If You Like Piña Coladas…

"My mother was right – you're a goddamn whore!"

David's words cut Sandra to the quick. "Seven years of marriage," she thought, "and it's come down to this." Her auburn hair seemed more of a flaming red at the moment, a metaphor for her livid mood. She drew in an angry breath, abandoning her practice of counting to ten before saying something she'd later regret. "Well, you always were a mama's boy!" she spat vehemently, her voice rising a half-octave. "You stupid motherfucker!"

David stared at her, his eyes bulging and nostrils flaring. The veins in his neck swelled, seemingly pushing splotches of crimson upward to his cheeks. His balled-up fists spoke volumes about his inner fury. He prepared to launch a verbal barrage, but stopped before uttering a word. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

Sandra slumped to the floor, her head hunched over her knees, her arms covering her head. Her shoulders heaved with sobs. Tears spilled onto her shoes. Slowly, she curled into the fetal position as a low, guttural moan erupted from deep in her belly.

* * * * * *

Three months had passed since the big blow-up with his wife. David had left and had not returned – not even a phone call. He made sure to return for his clothes when Sandra was away, so that he would not have to face her.

David bunked at the apartment of his old buddy Matt for the first two and a half months after the shit storm. But even Matt grew tired of Dave's volatile and forlorn ways, finally asking him to leave a week and a half ago. Dave now lived at the local O'Malley's Inn, at least until he could figure out his next move.

First his mother was gone, then his marriage, then his best friend. Dave was beginning to worry about his job being next, despite the fact that he worked at one of his family's multitude of international businesses. He'd already been warned by his uncle about recent absenteeism and poor performance. He wondered whether maybe he should have listened to Sandra when she told him that he needed to seek professional help.

David still couldn't believe that he had stooped to calling Sandra a whore, much less leaving her with the impression that his recently deceased mother had thought that of her. Mom had passed away less than a year ago. Truth be told, Mom really liked Sandra, but early in his relationship with Sandra, his mother had been quite protective of her son. Mom had always wanted to be sure about the motives of David's love interests. The Ross family fortune was well known, and some of the girls Dave dated had dollar signs rather than stars in their eyes. Mom had wondered aloud in their early months of dating if Sandra was a "gold digger," and somehow in his warped state of mind, Dave had justified using the term "whore" on the basis of that marriage / sex for money connection.

"God," David thought, "I was such an ass. I shouldn't have dragged Mom into that argument. I can't believe I turned the tables on Sandra's worries about me, and made it all about her." But then she had spewed those "mama's boy" and "motherfucker" epithets at him, and it had pushed him over the edge. She – more than anybody – knew how much he'd been hurting since his mother's death, yet she couldn't have chosen a more hurtful retort. The words had been spitefully chosen, designed to draw blood. If ever in his life he was going to hit a woman, it would have been at that moment. Thankfully, he hadn't. But his state of mind had been spiraling downward ever since the argument – actually, ever since he got the phone call about his mother's death. He was a basket case.

David knew that he needed professional help. And yet he had a more basic need. More than three months without sex made a man even crazier.

Dave thought about his options, now that Sandra was out of his life. He didn't think about his lady (I know that sounds kind of mean). He thought that maybe he should consider Tara, who worked in sales at the family business where Dave worked. She had been flirting with him pretty consistently over the last couple of years. She had even taken to calling him "Love Puppy."

He always sloughed it off, but he had noticed her efforts intensifying since he had walked out on Sandra. Apparently his teetering marriage was part of the office rumor mill. Tara was an attractive green-eyed blonde, with a pretty face and bodacious figure. Maybe the Love Puppy should fuck the bitch that was in heat. But David remembered his father's advice from years ago. "Son," he had said, "when it comes to women, just remember – never shit where you eat."

David had understood the euphemism as it was intended – never mix business with pleasure. Besides, he saw many of the classic character flaws of a "gold digger" in Tara. She was status-obsessed, catty toward other women, laden with a strong sense of entitlement. So Tara was out.

There was always his trusty right hand as a back-up option, but it gave him no sense of intimacy. He needed someone to care about him while they did the deed together.

That sense of caring was what he missed most about his mother. Not that he sexualized his mother or ever thought about doing the deed with her; he simply knew that she loved him no matter what. He could always see it in her eyes.

He had seen the same look in Sandra's eyes when they were dating and throughout the early years of their marriage, but that look had seemingly disappeared in the months following Mom's death. It was replaced by a look of pity – something he couldn't bear. He supposed that was what had drawn such strength of wrath from him the fateful night of their last argument.

David had a momentary epiphany of another alternative. He got up from the couch at his little one-room suite at O'Malley's Inn. He loped down the staircase to the lobby and approached the front desk.

"Um, hi there," he said to the buxom brunette at the front desk. After seven years of marriage and the prior two dating Sandra, he had forgotten how this was done.

"May I help you, sir?" the beautiful desk clerk asked with a megawatt smile.

"Hi," he said again, "I'm Dave from 206."

She waited for more, but he offered nothing.

"Is there a problem with your room?" she queried, her smile diminishing.

"No – no problem. I was just wondering your name," he managed to sputter. "I'm here on an extended stay, and I thought it would be nice to get to know the people who work here."

"The name's Lindsay," she said, pointing to her name tag, trying hard not to roll her eyes. "It's nice to meet you, Mr., um..." Her fingers fumbled over the keyboard, struggling to find the last name of the guest in room 206.

"Ross. David Ross," he answered, extending his hand.

She returned his handshake. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Ross," she responded.

While grasping her right hand, David spied her left ring finger and saw that it was vacant. His own wedding ring had been in his pocket since the night he walked out on Sandra.

Dave looked into Sandra's cobalt blue eyes as he shook her hand, managing to keep his eyes averted from her perfectly rounded breasts. She had kind eyes, empathetic eyes. He needed someone to care. She looked like someone who might care. He decided to take the risk.

"I was wondering what time your shift is over tonight," he croaked, his voice reverting to an adolescent changeover squeak.

Lindsay let go of his hand.

"Listen, Mr. Ross," she returned softly but firmly, "I may be young, but I wasn't born yesterday. I can see the washed-out whiteness around your left ring finger. I'm not into married men."

"But I can explain," he uttered with a mixture of disappointment and rising anger. Matt had been right; he was too volatile and too forlorn. "My wife and I split up three months ago."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ross, but I hear that kind of line all the time. If I believed all the men who tell me that they're from a recently broken marriage, I'd have to believe that O'Malley's Inn is a halfway house for recovery from back-stabbing women," she taunted. "Sorry, sir, I just don't buy it. I'm sure that most of the men who feed me that line are just horny while they're temporarily away from home."

David started to defend himself, but then thought better of it. He needed empathy, not resistance.

"Okay, you win," he replied, "or better yet, your loss."

That last jab managed to draw a surprising smile out of Lindsay. With that beautiful grin and that awesome rack, he could well imagine that she'd be a pleasure in bed. But it wasn't going to happen, at least not tonight. So he picked up one of the local entertainment papers from the desk and headed back toward his room.

He stopped by the vending machines on the second floor and picked up a Dr. Pepper and a bag of pretzels, tucking the paper under his arm so he'd have two hands free. When he got to his room, he had to put the Dr. Pepper can on the floor to get his room key card out of his pocket.

Once inside, Dave flipped the remote switch to turn on the TV and sat down to his snack. Finding a football game to provide background noise, he began to peruse the entertainment paper just at the opening kickoff.

The first few pages of the newsprint magazine contained notices of concerts, plays, movies, museum displays, and a host of other local events. Dave continued to turn the pages. His mind wandered back to Lindsay's perfect tits, and a boner started to sprout in his boxer briefs. As he continued to leaf through the entertainment rag, he saw ads for "gentlemen's clubs" and similarly labeled adult entertainment clubs. Strip joints, for lack of a better term. His thickening cock began to reach full erection. Man, he needed to get laid.

As he reached the last few pages at the back of the magazine, he began to see a variety of personal ads. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that the personal escort services were thinly veiled offers for the services of prostitutes. Dave began to wonder whether he should look for "professional help" of this variety for his present need.

The more his mind lingered on it, the more he liked the idea. No commitments, no complications, no shitting where I eat. "I even live in a goddamn hotel," he thought aloud, "the perfect place for a rendezvous."

The one mental impediment Dave faced in making the call was his need for emotional connection. He didn't think he could handle having a girl make him feel like a worthless asshole because he was willing to pay for sex. He'd never been with a prostitute, but he guessed they loathed their clients.

He needed to feel valued, cared for, even treasured – just not pitied. He couldn't stand that. "Pity and revulsion walk hand in hand," his father had often said. Dad was always full of good advice during his too-few years on this earth. Perhaps Dad's early passing had heightened his sense of loss at Mom's death. At thirty-four, Dave felt like a lost little orphan.

Truth be told, Dave needed to feel loved. It was a basic need for any orphan. But there was no way in hell he could expect that from an escort, a total stranger hired for sex.

At halftime in the football game, Dave went for a walk to clear his head. He wandered around the corner from O'Malley's Inn to the 7-Eleven. He picked up a cold 6-pack of beer and a corn dog.

Back in his room, Dave was halfway through the 6-pack by the end of the game. The bare wooden stick left over from the corn dog lay on the coffee table in front of the couch. Dave let loose a contented belch. He spied the entertainment paper at the end of the table. He picked it up and began turning the pages.

Whether it was the beer talking or the blossoming erection in his pants, Dave picked up the phone from the end table. He dialed the number from one of the personal columns, where there were letters in red.

The woman's voice on the other end of the line was low and sultry. "Intimate Friends, may I help you?" she said huskily.

Dave's erection stiffened.

"Um, is this the person that would be my escort if I decided to hire you?" he asked, somewhat guiltily.

"Well, sweet thing," she said, "I sometimes go out on calls for special clients, for old times' sake – but I mainly look after the rest of the girls."

"So, um, it's an – an agency?" Dave stammered. He couldn't bring himself to use the word "brothel" or, better yet, "whorehouse." Although he guessed those terms didn't apply, since their business wasn't conducted on-site.

"Yes, honey bun," she drawled.

"And, um – how does it work?" He was genuinely curious.

"Well, sugar puddin', you tell us what type of girl you'd like, we send her out, you give her a hundred dollars for the agency fee, and then she works on tips from there."

"And how much are the tips?" he asked.

"Well, love biscuit, that depends on what you want her to do, and how pleased you are with how it turns out," she countered.

"And, um," he ventured, "well, um – how far will she go?"

"That's strictly between you and her, valentine," she replied, "but if you happen to work in law enforcement, the official line is that there will be no touching. You'll have to prove you're not in law enforcement if you expect otherwise."

Dave was taken aback for a moment. "And how might I prove that?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"Let's just say there are – certain actions – that no policeman would be able to take without constituting entrapment, buttercup," the woman bantered suggestively.

"Oh, um – I'm not a cop," replied Dave.

"I didn't think so, snuggle bunny. Unless you're the world's greatest actor, I'd say you've never done this before, and you're curious about what you're getting into."

"That's right – that's exactly right," he answered. Finally – some empathy, maybe even some caring. Maybe he could convince her that he was a special client. "I've been separated from my wife for a few months, and I'm – well, a little bit, um..."

"Stiff?" Her sultry voice taunted him.

"Well – sure, I guess you could describe it that way," he capitulated.

"And you could use some – relief?"

"Precisely!" The growing sense of empathy and caring began to strip away Dave's doubts.

"Well, what type of girl interests you, lamb chop?"

"Um, well, I was kind of wondering – what type of girl are you?" he queried.

"I'm flattered, for one thing, stud muffin. But I don't think I'm the one for you. I'm probably old enough to be your mama. Now, if you were to tell me one thing that was most important to you in the girl that I send to you, what would it be?" she asked.

David reflected for a moment before speaking. "Well, it's not about hair color or bust size," he admitted frankly. "Probably the most important thing would be that she's not jaded by the work she does. I need someone who can see me as a person rather than just as a horny, loathsome asshole. Of course, it wouldn't hurt if she was good-looking."

The woman paused, then let out a low, sexy growl. "Mmm – hmmmh," she exclaimed, "I think I have just the girl for you."

"Really?" he asked excitedly.

"Oooh, yeahhh. Tonight's her first night. You'd be her first client. She's a pretty little thing and has the kindest eyes. She's not the youngest chick in the henhouse – maybe early thirties. But I can see she's a romantic. Probably won't last long in this business. But she's definitely not jaded yet."

"She sounds great – what's her name?" he inquired.

"Let's just call her 'Lovely Lady'," she replied. "She can tell you her name when she gets there, sugar plum."

"Send her out!" Dave exclaimed. "I'm in room 206 at O'Malley's Inn."

"She'll be there in half an hour. She'll require the $100 agency fee in advance, in cash. You can work out the rest of the payment with her as the evening goes along, lover boy."

* * * * *

Dave found himself elated over the prospect of hooking up with a kind-hearted, first-time hooker. He was going to be the one to pop her prostitution cherry. It carried the potential to be memorable but with no baggage or strings attached.

He walked quickly back to the 7-Eleven to use the in-store ATM. His daily withdrawal limit was $300, so he maxed it out. He hoped the extra $200 above the agency fee would be enough to extract every service he desired out of his much-anticipated "Lovely Lady."

As he made his way toward the checkout desk, an idea occurred to him. "This is a special occasion. It calls for champagne. It's been years since I had some," he thought. He moved to the glass cases of refrigerated beverages and picked up a bottle of Mieux champagne. In the case next to it, he spotted some 32 ounce bottles of piña colada mix next to some bottles of rum. On a whim, he picked up a bottle of each.

Passing by the pharmacy aisle, he also picked up a tube of KY Jelly and a box of condoms.

As he waited with high hopes in line to pay for his merchandise at the counter, Dave began to picture his evening with his "Lovely Lady." He would hold her, kiss her, fondle her, compassionately fuck her – make her first time a positive experience. Since she was new to the business, he would even consider going down on her, especially if it would get him what he really wanted – something he had never had the nerve to ask for at home.

No, not a blow job – even though Dave was her first lover, Sandra had always been a willing and quite able cocksucker. She even swallowed his cum, and seemed to enjoy it. No, his hidden desire was darker than that. He wanted to go anal – spear fishing for doodoo sharks, to borrow a euphemism. He had always wanted to fuck Sandra in the ass, rubbing her breasts and clit while hugging her from behind, pumping his cock gently into her rear channel and kissing her shoulders while she moaned with wanton pleasure. He always imagined her really enjoying it after the initial discomfort, but he was always afraid to ask. Now, with a hooker, he would be free to say what was on his mind. He was hoping his extra $200 was enough to get him what he really wanted.

"Back for more?" asked the clerk, stirring Dave out of his reverie.

Dave moved forward to pay for his purchase. He spied the clerk's name tag: Rupert. "Yes, Rupert, I'm back for more," he replied.

"Looks like you're ready to party," observed Rupert, visually scanning the rather unique array of merchandise that Dave had selected.

"You could say that," Dave answered, not able to suppress a smile.

"Looks like it's with someone special," Rupert responded.

"She's a lovely lady," Dave grinned.

"Well – I'm nobody's poet, but that isn't half bad," Rupert smiled, handing the bag with the party supplies to Dave.

Dave whistled a familiar tune all the way back to the hotel. Thoughts of dunes and making love at midnight danced in his head.

Checking his watch as he closed the door to his room, Dave saw that his escort should arrive within ten minutes. He laid his bag of party supplies on the coffee table and headed to the shower.

Lathered up under the warm stream of water, Dave resisted the temptation to relieve the sexual tension that enveloped him – no battling the purple-headed yogurt slinger tonight. He wanted his ammo to be at full strength for his impending encounter with the virgin hooker. "All night long," he said out loud, the sounds of Lionel Richie replacing the other tune that had been stuck in his brain.

As he finished toweling off, Dave heard a knock at the door. "Shit," he thought, "I'm not dressed." He grabbed the hotel-provided bathrobe and wrapped it around himself. "Guess that shouldn't be a problem," he thought. "After all, the woman's a prostitute."

He walked quickly to the door. Peering through the spyhole, he saw the back of her head. Auburn curls cascaded down her back. Her shoulders were shivering. She was either very cold or very nervous.

Dave knew that the temperature in the hallway had been fine ten minutes ago. He continued to watch her for a few seconds, his heartstrings reverberating with empathy, until she turned to rap a tentative second knock at the door. He knew her smile in an instant; he knew the curve of her face.