As unsavory as the deal was, the woman has been true to her word. No known disclosure of the web address... no request/demand for more money... and the clue... inspiring one of the many games that Ramona Cortez enjoys... was emailed forthrightly.
‘Take a walk in New York’s most noted park. I suggest a sunny weekend afternoon.’
The words meant nothing to Pablo Escobar. He engaged professional help. And now, gazing at the photo of Renee, the money seems to be well spent.
“Eduardo,” Escobar’s booming voice summoning his security commander, as he writes a message.
“Yes boss,” the ex soldier stepping into the vast tiled living room with haste.
“Go to the village, buy a disposable phone, and send this message to the number at the top.”
No one on Escobar’s staff, not even his most trusted lieutenants, knows of the homoerotic debauchery in New York. It will stay that way. Only his New York agent is aware of the intense desire to find some girl named ‘Renee’, the reason withheld.
A loyal Eduardo departs. Escobar sits and ponders, looking at his phone, rereading the message. Something is bothersome and it finally dawns...
His agent was given the clue and instructed to find a girl, offering one of Ramona Cortez’s less provocative photo’s, lengthy description as well... height, weight, hair color, style, etc... along with the suggestion that she could possibly be involved in the sex trade.
Yet... the text message received... I’ve got your boy!
***
New York, New York
Renee/Robert Warren
I arise with giddiness on Sunday morning. Though my mind reels in wonderment, I am physically calm and relaxed. Ridding myself of all that male goo? Obviously no orgasm to be had... but can the elimination indeed bring the castrated male to a glow of contentment similar to that of the ejaculating intact male? Sergeant Kelly had me drooling for nearly an hour... I believe I became as drained as with Nurse Sueann’s milkings.
Prior internet searches offered little information. It seems there is no scientific funding available to determine the level of sex drive and the needs of the neutered.
But I have a new friend! Sergeant Kelly! Commanding, authoritative, certainly not shrinking from the quirkiness... the kinkiness... of the demented needs I have developed.
After the extensive photo exposition, she took notes as she cross examined.
As a result she knows everything... adding to her knowledge of my name and address all available phone numbers... place of employment... type of employment... supervisor’s name... doctor’s name and address... counselor’s name and address... even Molly my hair dresser was duly entered into her notes.
Not disclosed... the regal Ramona Cortez... the imposing Maria Sanchez... and certainly not the frightening encounter with Pablo Escobar.
Our tête-à-tête ended with a warning similar to that offered to my prospect in the park... ‘from the 65th Street bypass down to Park Central South, you’re in my territory. So pass through with care... and keep your hands... and everything else clean.’
Offered in the patois of New York police enforcement, I suspect the advisement comes often. And in understanding her proposed arrangement, I will indeed refrain from seeking the sultry thrill of exposing myself and soliciting the resulting attention my loneliness craves.
‘I’ll stop in from time to time. When my shift ends – you’ll fix me a drink... make me dinner. I like to be served,’ my heart leaping as she first tweaked then continuously played with my right nipple and then left.’
She then stepped to the door, ending what could have been a most traumatic ordeal.
‘And clothing... you’ll need none... and you’ll feel better.’
Yes, she knows me... so aware of my needs.
***
Co workers look my way as my phone rings. I ignore their inquisitive gazes and answer.
Yes, it is Sergeant Kelly, as I suspected. Payable clerks receive few business calls... just paperwork.
“Buy me a bottle of wine... white... otherwise nothing special. Most times don’t know what I am drinking, but it soothes. You going to entertain me, little girl? Be naked and pretty for me...” the suggestive timber of her voice not in any way resembling that articulated when considering my arrest.
“Yes... Ma’am,” offered my sotto voce.