Rick

Rick was startled by his working cell's ringtone, lost in his own thoughts as he was. He thought that he had switched it off earlier, but apparently not, because there was Mozart, 'A Little Night Music,' ringing from somewhere in his apartment. It was a new ringtone, new enough that he still smiled inwardly at its innuendo.

Of course, he always had the option of letting it ring unanswered, but that was some tricky business. After all, the call might be just a confirmation, maybe one of his regulars who'd set something up beforehand. He wouldn't want to miss that kind of call, being professional about it and all that. After all, no woman became a regular unless he felt something about her, maybe something like a connection, or a buzz with her, or maybe because he just liked the way she fucked and no more. Oh, and there was always their...generousity.

Sometimes the calls were from more impulsive regulars, women who just picked up the phone and wanted him on the spot. Those could be fun, too, if he was in the mood. It was its own kind of rush, fast, fast, fast, starting with a quick Viagra, getting over to her hotel as fast as he could, getting himself hard in the elevator and having her sucking his cock almost before the door to her room clicked shut behind him. Wow.

Then there were the new clients, maybe experienced with this or maybe not. On the whole he enjoyed being with experienced women for the first time. You never knew, she might turn into a regular. Only very rarely did he run into a woman who made him feel like a piece of meat, just a flesh and bone vibrator, a "here's the money, now leave" kind of woman.

The best, the absolute best, were the terrified newbies, women who had never paid for sex before. There was something about them, maybe their palpable vulnerability, that pushed a button in him. He enjoyed connecting to the woman's overwhelming confusion of conflicting thoughts and feelings and helping her to clear all of that away into a kind of simple, uncomplicated clarity, abandonment to her own arousal. His whole life he had helped people in one way or another, as a camp counselor, a youth mentor, a coach and even training to become a teacher. With a frightened, totally wound up woman how was what he did any different from all of that, any different from being a nurse?

Rick's cell continued to ring. By the time he'd found the phone in the other room the ringtone was just starting to repeat. He pick it up, pressed 'Talk' and said, "Hello. I'm Rick. What's your name?"

On the other end he heard some rustling, maybe a vocalization cut short, and then a shuddered breath and a click.

Whoever she was, she had lost her nerve.

~

An hour later it's his working cell again. He wondered if it was the same woman calling a second time.

"Hello. I'm Rick. What's your name?"

There's nothing right away, near silence at the other end. It happens sometimes so he just waits it out for a moment.

Sometimes he'll hear a faint shudder in her breathing, nervousness. Sometimes there's nothing at all, nothing for many seconds. He feels for her, understands how difficult it can be, especially if it's her first time. But he also knows that it's part of the rush for her, the exhilaration of hearing her insides screaming No!, but the excitement, the electric exhilaration of her fantasy compelling her forward.

When he was met with silence the first few times he felt awkward too, feeling the same palpable nervousness as if it were an infectious disease passed from her across the phone line. He learned that if he waited too long for her, the crazy adventure of picking up her phone, trembling fingers dialing the number, recklessly going through with it – all of it could turn to panic for her, slapping her back to her real world. She would hang up. At this he always felt that he would have let her down somehow. He felt sad, but for her.

He wondered what it must be like for her after hanging up on him. She had gotten so close to it, so close to the exhilaration of it, only to have the moment shatter, all the wayward courage for nothing. Would she be relieved, embarrassed? No, he thought, almost right away she would feel disappointed, disappointed in herself, wound up so tightly but suddenly sad and lonely. He could see her at the other end feeling tired, so tired.

When he first started, in the silence he'd do what anyone would do, say hello again. Sometimes it was enough to get her started, but he wondered if it was putting pressure on her to talk before she was ready, underlining her indecision in the moment, her mind racing even faster now, wanting to go on but still hearing her guts screaming before she had control of herself.

Late one night a few months ago, when his working cell rang and there was silence again, he decided to try to help her. Why be conventional, why use normal manners when they were strangers to each other? Nothing crazy, nothing shocking, just a little different from what anyone would expect. After the hello, after those long seconds of her nervousness, he simply said "I'm Rick. What's your name?"

He found that most times it would help her. It would give her a comfortable nudge forward, an achievable way to start the conversation, just her name. It would give her a little more about him, at least the sound and tone of his voice instead of the anonymity of telephone protocol, more than the words on his card or in his ad. It would strip away any pretense and acknowledge that the two of them know what her call is about. For You, Rick.

For her, the stark phone number would have been a surreal gateway into a mystery world, a completely different universe from the one where her real life is. Previously a concept – romantic, dangerous, tempting – now with the phone number, here in this city, it would work its way into her, closer to her reality. Would it have become real enough for her to let it into her mind?

The sound of his voice would be a tipping point for her. A real man at the other end of the line, not a character in a movie or a novel, a real man who has sex for money. She would be visualizing him after hearing his words, the calming tone. She would be holding the phone at her end, in her world, the world she knows.

When he has picked up, spoken to her, there would be nothing else in the world but the two of them. Suddenly she would be out of her element, entering into an unknown secret, crossing over from the world she knows, not sure if she really can go through with it.

But with this second call tonight, before he can say anything more there's a click as the line goes dead again and she is gone. He looks out the window through the glare of the Strip, planes taking off at McCarren beyond that.

~

The idea of it ricochets inside Sally dangerously. She's frantic, obsessed with it, can't get rid of it.

She'd woken up this morning after a restless sleep, her first bleary sense being, there's something wrong. Suddenly, the idea had snapped her fully awake like the shock of cold water. Her imagined scenario, now imprinted in her mind. A far-off, dreamy romantic scene brought to life. The faceless man, muscled, sleek, naked. He is lowering her gently but purposefully to the bed, taking her, mystically knowing her, knowing her body, her willingness, her desires, hot abandonment to illicit lust. It had come to a crashing stop in her mind. Stop! You're crazy! What's gotten into you?

But she hadn't been able to stop. She'd been unable to concentrate all day, the conference sessions a blur to her now. At times through the day, she had thought she might have talked herself back into some sense, placing the person that she was, her job, her family, in front of her as a defense. Putting the life she knows at risk. But the thought wouldn't go away, frightening her with how fragile was her concept of her life, the allure of the fantasy sweeping it all away so easily. Had she completely lost herself for the possibility of its actually happening?

Tonight the fantasy dominates her thoughts even more strongly. It either happens tonight or it doesn't happen at all. Tonight. Now. It is an urgent animal drive she has never experienced before. Like it has to happen. Inevitable. This is the time, this is the place. Vegas. The place isn't real. How can anything be real here? A different universe. Here you're allowed to be crazy because it isn't real anyway. Tonight. Now. Toronto is tomorrow. The possibility, the opportunity ends tonight. When she opens her eyes tomorrow morning it all will be over, finished, squandered. The taxi to McCarran, that's when the normal will return to her. That's when she'll be on familiar ground again.

But the idea of returning to normal, tomorrow, the thought of it goes straight to her stomach. She feels a letdown, disappointment. She doesn't want to go home without this adventure. She will feel like she's left a part of herself behind – the boldness part of her, the fun, wicked part. These feelings surprise her and immediately a sense of guilt rises in her. But then, she realizes, how I feel is how I feel. I have to do this.

There are a million reasons why not. She feels lost. No! Who are you? Who are you? What are you becoming? Is that what you want? Immediately she answers Yes.

Calm down. Don't start. You can't. This isn't you. She's an elementary school principal, goes to church, loves her children, loves Wayne. He's always been good to her. They've built their lives together, a happy home, good jobs. There is love, but... it has become... comfortable, predictable, assumed, a life that seems to be unfolding according to a fixed script. They don't share their dreams anymore. Maybe there are none, preoccupied with the kids and the jobs. Maybe when they retire there will be more spark. Some spark. There isn't much time for just the two of them these days at this stage of their lives.

They're ships passing in the night sometimes, and then when the lights go out she's too tired, or he is. Once a month if that, not even that much, it's pretty much sexless now. She can't remember the last time she felt the spontaneous urgent desire. And yet she feels that this is wrong, maybe that there's something wrong between them, something wrong with her. She feels depressed that she's lost that part of her, seemingly forever.

She looks in the mirror to try to recover herself. Memories underline what she sees. How she had looked had never really defined her in her own mind. Small, petite, but not a waif, she had had girl-next-door prettiness, an athlete's fresh attractiveness. The other girls, the girls who spent an hour in front of the mirror every day, they were the ones with boyfriends. With her, the boys had been friends. People had liked her, had thought of her as a good person, a fun, energetic person. That was good, it had pleased her all by itself, but she had wanted more, deeper relationships, more intimate. There were times when she had felt she'd been overlooked, the girl next door and nothing more.

She's still fairly trim, but her skin isn't as smooth or tight as it once was, and her having nursed two babies shows. Now she feels like she's fading, that whatever attractiveness she had now has been drummed out of her by the routine of her life. At forty-six she feels like she's closer to the end than the beginning, that time is running out. Where did I go? she wonders. A sadness fills her as she sees that she is ordinary, unremarkable. Fading away as a person too. How did this happen to me?

She realizes that the fantasy has grabbed her exactly because of this, filling a void that she hadn't acknowledged. How did this happen to me? Well it happens to everyone. Getting on with a life, building it, moving through phases and stages. For a moment this is a rational thought, an explanation. She feels comforted that she can still see things clearly, rationally.

But then the illicit thought slams into her again. She hears her inner voice. It feels like a wave of profound honesty. That's the problem. That's it exactly. Getting on with life? You're only settling for that. Settling for it. It's a waste of life. Angrily, she lets the idea play its scene again in her mind. Why settle? Why not take this while you can?

Is it this place that has gotten to her? Vegas? The surreal craziness of it? Last night's party with the girls from the conference had given her a taste, letting go, forgetting it all and not caring about who she was supposed to be anymore. She and four of the others from the conference being wild. New best friends from cities across the continent. They had done the Strip, drinks, laughs, a tits and glitz show, imagining themselves to be high rollers, high rollers on the quarter slots.

Mika, their young ringleader, dragging the group into the all-male review. Thunder Down Under. Oh, my God. A boy dancing off the stage toward her, his cock and balls in a gold lame pouch slapping up and down inches from her face. Then tucking the five dollar bill into the pouch, the girls hysterical around her. In the ladies room, Mika coming out of her stall holding her panties aloft – a tiny red thong stretched between her spread thumbs - daring them all to take theirs off too for the rest of the night. Her first reaction had been shock, outright refusal, or was it the horror of being exposed? What would people think?

But just then was the start of it, realizing that it was her Toronto life – a universe away – controlling her. From out of the blue, What the hell, as if it were someone else deciding for her that she would do it, abandoning herself. Moments later out on the street in public with a plastic cup of beer, feeling the cool air against her nakedness under her skirt, amazed at herself that she did it, knowing that her panties – plain ones as always – were stuffed into her purse. The naughtiness of it exciting her, more than that, arousing her. She loved the feeling of setting her real self aside for an evening, the feelings of freedom.

Mika collecting the cards and pamphlets from the street people, saying she wants to mail them home to her boyfriend. Escort ads, newspaper classifieds, something for everyone. Girls for guys, girls for girls. Guys for guys. Guys for girls. Walking, drinking, gambling a bit, people-watching until they were all laughed out and it was time to call it a night.

Later, alone in the room still feeling the buzz of the fun out on the street, questioning why she had to be in the room at all when she could still be having fun out there. Looking forward to some private pleasure before sleeping. Then, pulling her panties out of her purse, a business card falling to the floor. Mika's mischief again. She must have slipped it into her purse.

For You. Rick.

Guys for girls. She'd held the card in her hand about to drop it into the wastebasket when a hot lick of arousal struck her. She had suddenly realized that she could imagine it, that she was imagining it. The beautiful man lowering his head to kiss her neck, pressing himself inside her, that exquisite sensation of enveloping fullness. Astonished at herself that she hadn't rejected it outright, that she could see it as a fantasy, the fantasy lingering. The sudden realization that it could be actually possible, that there was little in the way of it. A real possibility. The idea starting in her head at that exact moment and her knowing that it had taken hold. In bed, touching herself, incendiary arousal, the images of it playing out like a script before her. A knock at the door, the faceless man undresses her from behind, slowly kissing, touching...

But today had been another day, a long day of inner wrestling and self-talk, exhausting. The girls had gone out on the Strip again tonight, more reckless abandonment, but for her now somehow innocent compared to the fantasy in her mind. Mika isn't so outrageous after all. Eventually the girls had gone their separate ways and she had returned to her room. But feeling restless, she had gone back downstairs by herself for a drink, not wanting the feeling to stop. Abandonment. The idea working in her mind, not letting her go.

For You. Rick. For me. This is a bolt of insight to her. For me. Her life has been one of helping others, her family, her students, colleagues. She is a giver. Rewarding, yes. She often has felt it is her calling. But now, as if for the first time in her life, Something for me.

Yes. I'm going to do it. No. I can't. Staring at her drink. How can this fantasy be so strong, sweeping away all that is her real life? Doesn't that say something to you?

Taking the last sip of her drink she is aware that it feels significant, a step toward enacting the fantasy, toward its inescapability. Tonight or never again. She realizes that she'll soon be back in her room and that if it is to be at all, she will pick up the phone and make the call. But she also knows that she'll talk herself in and out of it twenty times just in the elevator ride up to the room. The indecision is almost incapacitating. Now, every moment subtracts from the time she has before making the decision to act.

Her inner voice telling her that she should do this becomes more insistent, but her resistance also has become deafening. Her world now seems as if it is in slow motion. The self-talk is so consuming now that it almost obliterates what is going on around her, robbing her of her consciousness of her surroundings.

Somehow she is back in the room. She can't remember being aware of the elevator. She sits on the bed. There is no sound, but she hears a roar in her head. She feels strangely disconnected from the world, sees the room as a scene, as if through a lens. The card is in her purse on the edge of the dresser, two steps away. The phone is there, within reach beside her. No. Her mind tells her to swing her legs up onto the bed, prop herself up on a pillow and turn on the TV. Stop the nonsense.

But she discovers that she has stood, has walked to the dresser to get the card. It is in her hand now. She is watching herself as if detached, as if somebody else is doing this. She sits again on the bed beside the phone, stares at it for only a moment. Now the phone is in her hand. How did it get there so suddenly? So easily? She sees the number on the card, automatic now, dialing, hesitating over the last digit. The last moment, the last decision. Will she? Now? She presses the key, hears the tones as the number is dialed. Waiting, waiting, holding her breath but needing to gasp. One ring. Another.

Suddenly panic explodes in her head. You can't do this, you can't, you can't. It's crazy! Crazy! Crazy! She curls herself forward, her free arm around her stomach, holding herself. She feels her face grimacing, tense, her hand trembles, then pulls the phone away from her ear, but then, Do it! Do it! Do it! is in her head and she presses the phone hard against the side of her face.

~

His working cell rings once, twice, a different number, not the same woman from earlier. He hopes that this one won't lose her nerve and hang up even before it begins.

"Hello. I'm Rick. What's your name?"

~

Oh-my-God-oh-my-God-oh-my-God-oh-my-God...

A click. He's there.

"Hello. I'm Rick. What's your name?"

She is frozen, can't even say hello. Seconds pass. I can't. I can't.

What's your name. What's your name? Those are his words, but it is their implication that rocks her, that drives sudden, jolting realizations into her. It is done, the whole thing is done. He knows. This man – a complete stranger, this fantasy man turned suddenly real – he knows everything. He knows why she called, what she's seeking. Even if she doesn't really know it herself, he knows that she wants sex. Anonymous sex, sex with a complete stranger, to be naked with him, to touch him, to feel him, to wrap herself around him, to moan, to disappear into her arousal. To come. To come on his cock, to come all over his cock...