The Hooker and the Marine

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"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," she said stopping in her tracks, a few feet past him, "for five bucks you can," she said with a smile. "It doesn't mean I'll answer it, though. I'll just allow you to ask it."

He loved the repartee of teasing and he imagined she'd be fun in bed. She turned back around and walked to him. Blonde hair, blue eyes, white teeth, and big tits, if she lived in Texas, they'd make her a beauty queen but here in New York, she was a hooker. Go figure. He reached in his wallet, pulled out a five, and handed it to her.

"What's your name?"

"Robin," she said.

He laughed wondering if that was really her name. Robin was too pretty of a name for a woman in her profession, yet it served him right that would be her name; that's what he called them all. He imagined her proud parents when they named her that. For sure, she was prettier when she smiled. She looked so sad otherwise. She was pathetic, but there was something about her that made him want to know, protect, and shelter this little, wounded bird.

He had slit the throats and shot better women than her, women who believed in something and women who were willing to die for their beliefs. Stopping them from blowing themselves up and everyone else around them, he facilitated their departure from this life to the next with his razor sharp knife or a few rounds from his gun. It was his job to make sure that they got to their promise land without taking him and any of his buddies with them.

That was a funny way to put it, he thought. He was a facilitator. Now he had something to write on his resume. His government spent a lot of money to train him and thousands of men, just like him, to be the Grim Reaper, the harbinger of death. A highly trained killing machine, he had lost count of how many bodies he had left to rot in the desert heat. For sure, with his bullets flying on errant pathways and ricocheting off walls, he had killed more than he even knew he had. It wouldn't surprise him, when in the rage of war, if he was responsible for accidentally killing one of his buddies.

Serves them right for attacking us on our own land. Serves them right for bringing down the Twin Towers and killing all those people. Serves them right for starting the downward avalanche of our economy. If he could kill them all again, he would.

"Oorah. Once a Marine, always a Marine."

"What? Did you say something?"

"Sorry, I have this uncontrollable urge to blurt out my thoughts sometimes. It's a way for me to get things off my mind and to release stress."

"Like that Tourettes Syndrome?"

"I guess you could say that, only in my case it would more be called, Marine Corps Syndrome."

"Yeah, I figured either you were a cop or a soldier. I was hoping you were the later rather than the former."

Yet, suddenly feeling as if he was a reverend on a mission to save a soul, he thought he could save her. As soon as he thought that, he felt foolish. He felt like every other John. After they fuck her, use her, and abuse her, they all want to save her. Only, this woman was different. There was something about her that made his bones ache and his heart melt.

He didn't know what it was, it was something indefinable and indescribable that made him unable to let her go. For some inexplicable reason, he had an instant connection with her. He liked her and would like to get to know her better, if the hooker thing could be put to rest for a while. He wasn't the jealous type and, as far as he was concerned, especially since he had so much of it, what's in the past is history, but having a girlfriend as a hooker was an extreme case of unfaithfulness. Once he committed to someone, he was too possessive to have his woman be with another man.

Certainly, he was more than twice her age. Other than for money, why would someone like her be interested in someone like him? Suddenly, he felt like a dirty old man about to take advantage of a woman young enough to be his daughter.

"Why do you do this? Are you on drugs? Do you have a pimp? Do you have kids to feed? What is it that makes you have sex for money?" He fired off his questions in the way that he fired his M60 machine gun, in a controlled spray leveling anything that moved.

"You already asked your question, Mister, and I answered you."

"I did?"

"You asked my name. Your five dollars already bought you my one answer, Mister. Then, you asked me five more questions."

"Frank. My name is Frank."

"For another five bucks, Frank, do you want me to pick which one of those five questions not to answer or do you want to chose?"

She was funny. He liked her sense of humor. Just like any normal couple, with his arm around her and his hand fondling her big tits, he could picture her sitting next to him on the couch and making out, while watching a movie. He yearned to have a normal life with a normal woman. Only how can a killer expect to live normally with a hooker?

"You're not a bad looking woman. You could interest a nice, young man, get married, have a couple of kids, and live a normal life," he said looking at her. "Why do you do this?"

He looked at her more closely. She had a pretty face, but her massive tits controlled where he looked, as well as his horniness. Definitely, she was a D cup. Yet, because she was so thin, her tits looked even bigger on her slim frame and, because of that, it wouldn't surprise him, if she was only a C cup. Only a C cup. She still had big tits and he was enamored with her huge breasts.

"Why? Duh? For the money. What do you think? I have no education. I have no skills. The only job I can get is at some fast food joint standing on my feet to make $50, after taxes, when I can make more than that on my back or on my knees."

Her confession made him realize that they had much in common. They were much alike in that regard. With him a killing machine, what kind of job could he get, after being discharged from the military? They'd have to debrief him and after years of psychotherapy, maybe he could live a somewhat normal life, but doing what? He could always become an instructor. An instructor for what, on how to kill? Only, never having to think about it, he was better at doing than teaching.

She had plenty of attitude, but he could tell she was all bark and no bite. He could tell she was scared. Someone had put the fear of God in her for her to do what she so obviously hated doing. He could see that in her eyes. He's killed enough people to know the good from the bad and deep down inside, she was a good woman.

Just by looking at her, he could see she wasn't happy. Just by looking at her, he could tell she was a survivor. She was miserable having sex for money and, if she survived this low point in her life, with a bit of tender, loving care, she'd make someone a good woman, a good wife, and a good mother. Someone was forcing her to do this, but who? He didn't have to wait long for an answer, when a new Caddy rounded the corner and screeched to a stop.

"Shit!"

"Who's that?"

"Desmond. My pimp. Pretend you agreed to date me," she said looking from him and back to her pimp. Now she really looked scared. "Okay? Okay, Frank? Please?"

Frank watched it play out, before giving her his answer. A tall, muscular, black man got out of the car and walked towards her. Stereotypical in the car he drove, the clothes he wore, and the swagger he had. He looked like a real asshole.

"You got my money, bitch," he said walking up to her face and talking to her as if she was less than human, when he was dog crap that he'd wipe from his shoe, if he had the pleasure of stepping on him.

"I'm still working on it. I haven't had a lot of takers. There's been cops, but this guy," she said looking over at him and pointing, "he--"

Nearly knocking her down, he slapped her hard enough across the face to blowback her hair and leave a handprint on her pretty cheek. The expression on her face went from shock to anger to submission. It was then that Frank knew she had been beaten before, probably as a little girl because in an instant, she was somewhere else. Disappearing within her sad self, her pimp could do anything to her and she'd never feel it. He had seen enough of this show to know he'd intercede and help her.

"You don't give me excuses, bitch. You just give me my money," he said grabbing her purse and taking what little money she had, before tossing it back at her.

He grabbed and pulled open the front of her blouse and stuck his hand down her bra.

"All you whores hide my money on me."

"All I have is what you took. I'm not hiding any money. I swear. That's all there is. You took my last dollar, I have no more," she said palming the five dollars that Frank had given her.

"Hell you ain't," he said reaching up to hit her again.

"Don't do that," said Frank.

"Say what?" The pimp looked over at him, before turning back to Robin and slapping her again, this time even harder. He turned towards Frank and, with a nod of his head, gave him a hard look. "You a cop?"

"Nope," said Frank standing.

"Unless you're buying, best you get your white ass off my street, old man."

"I told you not to do that and you did," said Frank stepping down from the top step and squaring up on the sidewalk in front of him. Slowly, he shook his head, as if he was tired of having to correct the bad behavior of others by teaching them a lesson they'd never forget.

Able to sever his emotions, a man you'd never see coming, Frank had a relaxed, calm, matter of fact manner about him. A waste of energy that interfered with what he had to do, it served no purpose to get angry. He had the dead-eyed stare that Javier Bardhem had in No Country For Old Men, when he played Anton Chigurh, the man with the cattle gun, who fired compressed air to kill his victims. A walking, talking, breathing weapon, Frank didn't need a cattle gun to kill someone.

Sensitive about his age, he didn't like being called old man. The last man who called him old is no longer breathing. Admittedly nearer to sixty than he was to forty, he could do anything a man half his age could do without breaking a sweat.

The pimp moved his shirt aside to show Frank the butt of a handgun. Unless this guy was a quick draw, the gun was useless where it was. The sight of the handgun was all Frank needed to go into automatic mode, kill or be killed. As if a fast forward movie played across his mind, he saw all the faceless dead men and women, who made the fatal mistake of pulling a weapon on him.

He wasn't a cop. He was a Marine in a war zone and in war to save his neighborhood. He didn't have to warn his victim first, before launching his attack, a preemptive strike, that left little doubt in the mind of the victim, who had just been attacked by Frank, that he was lucky to have survived and still be alive.

Usually a fatal mistake anywhere else outside the United States, Desmond made a mistake in showing Frank his gun, a telltale sign that he was too much of a coward to use it. Much like Arnold Schwarzenegger, when he played Julius Benedict in Twins, against the Klane brothers, this man had no respect for logic. Defenseless even when possessing a handgun, this poor excuse of a man wasn't even trained in life and death, hand-to-hand combat to give him the time to draw it and the opportunity to use it.

"You don't tell me what to do with my woman, asshole," said the pimp walking up to Frank and shouting. "And you don't tell me what to do on my street and in my neighborhood," he said jabbing a stiff index finger in Frank's chest, leaving it there and turning it, as if it was a corkscrew. "You dig?"

Suddenly, the neighborhood was alive with people watching. Frank didn't have to look away from his intended target to know there were eyes staring to see what would happen. He could feel them. An innate level of awareness, as if walking in a hamlet or a village with little or no cover, as if having eyes behind his head, he had the benefit of a sixth sense, when confronted with danger in a life and death situation. Like rats hiding in a hole, not only did he know they were there but also he knew where they all were.

Looking nowhere else but in the man's eyes, Frank could see all he needed to see with his peripheral vision. With Desmond already showing Frank his violent intention, the fight was over before it began. Even though the man towered over him by a good six inches, had him by more than 50 pounds, and was half his age, in one fluid motion, as if performing a choreographed dance, faster than a blink of an eye, Frank snapped the man's finger's, bent him forward with a sidekick that crushed his kneecap, broke his nose with a head butt, and busted out both his eardrums with a two handed, cupped clap to his ears.

If he felt threatened, if he had wanted to kill him, he would have given him a fatal chop to his neck or a deadly palm to his chest. Allowing him to live, instead, he took his gun away from him for good measure, before reaching in his pockets and taking his money, too.

"This isn't your street, shithead. I live here. This is my street and my neighborhood, and my name isn't asshole, it's Captain Frank Parker," he said nearly lifting the man off the ground with a one handed choke hold to his neck.

"You lied to me. You're a cop," he said with blood gushing from his nose and his ears.

"I told you I'm not a cop. I'm a Marine and if I see you on my street again, now that I have your gun, I'll kill you with your own weapon. You dig? Who are the police going to believe a decorated war hero or you, a lowlife pimp, who hits women?"

He tossed the man sideways across the sidewalk. Desmond crawled back in his car and left faster than he came.

"Why'd you do that?"

"Why? I just saved your skinny ass," he said handing her the money and when she wouldn't take it, he grabbed her wrist and stuffed it in her hand.

Her face was red and swollen from where Desmond slapped her. She could use some ice to reduce the swelling and lessen the pain.

"My skinny ass didn't need saving, Frank," she said with tears welling up in her eyes and putting the money in her purse. "Now I have no one to protect me. I can't make any money. And I have no place to stay."

"Stay? You were staying with him?"

"Yeah, a bunch of us girls live together in an apartment he rents. We have nowhere else to go. He takes all our money in exchange for a place to live and food to eat."

"I have a spare room," said Frank. "You can stay with me."

That was the start of their co-dependent relationship. The one thing that Frank needed that was missing from his life was a woman. Both a work in progress, they helped one another. Frank even turned down his Colonel to go to Pakistan to stay home with Robin.

Instead, she was his mission and he accompanied her to get her things. Fortunately for Desmond, he wasn't there to receive another beating. After she was cleaned up and ate regularly, she filled out and turned out to be a very pretty woman. Prettier even than his ex-wife, she was the prettiest woman that Frank ever had.

Not wanting to be like the rest of the men in her life, he gave her some space and respected her privacy. That first night, the gentleman that he is, he gave her his bed and he took the couch. With her sleeping in the next room, if he had trouble sleeping before, he was definitely having trouble sleeping now.

He wondered what she wore to bed. He wondered if she was naked. He wondered if she was thinking about him, in the way that he was thinking about her. He couldn't stop thinking about her. Now that she's here, now what? Thinking with his cock, instead of his brain, what was he thinking to get involved with her?

Will she just stay the night and leave in the morning? Where will she go? Who will she go with? Will she continue being a prostitute, working out of his apartment and taking guys home with her, whenever he wasn't there? Will she use him, in the way that so many men have used her?

Still, even though he knew it was wrong, even though she was younger than his youngest daughter, he was horny for her. There was something that he really liked about her. Her voice, the way she moved, and how she looked excited him. Horny just thinking about her pretty face and big tits, he should have taken her up on her offer of a blowjob. He could use a release right now.

He was so horny for her that he'd pay to have sex with her but that would make him no better than her pimp. He wished he could have more than that with her, a real relationship, something he thought he had with his ex-wife. Because of his job, with him being away so much and because of his rage, when he was home, finally, he was unable to have a loving relationship with a woman before. Thinking about not re-upping, retiring from the military instead, and not going back to active duty, he could have a relationship with her now.

Yet, what in the Hell would a young, good looking woman want with an old, broken down man like him? Why would Robin want him? It wasn't bad enough that he had anger issues from the effects of Post Traumatic Stress, he was a trained killer.

Thinking about her sucking him, while he fondled her big boobs, he started fingering his cock through his underwear. Not needing much sleep, anyway, accustomed to sleeping with one eye and both ears open, Frank was a light sleeper. Tired from thinking too much about re-upping or retiring, he finally closed his eyes and slept for a few minutes. When he opened his eyes, she was standing at the end of the couch in her nightgown watching him sleep.

"I can't sleep," she said with a sad smile.

As if she was naked, the moonlight from the window behind her revealed every contour of her slim but curvaceous body through her sheer nightgown.

"Why not?"

Accustomed to seeing in dim light, he couldn't help but stare at the mountainous impressions her huge breasts made in her nightgown. With her nipples pushing against the shear fabric of the material, he wondered if she was cold or excited.

"I never slept in a bed before."

The irony of a hooker, who had never slept in a bed before didn't escape him and he thought it funny.

"Seriously? You never slept in a bed before? Where'd you sleep?"

He imagined her a vampire and sleeping upside down in a closet or in a closed coffin.

"When I lived with my Mom, I always slept on the sofa or the floor. She always had company, if you know what I mean. Then, I was homeless for a while, lived on the street, until Desmond found me sleeping on a bench in the bus terminal and offered me a place to stay. Not a real bed, all he had were mattresses on the floor."

He imagined a half dozen mattresses side by side with two prostitutes to a mattress, pick-a-dilly.

"So, what's wrong with my bed?"

"It's too hard. Besides beds are only for fucking and I'm horny," she said with a sexy smile.

Good God, she's horny. Frank thought of all the things he'd do to her to help her through her horniness, while satisfying his sexual desire for her.

"Robin, I--"

"Can you sleep with me? Please? I'll make it worth your while...Frank," she said pausing before saying his name.

One never at a loss for words, he was too excited with the thoughts of sleeping with her to think of what to say now. It almost didn't matter to him, if she really wanted him or was using him. Seeing her standing in the moonlight in her nearly transparent nightgown was a vision come true.

"I don't think--"

"Don't worry," she said. "You don't have to pay me."

It bothered him that she played the prostitute card. He didn't see her as a hooker. He saw her more as a desirable, young woman, someone who he was interested in developing a serious relationship and for her to mention money soured his desire for her.

"I don't intend to pay you for something you should learn how to give to a special guy for free."

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