Dani and the Christmas Dildo

Fuck. I was absolutely not in the mood for this. I was in the mood for lounging around with my feet near the forge, smoking a blunt and reading National Geographic. I was in the mood for the Smiths. I was in the mood for a footrub. I tossed my hat onto the rack, ran a hand through my hair, and thought about how badly I wanted to take out my braids.

"French press or drip?" came a surly voice from the kitchen, and I treated the universe to yet another sigh.

"Surprise me, sweetie." I frowned and decided that if he dared to use the press, and did a good job of it, I'd need to make him lunch. "I need to go change, Jake. What should I wear?"

He pushed his head quizzically through the kitchen door. "Clothes." He disappeared, and I rolled my eyes; it would be a long afternoon. I supposed lunch would need to be something other than ramen. If this was how normal people lived, they could have it.

"Be right back, love," I frumped, and as the forge hissed to life I trudged up the stairs to my dressing room. Quickly I stripped and dripped, shivering, looking dourly at myself in the mirror.

Not bad at all, for being pale and wet and shivering; I felt vaguely like a rescued hurricane victim at the moment, but with tits. I could see, in my more honest moments, why men liked fucking me, and I had enough self-awareness to realize this gravy train wouldn't last forever. I needed to make my bank while I could. I was short and sturdy and smooth and firm all over, with nice little feminine jiggles of the sort that sometimes aroused even myself. I was proud of all that, truly; I was the only woman at Southside, the only fucking one, who would do everything on the menu.

Everything.

"Ready, Marie," came the cynical voice from down below, and with a little shock I realized I'd been gazing at myself far longer than was necessary. "Let's do this." I pulled out work clothes, albeit clean ones, ones I thought would look decent in a magazine, aiming vaguely for a vibe like that bitch in the WWII poster, the We Can Do It! one with Roseann the Riveter.

Wait. Rosa? Rosalyn?

I descended at my usual breakneck pace, like a navy guy coming down the ladders in old submarine movies. Jake waited by the forge with two steaming mugs; a glance into the kitchen showed me he'd used the French press, the bigger one.

Show-off.

I took one of the mugs, clinked it perfunctorily against his, and took a sip. "Holy fuck," I spluttered. "Who taught you to do that?"

He looked smug. "I have an arts degree. How many coffee places do you think I've worked in?" He gulped at his own. "Okay. Want to get started?"

"Just a sec." I smiled at him, feeling more kindly disposed; it really was excellent coffee. "How do you want to do this?"

He shrugged. "The fuck should I know? It's your art; go ahead and make something. I'll get some good shots, believe me." He looked me boldly up and down. "If you don't mind me saying it, it's going to be easy to get good shots. The camera loves you."

"Why, thank you hon," I purred, pleased despite myself.

He paused. "If you can make sparks happen," he added doubtfully, "that might help, too."

"Well then. I'll just get to work."

And I did; I was about three knives behind on my latest commission, so I went ahead and got to work. Only once did Jake interfere, when he stepped behind me at my anvil to grab a weird little abstract bronze I'd made the week before. "This'll look good in the background," he explained, shouting over the noise. "It's a cool piece."

I grinned, my eyes crinkling, and he made sure to get that shot. "Take it home, when you go," I urged. It was about five dollars' worth of bronze, a paperweight. "Something to remember me by, sugar."

He smiled for the first time I could recall; it was a nice smile, though he'd clearly needed an orthodontist about ten years ago. And so on; I got my three knives done, plus one more, and then we sat plunked on the loveseat with a pair of beers. "Cheers," I proposed, wiping sweat onto my forearm.

He nodded. "Aren't you underage?"

I laughed. "Shit. Are you for real?"

He shrugged. "I'll just make sure not to take your picture."

I elbowed his arm, splashing his beer onto his shirt. "I'm twenty-one next month, anyway. Probably by the time the magazine comes out."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Caslen is good, but he doesn't write fast. That's what people say, anyway; I've never worked with him before."

"Ah." I nodded and took a swig. "He took good care of me that night, after the party." Jake looked sidelong at me, as if he didn't want to hear it. "Was an absolute gentleman. Is he gay?"

"Gay? I don't think so. Why?"

I shrugged. "I passed out. Apparently he got me undressed, put me to bed, slept here, and then made me breakfast the next day, and he never even tried anything."

Jake blinked. "Huh? Got you undressed?"

"I know, right? I woke up in nothing but my underwear." I shrugged again and took another swish of beer. "I checked myself. He hadn't molested me or nothin'."

Jake stared at me, and then glanced at the loveseat. "He's pretty tall. Where did he sleep?"

I looked over my bottle, my eyes narrowed conspiratorially. This guy was fun. "Where do you think?"

We paused, and then Jake wagged his head slowly. "And he didn't try anything?"

"I told you." I drained the bottle. "He's a gentleman."

Jake waited a long moment, reading the label on his beer, and then he nodded decisively and passed his sentence. "He's a fucking idiot."

I smiled. "Why, I think that's a compliment, Jake." I winked. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He cast a critical eye at me. "I meant what I said: the camera loves you. I got great stuff at the reception, at the gallery." He put his empty bottle down on the concrete floor. "That costume fucking rocked."

"It did, didn't it?" I stirred. "Another beer, sweetheart?"

He shook his head. "Nope. I'm driving."

"Shame." I wondered whether I was supposed to ask him to stay. He had, after all, said Kev was an idiot for not trying to hook up with me. Instead I watched, dithering, as he headed out with a wave.

* * *

"So, yeah. My Hanukkah wish seems to be coming true. Or Kwanzaa, Christmas; whatever."

Tori leaned in, her lips working as she tied a cherry stem with her teeth. "No shit."

"None at all. I've got a boy on the hook," I announced proudly. "A nice, normal boy. A boy who doesn't seem to visit whorehouses."

"Well, that's always a nice starting point," she agreed.

"I know." I was nervous. I rimmed the top of my water glass like I often rimmed men at Southside. "I've got no fucking clue what I'm doing," I confessed. I'd never once had any kind of boyfriend, or any kind of healthy dating life.

She sighed and shrugged. "Sure you do. You're not a broken human being; your brain works, and your body certainly does. Just do what it tells you to do." She finished with the stem and spat it triumphantly into her napkin. "Still got it!"

"He's taking me to dinner tonight," I smiled. "Somewhere nice, I think, but he's not from around here. I told him to take me to that steak place out in West Adams, across from the ATM. With the garlic shrimp."

"Ooh! I love that place. I once fucked a guy in the bathroom there." I rolled my eyes.

"We all have, Tori. That's nothing to be proud of."

She dimpled with such grace, such confidence! "Going to fuck him, Dani?"

I prodded at my maki. "You'll just have to wait and see, bitch." I smiled slyly.

She clapped her hands. "Sweet. Meet me tomorrow? We can relive the experience?"

I winked. "Count on it."

* * *

I wasn't moping the next day at lunch, per se. I was exhilarated and tentative and tired and hopeful and nervous, all the things I assumed you were supposed to feel after a first date. "So, spill!" Tori urged as soon as we were seated. "Did you let him cum in you?"

I hesitated, which told her all she needed to know. "Well... he came," I said evasively. For a split second I thought about lying and telling her he'd been a fucking sexual stegosaur, but why bother? Tori knew everything there was to know about me already; there was nothing to prove to her. Besides, she had to find out sooner or later that Kevin was in no danger of becoming an uncle to her eventual children. "He seemed to enjoy it," I added.

Her eyes bulged, and she let a slow, cruel grin spread over her face. Naturally, like the mental giant she was, Tori read between the lines in a couple of seconds. "You whored out," she observed.

"I couldn't help it!" I wailed. "He just wasn't... nothing was happening."

"No," she corrected me, "nothing was happening now. Things were going to happen later, but you whored out and made them happen now." She giggled and adjusted her chopsticks. "In his pants?" she added, arching an eyebrow. I nodded. "Thought so."

I kicked at the table leg in frustration. "He was totally hard. He clearly wanted to do me. Why didn't he just whip it out and put it in?"

She spoke in soothing tones, the kind you'd use on a mildly dangerous mental patient. "Because he was a man on a date, and not a john in a brothel," she explained. She shrugged. "Why worry? Nothing says it had to happen on the first guy. There'll be others."

I blinked over at her. "As you know, Tori," I huffed, "I take a certain pride in my sexual capabilities."

"Rightly so," she put in graciously. She'd seen me work.

"I'm the biggest earner at Southside Chiropractic. Biggest, like, by far. I should have been able to fuck him in my sleep." I laid my head on the table. "Why can't I just be a normal woman?"

"Because, honey, you're a whore." She patted my arm across the table. "Don't worry. A little more practice, and your vagina will stop spazzing out when it's not supposed to. You just need to learn to turn it down a little. It'll happen."

"Not with Kevin." Poor bastard. He'd undoubtedly write a shit article about me now, and it was distinctly possible I'd receive a restraining order for Christmas. Dinner had been fine, the conversation pleasant and witty; Marie was a good raconteur. Breathless, eager, I'd invited him back to my place, "to see where the magic happens," as I'd cheekily double-entendred.

"Sounds great!" He'd been enthusiastic and innocent and pleasant, unable to believe his luck: new in town, on the precarious temporary side of a precariously temporary profession, out with a gorgeous girl dressed in a killer blue cocktail dress and made up a la Tori, meaning with maximum taste and devastating eyebrow wings. I was easily the hottest woman in the place, the waiter falling over himself to help me put my napkin in my lap. He might possibly have even copped a feel of my thigh while down there, and so what? If so, he meant it as a compliment.

The garlic shrimp had been excellent, the taco salad a real treat, and when we'd strolled back through the door of my shop, Kev had reached over and taken my hand. That hadn't ever happened to me before, and I took it as a sign that I should halt, pin him against the door, and start sucking on his face. "I mean, I was planning on unwinding first, with some scotch," I explained, "but he seemed to want it."

"Jesus." Tori was disgusted. "All he did was hold your hand? And you tried to rape him in return?" She seemed angry at herself. "I never should have introduced you to Michael," she decided. "He's got a phenomenal dick, but I can see he gave you a warped view of what men want."

"No no," I shook my head, "Kevin was totally into it at first." He had been, too, devouring me with all the breathless enthusiasm of a groom on his wedding night, and I'd felt his cock hardening against my leg with what seemed like undue haste. "I mean, shit, do most normal guys get an erection just from kissing?"

Tori shrugged. "Depends. I've seen you kiss. It's possible you were a bit too forward," she said carefully. "Your instincts weren't wrong, though," she considered. "I'll bet the scotch would have made for a very pleasant evening. For both of you."

"Right?" I frowned. He'd seemed embarrassed by his erection, which I'd assumed had to be an act; in my world, men were proud of their hard-ons. So I'd put a little extra English on my tongue, given him a sexy and excited moan, backed my hips up, and reached out, my smiling mouth breathing hot into his, to help him adjust it.

Holy fuck.

You'd have thought he was enduring the touch of the spider woman. He'd have jumped back at least three feet if my front door hadn't been right behind him. "Ah!" He'd looked down at me, fear and excitement mingled, and I'd been suddenly rocked by the realization of where I'd seen that look before: during the tutorials that Southside offered, when gruff, cynical dads brought their sons in to be deflowered. The guys all looked just like that, every one of them, when they came on your fingers, during the initial orientation, when you gave them a handjob so they'd last longer for the real deal.

Fucking Kevin was a goddamn virgin.

A hand shot to Tori's mouth when I told her, and her perfect shoulders shook with silent laughter. "A virgin!" She was almost loud enough for the sushi chef to hear her, but not quite. "I didn't think there were any of them left."

"One, at least. And with my fucking luck, I found him." I'd been very understanding, of course. I really had felt bad, almost at once, hugging him tight and making cooing noises. He'd been tense and nervous, even more than before; I hadn't been surprised when he'd made a quick exit. I didn't blame him, either.

"Did you get yourself off afterward?"

"Nah," I shrugged. There hadn't really been a point; he and I had been making out for maybe seven or eight minutes total, which was about ten minutes' shy of even the most inexperienced whore's minimum melting point. "I watched him leave, then I went and had some ice cream."

She chewed in silence, then shook her head as though she was thinking about something else. "So, are you going to see him again?"

"I texted him." I shrugged. I would certainly give him another chance; the conversation had been fun, but it worried me a little that he only knew Marie and not Dani. And not Ellie, either. "I'd be happy to see him again; he said he'd love to. He was vague on the time and place, though."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Well. You were in the blue dress, right?" She smiled slowly. "He'll want to see you again."

* * *

I was eating in the lounge at Southside, chomping loudly on some matzoh crackers with a little hummus. The other girls were quieter, and some weren't eating at all; par for the course in the sex industry, especially as women got older. I hoped I'd avoid that stage; I'm a girl who likes my food. Skinny Megan the newbie was gnawing on some celery. I though about telling her she'd get more business if she put on an extra five pounds or so, but she'd figure that out soon enough. She seemed pensive. "Can I ask you something?" she finally said, all shy and polite.

"Of course. What's on your mind?" I'd been there just over a year, but I made money hand over fist. That made me a mentor, of sorts. She made a face.

"The money," she started. "It's a lot of money. Won't people start asking questions if I suddenly have a bunch of money?"

Down the table, Carol nodded knowingly. "Yeah. That's why you launder it, sort of."

"You use it to buy something." She still looked confused. "Then you sell that, and there's the money you keep." I shrugged. "If you care that much."

"I don't." Carol shrugged. "I just don't tell anyone I have it." She was known for keeping her cash in a drawer near her desk. Vanilla Ellie had been stealing twenties here and there for months; we all wondered when Carol would notice. Vanilla Ellie was cruising for a beat-down, whenever it happened; Carol was good with a whip.

"I buy massive stinking piles of metal." The back of my studio was heaped with the shit, more than I could ever cast; I'd been thinking of starting a sales business. "But then, if the IRS comes knocking, I've got a good reason to have massive stinking piles of metal. You'll need to think of something else."

"I buy guns," Steffi chirped helpfully.

"Shit." Little Megan sighed. "I guess I'm just paranoid about going to jail."

"You should be," said Carol, who had been there.

"I never worry about that," I shrugged. I glanced around. "Some of these girls," I continued, lowering my voice, "keep worrying that this place will get busted. I don't."

Annabelle looked over at me curiously. "You never seem stressed about anything, Dani. What's up with that?"

I shrugged. "It's just not something that worries me." I put away my lunch shit.

"What's not? The idea that we'll get busted and arrested?"

"Nah." I shook my head and thought about it. "No. I think us getting busted is inevitable. It's just a question of which of us will be working here when it goes down, and for me?" I shrugged again. "I don't think it matters either way."

"Why's that?" Megan was curious. I got the sense jail didn't bother her either.

"I'm ideally suited for prison life," I explained. "I'm a tattoo artist who knows how to take it in the ass, and I practically live on ramen noodles already." I looked around at all of them. "What's to stress about?"

Silence.

"Huh." Annabelle blinked. "I guess I never really thought of it that way."

"Ciao, girls," I nodded, getting up and stretching. Andre had done a number on my thigh muscles. "I'm off to the trenches. Got a big fat dick to stuff in my ass. Have fun, everyone!"

"Wait up." Carol brushed crumbs from her corset and stood. "We can share the elevator."

* * *

My phone buzzed fitfully at one point while I was mid-fuck with a patient named Cal, who had deep issues. I glanced over, but I couldn't see who was calling; I'd have to wait until Cal finished. He liked pretending I was the Virgin Mary, which meant I spent a lot of time forgiving him and speaking Latin. I knew about five words and made up the rest; once he was balls-deep in me, he never really noticed anyway.

Although the theology behind the whole thing might have been slightly suspect, I was able to charge him extra as a "fantasy fee." Win-win.

Once he left, I smeared hand sanitizer over my hands and brought my phone to life. "Huh." It was Jake, voice-mailing along with a follow-up text, and letting me know he needed more shots. He'd liked the sparky ones, and his photo editor wanted more of that kind of thing. I put down the momentary twinge of doubt about whether there'd actually be an article now that I'd given the writer a case of PTSD.

I pondered, picturing my schedule and wondering whether I could do another pour over the next week or so. While I was returning his text, old Mrs Bannock came in. The cleaning lady never really gave us a clue how she felt about cleaning up repressed mens' jizz, but I can't imagine she thought it was honorable employment. "Hi, Mrs Bannock," I said brightly, and she just looked at me with a sense of vague disappointment. I was naked, squatting like Gollum with my knees up around my ears, which I'd always found was the best way to let most of the semen drain out. "Might be a few minutes, here." I could push it out pretty easily, but why not let gravity do the work?

She looked balefully at me, and then gave an inscrutable nod while she shuffled out.

So I was going to have a guest a couple days later. I pushed my tattoo appointments back a day, set an alarm, and got my mold ready and in the kiln the day before; Jake arrived at the wispy beginnings of an unmotivated snowfall, and I found myself stoking the furnace extra high to keep the place warm. He'd complained last time about condensation on his lenses, or something that used words like that.

I put on my nomex suit, the one Mike had stolen for me from the East Adams fire department; it still had the threads scraggling out from where we'd ripped off the badge. It got really hot while I was casting, so I normally just put on the suit and maybe some practical underwear, sometimes a bra, sometimes naked; it usually didn't matter, and with Jake coming over I reasoned it still didn't. So I slid on some simple cotton boyshorts and a short tanktop to combat the funk, and called it a day. When I met him at the door I probably looked like some sort of comic-book version of a firefighter, complete with a bandanna and some goggles perched on my forehead. "Good to see you," Marie sang as I let him in, along with the cold air. "I'm pleased you think we know each other well enough for you to just invite yourself over, Jacob."