Call Girl

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Disclaimer: There are people who are offended by sex, sexual acts and explicit words. This piece might not be for you.

Purity opened the door to find her client sprawled on the king-size bed reading a book. A five foot eight, plump man with dark skin and an ash-gray stubble for facial hair. He lowered his glasses to the bridge of his nose as she closed the door behind her and put his book away.

“If its books I wanted to read I could have gone to the library.”

“Look how you charge, your blood is too hot. Come and sit next to me.”

“How do you want me today, prof? I hope you’re not planning to blabber on and on about how I should get a proper job or how I should settle down with a proper man. You know I come from the Coast, my blood is ever hot, you can say it’s from the heat and the spices there. My blood has always been hot, maybe my father was an Arab. I have never known my father, not even in pictures. I was the last born and I used to fight my brothers and they knew not to mess with me, what makes you think I will find solace in an office or some man’s house cooking and cleaning?”

“Did you fight everyone, your parents too?”

“No, I rarely saw my mother and as for my dad? I have never known my father, not even in pictures. Everything for me has been about survival from a very tender age.”

The professor got into glib about the limbic cortex while she removed her high heels. He called it the lizard brain. “It’s the oldest part of our brain,” he said while Purity peeled off her dress, under it she had a woman’s body, curvaceous with buxom hips. “It’s responsible for primitive instincts like fight, flight, feeding, fear and fornication. It’s the part of our brain that makes sure we survive and it’s the part of the brain that comes most natural to us.” He told her she had to learn to use the higher parts of her brain, otherwise she would always be a slave to her primitive needs.

“Does the higher part of my brain pay my rent?” She said with a sonorous tone and a wide dark nipple peeked out as she started peeling off her bra.

“No, no, keep that on.”

“The panties too?”

“Those too?”

A gaunt waitress in black pants and a white blouse walked in carrying a tray of pork ribs soaked in soy sauce and honey, giving them a sticky, glossy coat. French fries served on a bed of melted butter. Boiled eggs dubbed with garlic. A bowl of strawberries swimming in thick cream. Slices of pineapples, sugar-sweet and cinnamon coated and a flagon of fresh juice. She placed the tray on a serving table next to the bed then took the hot towels after they were done wiping their hands, made a small bow and left. Purity took an egg and bit it in half. Her other clients rarely got her a packet of chewing gum leave alone such delicacies. A lot of them wanted to get on with the act and quickly and she was often the one ordering a bottle of wine and even then some niggardly client claimed the bill would be charged to her tab but all of that didn’t matter once her special sauce was fizzling in their drink.

“You ordered room service?”

The Professor took a rib of pork and gave it a bite. “Aren’t you hungry?”

She cleared the other half of the egg and picked three sticks of French fries. “I did not come here for food.”

With a soft plop the professor threw a clean bone on the tray and sucked oil from his fingers. “In my experience, girls are always hungry.”

She licked butter from her lips. “Girl? My maidenhood was besmirched a long time ago. I can’t start telling you the number of abortions I have had.”

“Well, there is a girl in every woman just like there is a boy in every man.”

“And what’s with the pineapples, prof, do you want my cunt to taste sweet for you?” She took a bite from one of the pineapple slices and sucked on the juice. “I will have you know that it is ever sweet, careful you don’t suffer a toothache.”

She looked at him with bedroom eyes—big, brown, randy eyes, plucked a strawberry from the bowl, climbed on top of the bed and teased it around his mouth, leaving a trail of cream on his lips then moved in for a kiss but the professor refused her.

“Why do you call me if all you want to do is to talk? I grow tired of talking and my cunt grows hot and wet for fucking.”

The professor licked his lips to remove the cream and wiped the rest with the back of his hand. He looked at her, she had a sweetness about her, an almost angelic air that gave off a saintly vibe. If it wasn’t for her mouth flapping you wouldn’t have said those words were coming from her person.

“Let me be the man that gives it a break.”

“You mean the man who fucks my ears with words instead of my cunt with a cock?”

“I thought you were among the classier, more subtle paramours.”

When she began in what she liked to call an art form she had just been a common whore but she had learnt quickly. She had stopped wearing heavy mascara, sticky lipstick and grain, tiny skirts that made her look like an outright wench, instead she had settled for light makeup and dresses that made her look like some delegates wife and that had allowed her to increase her fee. She started reading magazines and looking at how politician’s wives donned and learned words like, ‘Maidenhood’ and phrases like, ‘May I?’ and ‘If you please.’ and she was out of the streets in a matter of months and soon her clientele was the one calling her and she was the one deciding if she would respond to their calls but the streets had never really gotten out of her judging by how she emptied the pockets of her clients after sessions.

“Paramour? Haven’t you heard the saying, ‘Men want a lady in the streets and a sinner in the sheets’ but it seems you want to make a priest of me, a priest who spends all night listening to confessions, boring confessions at that. Can I at least finger myself while you continue with your blab?”

She flicked a wave of jet-black hair from one side of her face to the back of her shoulders. Naturally, her hair was a ringlet mane of faded black but she dyed it to give herself a more exotic flavor. She found that men were patty in her hands when they thought she was foreign. Some days she was interracial, other days she was Moroccan and yet others she hailed from the islands of Trinidad and Tobago. ‘What fools men were.’ She would think while stuffing her already full purse with crisp notes.

“Tell me, Purity, if you met the right man would you turn your life around?”

There was a time when she thought meeting the right man would change her life but then she stopped being deluded after the first few men kept her in apartments and walked around with the air of slave masters. A couple of them were alright until their families caught wind of what she did for a living and she immediately became an outcast. The families would have none of it, they made up their mind that she was a bad person and wrong for their sons without getting to know the first thing about her. ‘The second thing,’ she thought with a grin.

Men, she had discovered wanted to be her knight in shining armor but after they had ‘rescued her’ they didn’t have the first clue of what to do with her. She realized that most men had never had good sex, they had never known a woman with a mastery in erotic arts and when she gave them what they had bought most of them wanted to marry her or put her in a loft somewhere. She had to learn that it was not about the organ pumping blood in her chest but because of the one soaking wet in between her legs.

“The problem with you is that you think I am your girlfriend. You think I will change for you because maybe it’s an ego trip but just like you love being a professor, the status that comes with it I also happen to love my job.”

“Only you can’t say the name of your job out loud?”

“I can but prostitute, whore or harlot brings such a bad taste to the tongue. You said it right, I’m a paramour. Men like you need a listening ear and an open mind, if not open legs. In places like Japan, it’s an art form, they call us Geishas. Without us the world would be full of chaos and God knows we’ve had enough of that.”

She moved to the edge of the bed, picked a rib from the tray and chewed on it. Her full lips glistening in the dim light, making them look ripe for kissing. The dim light of the hotel washed over her purple lingerie making her light brown skin explode in a riot of color like expensive silk.

“You ordered sweet and sour ribs just like I like them, hmm. Anyway, like I was saying, I like my job. I like the ecstasy I get when a man is having me. In my arms, men see freedom and that allows them to be themselves. I like that I get my money in my hand. Good money for that matter. Nobody gets to tax it or tell me to contribute to a Sacco. I can decide to take a break or travel when I want, something I would never be able to do sitting behind a desk waking away at a keyboard wondering if my man is cheating on me and putting an ear on the ground to know what is the latest on office gossip and who I need to step on for a come up. If you think about it, corporate is the worst kind of prostitution.”

“Is your job as dandy as you say it is? There was a day you had a busted lip, red and swollen like a plum and eyes raw with tears.”

“Ah, that was just a bad day in the office. Everyone has those.”

She remembered with a smile how she had mistook glucose for her special sauce. She poured it into her client’s drink and as she was emptying the contents in his trousers he jolted awake and that’s how she ended up with a busted lip. She thought how timely it was because the next day she was meeting up with the professor and he didn’t seem to want what was between her legs like most men did or how her face looked and if he did he had a good way of hiding it. All he seemed interested in was a listening ear and she was starting to think that mayhap, her ears were good for something else besides earrings. Perchance, they were more valuable than the box between her legs.

“A bad day in the office? Eh, I think you come here to get away from it all.”

“I come because you pay me. I don’t come here for your questions or sodden lectures about lizards and their brains. I come for money and the sooner you come to terms with that the better.”

She did enjoy the old man. The man who thought he would turn her around but it was better this way he could use that energy to love his kids and wife instead.

“Tell me prof, you’re a warm-blooded man like any other out there who thinks with his cock half the time yet here you are with a bed-warmer you never use.”

“Bed-warmer, I thought you’re a Geisha?”

“Tell me, do you have a wooden cock under those trousers or are you some kind of eunuch?”

She brushed her hand up his thigh with an eager hand and her lips putted into a soft moan, “Take me, make me scream, prof. I’m yours.” The professor pushed her hand away, picked his book and pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.

“Your money is on the dresser. You can leave at your leisure.”

“I’m I the problem, you can tell me, prof. A paramour is like any other profession, it’s a learning curve.” She said with a chuckle.

“Make sure to finish the food and one more thing, don’t put any more powders in my drink, if it’s more money you want, ask for it.”

After she was done, dressed and on the road—blocks away from the hotel she wondered what kind of a man the professor was. She wondered what he liked. Was it Sadomasochism? Did he seek out pain and humiliation? Was he into role-plays? She had heard stories of clients, grown men who liked to be dressed up as tiny babes and flogged or suckled. She hoped he didn’t have some crazy fetish. If he was some psycho she had a taser in her handbag that was always charged. She found her thoughts going to his eyes and nose. His eyes were a shade of brown just like hers and his nose was symmetrical, a tiny bump away from resembling hers. I have never known my father, not even in pictures. Could he, the thought came to her like lightening in a cloudless night. A chill went down her spine and she shuddered. She found herself covering her breasts with her arms even though she was on the road and fully dressed.

 

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