattered and what didn’t. Usually she had to explain what turned her on, which ruined the feeling. It was different with Phil. This was a guy who wasn’t Hollywood handsome like her silver-haired congressman or the millionaire sailor. Other than his huge head of hair there was nothing special looking about the guy. But being with Phil was a deeper turn-on for Liz. It was almost, she laughed to Herb, like Phil was reading her mind.
But Liz elected not to tell Herb that being pushed against the POW banner while the American police officer drank in the kitchen with his loaded pistol on the counter top, while Phil did as he wished with her, resulted in the strongest feelings of her life. Easily they could have been killed. This was, after all, America. Liz felt again the pleasure, just thinking about her daring leap to the New World, living in Washington illegally, being threatened by the strongest government in the world with eviction, and the Americans with their guns and loud motorcycles and violent ways.
Phil had given Liz an experience that would not soon be forgotten. Even better than the spring dalliance six years before when she had screwed a minor royal on the front lawn of Buckingham Palace as the silver Rolls carrying the Queen of England was turning through the gates, only sixty seconds from arriving at the house. Just as soon as she struggled off of her knees and into her dress, she was curtseying to her Royal Highness. That had been, until the encounter with Phil, the most intense pleasure she had ever experienced.
* * *
Herb listened to Phil’s full version of the evenings with Liz, becoming more excited than he had been in twenty years.
“You’re out of you mind,” was all the fortune teller could think to say.
“There’s more,” promised the exhausted Phil. “The ride back to my house that first night after dinner, we took her little Toyota, with the stick shift and she…” Herb stopped him. "Be still my weak heart,” he mockingly complained.
~ ~ ~
Chapter 17
The possession of a hard-to-obtain party invitation would usually leave Tanya Lyn tingling with anticipatory excitement. But not tonight. On this unusually warm Saturday evening for the 3rd of October the lobbyist stepped out from the taxi, adjusted her wrap, and strode purposefully up the granite steps of the Q Street Mansion, that delightfully wicked Victorian-era playground hidden behind a row of townhouses just steps from Dupont Circle. The Mansion sat unobtrusively among the small brownstones housing liberal trade associations with names like the “Center for Latin America Progressives,” or the “North America Center for Women’s Right for Choice."
It was hard to imagine that a hotel like the Mansion could thrive in Washington, but then again, perhaps the nation’s capital is the perfect city for a hidden retreat filled with dozens of rooms, secret doors, trap entrances, a wide selection of Jacuzzi's, and bedroom suites hidden away in a maze of small, dark rooms stuffed with antiques and miles of never-read books. Symbolical of Washington, because kept hidden from the hordes of visiting school kids and families of tourists, Tanya had come to accept, was a small town filled with folks hell-bent for mischievous times while the families were left at home.
There were two "Mansions." By day a favored location for corporate retreats, government brainstorming sessions and weddings. When night fell and the public was gone, an entirely different sort of clientele took over the Mansion. Whether for a romantic getaway between two very discreet diplomats from nations with strained relations, or for a great party bringing together the political elite, come darkness this was the place to be.
Tanya had eaten from the Mansion nectar. It had begun as a social date with Mark Bronson, an entertainment lawyer who worked on K Street pushing tax breaks for his mega pop stars. Innocuously, the mid-forties, very rich and divorced lawyer had suggested drinks after dinner at the Mansion, and with their Cosmopolitans in hand the two left the bar area and wandered through the rooms packed from top to bottom with antiques, becoming, so Tanya thought, completely lost. When they finally came to rest in a dusty book-filled room, the lawyer paused in front of a bookcase, pulled from his pocket a key and swept Tanya through the doorway before she could even protest. Inside were a suite of rooms, a private balcony and the delight of feeling like a child being brought to her secret world. That one-night stand was one of the most romantic experiences in her life.
Tanya should have been thrilled at a chance to revisit the Q Street Mansion. She had jumped out of a hearing on tax regulations for offshore drilling on Friday and managed to find a Donna Karen silver gray dress with a matching wide black belt. The strong cut of the dress highlighted her long neck and dark hair. Though kept dark not through chance any longer. Last week she had plucked two gray hairs. A few weeks before it had been the same. It was a horrid contemplation but soon yet another beauty chore associated with her mother would now be part of her own routine. But not even the weekday acquisition of a perfect dress had made her feel just right. The problem, pure and simple, was the men in her life. And the man who had left her life. Bastards all.
Inside was the magic she remembered. The soft sensual lighting. The initial rush of sizing up a crowded room filled with women dressed for a special event. Men forced to consider their attire for the evening. The feeling of being one of the special few. The excuse for the get together was the opening of a glossy magazine devoted to cigars. And that was the first cause of her disquiet. The European publisher had sent out hundreds of invitations in high-quality gold-colored embossed print. Tanya sighed just thinking about the boxes of her never to be used wedding invitations that still occupied the kitchen counter. That bastard, thought Tanya for the fifth time that day, the fortieth time that week, and the one hundred and ninety-sixth time since she had calmed down from that bastards' act of cowardice.
The invitations for tonight may well have been exquisitely designed but right on the invitation, listed as a co-host of the event, in small discreet letters, was one “Mr. Al Goldstein, publisher.” Tanya had been warned. The news having spread like wildfire though the network of congressional handlers that watched out for each other, that the Mr. Goldstein in question was none other than the pornographer Al Goldstein, who fancied himself a cigar lover.
The publisher had developed social connections into the cigar loving world. Entertainers, movie stars and the like would be attending tonight because of Goldstein. Tanya shuddered, not just at the thought of being in a room with such a human being, but the public relations nightmare if someone snapped a photo of Tucker and Goldstein. How could the congressman take a chance like that? Especially right now, during the all-out drive for impeaching the president. Imagine pictures of Republican politicians drinking and smoking with a porno publisher. But Tucker couldn’t turn down a good time at the Mansion. Bill Livingston could - and would - and that is why he was weeks away from being Speaker of the House. Not that he wasn’t a man who enjoyed himself. But there was a subtlety to Livingston that Tanya appreciated.
Tanya hesitated for a moment before handing her wrap over to the waiting girl. It was a Diane von Furstenberg and she wanted to keep it on for a few more moments. But there was also the urgent need to assure Tucker stayed out of trouble. Girls dressed in nothing more than nylon-stockings and top-coats with red bow-ties and high-heeled shoes roamed the rooms offering cigars. God knows what was going on in the back rooms.
* * *
“Hey, darling.” Wrapping her strong arms around Tanya was a resplendently dressed Gigi, dressed from head to toe like the high priestess of black magic that curiously, she was. The outfit
was a full-length black silk dress with a bold African-like orange pattern and a gold and silver cigarette holder.
Tanya had trouble lately mustering cries of enthusiasm, still suffering from the actions of that bastard. “Gigi, I’m glad you came,” she replied softly. “We do have to talk.” This was not the right moment, though. First there was the need to find Tucker, assure all was fine, get herself a stiff drink and then sit with Gigi. Oh well. It was not easy to track down the woman; even Tucker sometimes had trouble locating her whereabouts. Tanya looked around at the room rapidly filling with power brokers and Washington-wannabes. “Let’s find a quiet corner.”
“Sure, baby, what’s botherin' you?” Gigi asked. Tanya felt a strong arm around her waist and allowed herself to be lead through a small hallway to where the crowd thinned out. Not Gigi’s first time in the Mansion, for sure.
A quiet room was found, up three steps from the main hallway on the left; stuffed with red velvet chairs and a big dark brown velvet couch.
Unsure where to begin, Tanya just began talking.
“Did you find Phil?” Damn. She hadn’t meant that to be the first question from her lips.
Gigi smiled. “Sure did, hon. He’s got a place in Maryland…” Gigi spoke unhurriedly; aware now she knew more of the puzzle than did Tanya. That gave the priestess some comfort.
“With some woman?”
Gigi’s eyes flashed. “Actually, it's worse. He's sharing a house with a State Trooper. But he’s not spending the nights in front of the television, if that’s what you mean.” In truth, Gigi wasn't sure. All she had was the local fortune teller who knew Phil, and some sense that he was being protected by the cop. And hardly any sightings of Tanya’s ex-lover in the local bars. Not much. And not as much as she would have thought. A guy like Phil Greene should be out each night looking for some action.
Them Hustlers Page 12
