Writer's Block

The hair stood up on the back of my neck, and I could have slapped her grinning face. She had no right to assume things about me, but then, I realized I had done the same to her. My curiosity melted the angry lump clogging my throat.

"No, Laya, I blankly conceded, "I'm not here to take my failed marriage out on you. But everything else you said is true." Hoping to redirect things, I took out my legal pad.

"What's that for?" she asked, curious.

"Just some things I want to probe with you about. You're right, I am planning to write a book, and I'm looking for the right subject; a woman who has sex for money but whose deeper passion is other women."

"All right, I guess that's me. But there has to be something more. Lots of dykes turn tricks with men for cash," she said smiling.

"My editor thought you'd be articulate enough—and willing. It will take some time, Laya." She frowned, her look, impatient.

"Peter is very handsome. I'm in love with him, but he doesn't know it. I make him think I just want his money. He tips me five-hundred dollars! Anyway, I don't know how much time I can devote to this, Heather." As if leaving a bad taste, her face pinched as she said my name. "I don't like your name," she said. I think I'll call you Thea, is that OK?

"Sure, whatever," I answered, just wanting to get on with it.

"Good, so, Thea, what did you want to talk about? We're on the clock now, and I charge four-hundred an hour if there's no sex involved.

"Do I get frequent flyer miles with that?" I asked mockingly.

Laya, relaxing, grinned and tittered. "They SHOULD give you frequent FUCKER miles, Thea."

Extending as warm a smile as I could muster, I said, "Let's stick with a few questions, if you don't mind." As I was about to begin my inquest, her cell phone rang, halting our already limited momentum.

"You can't be serious," I said.

"Don't be so New-Yorkish, Thea," Laya replied, as she brought the phone to her ear. Listening to her side of the exchange, I hid my mounting aggravation.

"Hello...yes Mr. Guron, yes...no, half an hour will be fine, the usual attire? No? Well, well. Don't make me bring my riding crop...all right, I'll see you then."

"Sorry about this, Thea," she said, "but I need to run. Listen, I know I fucked up this first meeting, but at least we know each other. I feel better if that matters at all, and I'm willing to continue if you are."

She stood up from the booth and straightened her dress. "I hate this thing; it makes me feel like I'm going to church. I love your hair, by the way, it's so red, and I love redheads—bet your pussy tastes like cherries. Listen, I need to meet this guy, so I'll be tied up for a while. Get it? Tied up? Anyway, can we resume later? I haven't scared you off, have I?"

"No," I admitted, shaking my head.

"Good. Let's meet at another place." Seizing my notepad, she scribbled something.

I read it aloud. "Bathtub Gin & Company."

"It's on 2nd Ave. Every Uber driver knows it. Be there at seven."

Nodding curtly and suppressing my growing admiration, I eyed the crazy girl's shapely behind as she strolled off.

Part III

I spent the rest of the afternoon alone, glued to my laptop. The meeting with Laya had not gone well, but I conceded that perhaps my expectations were too ambitious for a starter summit. Despite her prickliness, the mysterious girl inspired me to push on.

Within an hour, I had every little detail from our first encounter on my screen, including the way her eyes angrily flashed at the mention of the word, 'whore,' all as she maintained a persistent smile.

Furthermore, I chronicled her smile, full lips, lashes, thick and long—her perfect white skin. I recalled how her knee bumped mine, its warmth traveling up my leg. It was not unlike the stir I recollected from when my girlfriend, Kait, purchased me a girl during my bachelorette party at 'Rick's Cabaret' before my wedding, the one whose hands roamed my body like dueling snakes, leaving me wet, something I never revealed to Russell.

Most importantly, now I knew Laya, at least a little, and I understood she moved at Warp speed. Peter was right about her qualities; however, she had not allowed me the opportunity to learn whether she would open. That remained to be seen.

Part of me thought it was a matter of geography. Had I met her in New York, on my home turf, with its attitude, crowding, and mindless hustle, she might have been the one off-balance. Here, I was the one out of place. Reflecting on our abbreviated encounter, I conceded she had played me just enough to retain the upper hand.

Staring into space, I spent the afternoon picking apart the details of her high-powered performance. She interested me, though I was not ready to admit it to her—too risky, I thought. Besides, her volatility alone spoke volumes about the likelihood of our working relationship falling to pieces. Tempting as she was, our exchange had lasted only a few minutes—not enough for me to view her as the central character of my book.

As evening approached, I prepared for our second meeting. I had packed one evening dress, a sky blue empire cut number with thick white lines slashing diagonally across the fabric. It was just enough to make my skin look soft and lit my eyes like Fourth of July fireworks. The tight strapless top fit my boobs perfectly and barely hid my cleavage, something I had grown fonder of flaunting since the divorce.

As promised, Laya was waiting for me at BG&C. She was dressed more in the manner Peter had described, attired in a stunning tight, black, one-piece dress.

In the small spaces between the ribbings, the material was thin enough to catch a glimpse of her white bra. It had a deep, U-shaped neckline, evidence of the daring and risqué woman I sensed I was onto after this morning's stormy encounter.

Laya had one leg folded over the other, her short hemline stretched tightly like spider silk, rode high up on her thighs, affording little coverage. It was not a dress meant for sitting—but sitting she was. My instant thought was that she was not wearing a dress at all; it was an exclamation point representing Laya's freewheeling sexuality.

Her table choice was interesting; it was not in some far off, dimly lit corner, but smackdab in the middle of the place, directly beneath a robust and unflattering light. She was already halfway through a scotch when I greeted her. Glancing about the place, I seated myself.

"Laya," I said, mustering a friendly smile and shaking her hand, "I can tell you don't like doing things quietly."

"It's my usual seat." She shrugged, "I like attention, Thea." Her handshake was tentative but firm.

The waiter approached, and I ordered a straight-up vodka martini as I pulled a notebook from my bag. "I'll have one too," she added. "You go right to work, don't you, Thea?" she murmured, her eyes brightening in girlish anticipation.

"I hoped to have the preliminaries out of the way this morning, but your, ah... schedule interfered."

"Maybe just a little," she said, a glint of mischief in her bright eyes. "So, have you picked up on it? On the scent?"

I had, but having grown tired of her games, I pretended I did not understand the question. "What scent are you talking about, Laya?" I asked, my eyes disingenuously searching the menu.

"Don't be naïve, Thea," she pouted. "If we're going to do this, we need to be friends. And friends need to be honest with each other. We might as well start here. So, answer me...can you smell it?"

"All right," I remarked, arrogantly throwing an arm over the back of my chair. Though instantaneously readjusting my body language, I knew she had already spotted it, the defensiveness I was guilty of exhibiting since Russ left. Steadying things, I blurted, "You smell like fucking, Laya! There, is that what you want me to say? I know you got laid today."

"Finally, we're getting somewhere; I do smell like sex, Thea," Laya countered, her eyes blinking mockery.

Shrugging off her comment and returning my eyes to the menu, I projected indifference. "It's not really what you smell, is it? Say so. Be honest; don't be embarrassed for a change—tell me what you smell."

Looking up and directly into her eyes, I griped, saying, "All right, you smell like sex."

"No, I don't, Thea. You really can't say it, can you."

Glaring, I turned blunt: "I smell sperm, Laya. You're swimming in it—or rather, it's swimming in you!"

Satisfied, she smiled and picking up the menu, her rejoinder following smartly: "Maybe I should have been a dentist, Heather. Dealing with you is like pulling teeth. Remember that guy who called during our first meeting this morning? Well, I fucked him. An hour after that, I fucked another guy. The second guy came in my ass, so you're not just sniffing cum; it's a cum cocktail, a super-naughty combination."

"You mean you don't use..."

She barreled through my question, "Nope. And I blew them, too. And I swallowed and still have the smack of cum in my mouth. That's why I drink scotch. It's godawful swill, but it cleanses better than Listerine. Don't you think guys would be disgusted if they knew how recycled I was before fucking them? They expect classy hookers to be clean, and we're not always clean. Sometimes we're studies in bareback to bareback—ha-ha!

"Each chooses to think he's my only client for the day," she continued, "but sometimes I barely have time to scrub the semen off my tits with a handy-wipe before I'm on to the next one. Sometimes it leaks out of me, like right now.

"Isn't this moment full of contrasts, Thea? I mean, you're sitting here, a complete prude—dressed like a flirt, while I leak some married stranger's jizz."

"Stop it, Laya," I half-shouted. "Point taken, OK? I get it. I agree; we can cut the bullshit and talk openly. It's what I want too. Now, can we get to work?" She settled back in her chair and returned to scanning the menu.

"The chicken cordon bleu is excellent," she commented as the waiter placed martinis on our table.

Having finally opened a rational dialogue, Laya explained how she had gotten into the business, how she initially worked for an agency called 'Campus Cuties' and had since become an independent contractor, taking appointments and making her own rules.

"Look," she said, pointing to the tallish, good-looking man standing at the bar. "Watch."

Standing, she dumped her drink into my glass and strolled over to him. A brief moment later, while engaging the stranger, she had the bartender mixing her a martini and had the stranger pulling his credit card to pay for it. Glancing my way, the man smiled. A few minutes after that, Laya, triumphant, returned to our table.

"You're not having your period, are you, Thea?"

"No, ah...why do you ask?"

"Because he likes you, wants to meet you—to fuck you."

"He wants to meet—fuck, me?"

I did not know the man, and though there was something peculiarly familiar about him, intimacy involving some stranger was the last thing on my mind. I blanched. "He is sort of handsome, Laya, and I won't say the thought of sleeping with someone isn't tempting; it is."

Stunned at my own honesty, I vacillated, and Laya struck again. "Thea, now that we're being frank and all, I thought it might be the right time to bring something up. It's kind of important."

"And what's that, Laya?" I asked, assuming she had just lapsed back into her unique brand of prankstership.

"I have an idea for your book; I mean, you're asking me questions about my work, but it's stuff everybody knows. The fact is, you and I are from different worlds, and frankly, we've had a little trouble connecting, wouldn't you say?" Knowing she was right, I nodded.

"And?"

"Heather, you need to join me when I fuck the guy at the bar!"

"No way! I don't think so," I snapped. "I could never have sex with a complete stranger, not with another woman present."

"Don't be so fucking standoffish, not until you've heard me out. And pay attention for a change. I just let that guy pick me up. I lied to him. He thinks we're both escorts, that we work as a team."

Placing my elbows on the white linen tablecloth, I leaned forward menacingly. "As a what?"

"Once he glanced over and saw your amazing tits, I knew he'd go for it. Besides, he loves redheads. And you're pretty. Come with me. He's staying at the hotel across the street. He's agreed to pay for two girls. He will double the fee if we don't make him wear a condom.

"Frankly," she continued, "I don't think he's completely comfortable with, well, just me. I'm too young for him, and he has a wife at home and, well, you know how it is. He'll just feel better about it if you're involved—it will be less personal, so he won't feel as guilty about cheating. Besides, men don't often get to have two girls, right?"

I looked at her in astonishment, partly because her proposal was outrageous—and partly because I was considering it.

Ignoring the look on my face, she persisted. "I told you I would be honest, and I've decided you need to know the reason why I don't take you seriously."

"Why are you being such a bitch, Laya?" I asked.

"I don't respect you," she replied. "Think about it; you've come to me acting like you can write about something you don't know a thing about. You come across like a typical outsider, an idiot. You would to any call girl.

"Look, unless you're willing to have sex for money, you'll never break into the world I live in. Don't you see? A thing's not real until you do it—until you experience it for yourself. You need a stranger's cock. That's all that's wrong with you, Thea. You're a prude. You haven't had to sell yourself as real women do. Real women trade sex for things—lots of things...nice cars, credit cards, comfortable marriages—you need to get real—to be real."

Hiding a fit of disbelief, I refocused and, astonishingly, blurted the unthinkable. "You're right, Laya...but I think..."

"...don't think, Thea! For a change, just do it. Let's make some money, and then I promise I'll show you who I am. You can write your bestseller, and I'll be happy for you. Plus, I'll be a big celebrity or something, right?"

Silent, I sat back in my chair, and with my heart pounding, I scrambled for a way to appear calm while at the same time bursting with nervous excitement at the thought of joining a group sex scene. "I'll do it," I heard myself say. "But under one condition, tell no one—not ever. And never tell Peter. Promise me!"

"I promise," she answered, and standing up, a look of satisfaction crossed her face. "Although, if the world finds out you fucked for money, your book will positively flush from Amazon."

Wondering if I had lost my mind, I gazed wide-eyed as Laya strolled back over to the man. He picked up our tab, and the three of us held hands as we crossed the street to the Mediterranean Inn.

Part IV

Justin happened to be a gracious man who did not say very much during what was, for me, a distressing journey up the elevator. He seemed more comfortable than I expected, and wrapping his arm around my waist; I gave in to a woman's need to be taken. Frankly, to be held by a nice-looking man with a strong jaw and distinguished eyebrows felt good, a bit like a first date.

He dressed well. His perfectly cut suit worked for his muscular body, yet there was a delicacy about his strong hands, their warmth, distinguishing. From time to time, and as if to reveal something, he leaned over to me but stopped as his nose touched my hair. Then, he would turn away and, just as affectionately nuzzle as Laya, using the elevator door's chrome sheen as a mirror, fussed with her makeup.

When the elevator dinged, Laya's makeshift mirror slid into hiding to reveal the lobby of the grandest hotel room I had seen since my honeymoon.

"My God, Thea," Laya, dropping her purse, squealed, "it's the presidential suite!"

"Get comfortable, girls," Justin instructed.

My body thrummed with vulnerability and excitement. I was wet at the thought of sex and wondered if he had any idea who I was, if he had read my books, if he really thought I was a hooker.

None of it, I decided, really mattered. This was not New York; it was Laya's world—the one into which I willingly stepped. To Justin, yes, I was an escort...a hooker...a whore; now, it was all that mattered. It was a relief to let go, to shift gears—to ride the rails of the Laya Express in a rush of feeling.

Justin led us into the vast room's foyer, and moving slightly ahead, Laya lifted the hem of her dress, revealing glimpses of her lacy blue panties.

"I'm going to mix us a drink; what would you two like?" Justin asked.

"Water," Laya said. "Something stiff," I said, adding, "I can use it tonight."

"Something stiff; I like it," he countered with a smile. "I can supply that if you girls cooperate."

As Justin walked away, I grew paranoid, and straightaway grabbing Laya's arm, I pulled her close. "We don't know this guy; maybe Justin's the Unabomber—or worse!"

"Does he feel like the Unabomber, Thea?" she dismissively asked. "I know about these things, and he's not a bad man or something; he's just some guy whose foolish wife limits their sex life, that's all. Wives like her keep me—us—in business. Just get that hot pussy ready; the rest will happen naturally. Is she wet?"

My grin gave her her answer, but my concerns lingered. "Shit, Laya, what about condoms?"

"I told you, no condoms!" she insisted. "It's the deal I made with him. He's married, so we don't need condoms; he's safe...safer. Besides, he's kicked in an additional three hundred if we let him come in us. You're on the pill, right?"

"Yes, but..."

"...no buts!" she ordered. Glancing beyond me to where Justin busied himself with our drinks, she added, "Listen; when I start to giggle, make like we just finished kissing."

Without waiting for a reaction, Laya, jumping the gun, giggled, and placing her hand on my neck, we brought our noses together. As we touched, I felt the married man watching.

Something about a male audience encouraged me, and I kissed Laya's chin and lips, just hard enough to taste her sweetness. I also tasted the bouquet of sperm from Laya's other clients just then intruding on tonight's little drama. Turning my head, I looked back to see whether Justin was following the show. He was.

Laya, whispering, asked, "Sure you're ready for this?" There was no going back. With my fate sealed, I took a breath and nodded.

By then, Justin, holding drinks, approached. After setting them down, he looked directly at us and said, "Undress, bitches—both of you need to be naked."

My first thought was to slap his face, but I made the mistake of conveying that impulse to Laya, who, reading my glower, shot me a look of encouragement. "All right," I conceded, and staring at the mysterious girl, I let her know my next move was meant for her—not for this married stranger we had picked up across the street and whose cock we were about to suck.

Smiling coquettishly, the kittenish Laya placed her finger on my chin and sliding a nail down the length of my neck; she passed my collarbone and then continued down to my cleavage, where she hooked it into the top of my dress. Tugging the fabric, she pulled it away from my body and did what I had just done—tuned out the man we intended to make use of and whose money we intended to celebrate with.

I blushed at the thought that I was taking another step into Laya's dark and gripping world.

A moment later, my breasts came free and Laya, using both hands, pulled the top of my dress down and over my hips. Fascinated at my own misbehavior, I let it fall to the floor in a bunch.

"My turn," I whispered.

Expertly freeing Laya's buttons and clasps, and with her dress about to fall away, I hesitated, and holding it in place, I shut my eyes and battled against a final scrap of stubborn anxiety.