by Thea K. Scott
(11/29/06)
Chloe sits alone at the bar, contemplative, nursing a ginger ale. She's beautiful, but obviously well
on into her forties. Nudging fifty. A couple of twenty-something young men at the opposite end of the bar wait for Destiny, the younger prostitute. They pay Chloe no mind, ignore her completely. She could be their mother, or one of their teachers. To them she seems ancient, a dinosaur. Someone they couldn't possibly imagine having sex with. And she accepts it, a fact of life, a situation she can't change. Sometimes, though, her acceptance is tinged with sadness. Tinged with the sense of being beyond full use and value, and it's moments like this when the feeling's acute.
The boys (they really are boys, half her age -- tops) don't spare her a glance. They'd dismissed her in
line-up, eyes skipping over her as the seven women introduced themselves. Chloe knew it. Knew she wasn't seen,
wasn't considered. To them she's inappropriate in the mix of women. If anything, they'd wonder how such an "old" woman could still sell physical pleasure.
But she can. She does. She's skilled and sensitive, takes pleasure in each act. Acutely aware of her and her
partner's bodies. Aware of the reactions that signal joy and satisfaction. Aware of the small sounds that escape,
uncontrolled and unwilled, pure barometers of pleasure. Those who have her once rarely go elsewhere.
They return again and again, with their carefully hoarded tens and twenties, to spend on the exquisite treat
of her company and her soft body. A body that's worn, that can't compare to the twenty- and thirty-somethings
she stands next to. Or to the cut and tucked, surgically altered bodies of the just-at-fortys, who've been in
the business for all of their own eternities.
Chloe's not the package the men usually look for, or at. She's frequently glossed over in favor of younger girls. So she works the men hard, at the bar, with conversation, and listening skills to rival a psychiatrist. She reflects their feelings, causing them to confide in her things they'd never let their friends know. They tell her of their marriages, their girlfriends or, occasionally, their mothers. Gradually, in her presence they change — from wary, stony, armor-plated adversaries, into little boys, their faces soft and eager. And they take her to bed after that, after the defenses have fallen away. They feel safe. And that safety brings them again and again, along with their cash.
Still, if she were younger, she'd make three, maybe four times the money. It's disheartening, and frustrating. And it's trapping her.
So tonight she sits alone, waiting for the next possibility.
Destiny is available now. She ushers her last customer out the door and approaches the twenty-somethings, who wait. Their eyes widen and they salivate. Her body's perfect: waist slim, ass curved, breasts augmented. She knows the power that goes with the body and she stands there, slightly aloof, waiting, in tiny panties and a brief drape of sensuous cloth that plunges below her cleavage, passing for a top. All she needs to do is smile and extend a hand. The first one takes it and goes to her room to hear her prices, to negotiate. But negotiation's not in Destiny's vocabulary, as he quickly discovers. Five minutes and he returns, forlorn. Destiny waits a few feet away. The second one will talk to her, too, she knows. But she wants him to hurry up, not waste her time. Patience is not her virtue.
"Three hundred for twenty minutes. Fuck." The first one complains to his friend.
"Aahh, you just ain't smooth enough. Watch this." He takes a long swig of his Bud, slips off the bar stool, and, tottering from the alcohol, takes Destiny's arm.
"Let's talk." She leads him up the staircase, swaying in front of him. He never sees the stairs he climbs; his eyes are glued to her ass.
He's back as quickly as his friend, and just as dejected.
"Told ya," his buddy says.
"Piss on it," is his response. "Back in a sec." He heads for the men's room, to unload the last two bottles of beer.
The first one stares in the mirror across the bar, notices Chloe, still at the other end.
"What's your name?" he asks her, finally turning his head to look at her.
"I'm Chloe."
"Yeah. I'm Tom. You cost as much as that bitch?"
Chloe slips from her stool, moves to his side. "C'mon, let's go talk." She leads him up the same stairway and he's struck by the sensuousness of her movements, now following her ass almost as eagerly as he'd followed Destiny's. In Chloe's room he sits on the edge of her bed.
"She wanted three hundred bucks. For twenty minutes. Asked her why so much. Said 'cuz she's 21. That was just for a straight fuck, man." He shakes his head. "Can't afford that. She really get that kind of money?"
"Yeah. All the time."
"That's fucked up. Ain't right. How about you?"
Chloe can only dream about that kind of money. She started this too late in life, in a business that prizes the visual, the obvious youth. She shakes her head at Tom.
"What's your budget?" she asks him.
"One-fifty. Can you do that?" He's pulling out his wallet, and crumpled cash from his pocket, straightening and counting out the precious bills.
She takes his money, spreads a fresh sheet across her bed and begins removing his clothes.
When they're both naked Chloe bends over him, strokes his balls and caresses his stiffening penis. It rises and he sighs, licks his lips. She sinks to her knees before him, slips the condom on with her own lips, feels his erection as it grows, fills her mouth. His face registers surprise at the intense goodness of it, and his eyes close in pleasure. He lies back across the bed and begins to move slowly, steadily, silently, deeply into her throat.
At last, in spite of himself, a moan escapes from the deepest, innermost part of his being and he pulls her up, rolls her over and enters her, marveling at her softness and heat, at the muscles that grip him.
Half an hour later he's at the front door, smiling and content, and he hugs Chloe goodbye. It's a genuine hug, full of affection. He's happy. At the bar, his buddy raises his head, disbelief on his face when he sees who Tom is with.
"Where you been?"
Tom's arm is draped languorously around Chloe's shoulders.
"This is the lady you gotta see." He pulls open the door to leave, pauses, and turns toward her. "I'll be back."
As the door closes slowly behind the two young men, Tom's friend tries to razz him, taunting him about the age difference. But Tom silences him, shaking his head. He walks with a bounce.
Chloe returns to her seat at the bar. Destiny's made more tonight than Chloe will all week. Fatigue's setting in; it's nearly two a.m., nearly time for bed. She'll sink into that bed -- where she's had a hundred men -- exhausted, physically and mentally. Sleep will be immediate, as every night. The mornings are always too soon.
