Torment Me (Rough Love 1)

That’s what he said, but all I really absorbed was “I can make you feel.” Just today, he had made me feel terrified, and relieved, and anxious, and jealous, and comforted, and right now, content. I realized that was why I kept coming back for these sessions. That was why I wanted so badly to see his face, because I needed to see the person who finally, finally forced me to feel something authentic.

How long since I’d felt such intense emotion? To be a prostitute, you had to deaden your feelings. To live with an addict, to love an addict, you had to deaden your feelings. I’d been stuffing down my emotions for so long that it felt like a dangerous thing to let them out. I didn’t weep the way I wanted to. I didn’t let my body convulse into sobs, but tears trailed down my cheeks and fell onto the comforter, turning it a darker hue.

My tears didn’t seem to bother W. He turned me over and pulled me into his arms, and swiped them away without comment, even when they kept coming. Most johns didn’t want anything to do with you once they’d gotten off. Ninety-nine percent of johns didn’t want to hold you afterward, especially if you were crying.

W, obviously, wasn’t like most johns.

Do not develop feelings for him, Chere. Don’t even. I mean, what the fuck?

I slowly emerged from my emotional breakdown orgasmic stupor and realized we were way, way over time. Almost an hour over time. Careless, to get lost in him. Let one session slide, and he would expect more things to slide. It would get messed up and awkward and screwed.

I didn’t have to say anything to him. He was an experienced escort consumer. He knew as soon as I sat up that it was time for him to go. I went into the bathroom, limping over the occasional stray pearl. It was fun to go to Orgasm Land with W, but it was time to return to the real world, where I was an escort and he was my customer. A poorly behaved customer, sometimes.

And then…sometimes…

He was dressed when I came out. Shirt and pants, no tie. I was pretty sure I’d ruined it when I tried to chew through it. It was in the plastic laundry service bag, along with his wet trunks.

He turned over a sheet of paper on the table and started writing. “I’ll pay you for the extra time,” he said.

“You don’t have to. We’re not supposed to go over. Henry will blame me.”

He turned to me with a derisive expression. “What’s he going to do? Fire you?”

“He’ll make me feel guilty,” I said, which was the truth. “But he wouldn’t fire me. It’s my choice whether to work for him or not.”

W rolled his eyes and looked back at what he was writing. “I’ll leave an extra big tip then,” he finally said. “You earned it this time.”

He didn’t say that with any special emotion, but my throat went tight. This had been a tough session. It was nice to hear him acknowledge all I’d gone through to get him off. He folded up whatever he’d written and brought it over, and held it out to me.

“Are we okay?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

I nodded and took the paper. “Poetry?”

“Yes. Maybe a little bit of an apology.”

I thought back to the previous poems, quickly scrawled, or written on my back. He wasn’t copying this shit from his phone, or from a book. He was writing it from memory.

“How many poems are in your head?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. He just placed a hand on either side of my head, kissed me on the forehead, and walked out the door.

In Between

I stayed at the Empire that night, because I had too much crap to work through in my mind. I couldn’t risk going home and finding Simon in one of his moods. I couldn’t deal with his shit on top of mine.

I lay instead with W’s poetry on the pillow beside me.

I’d rather have the dream of you

With faint stars glowing

I’d rather have the want of you

The rich, elusive taunt of you

God, he never gave me enough. His snippets never made sense, never explained anything. What did this mean, that he didn’t want me? That he only wanted the “dream” of me? I didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. His poems never made me feel good, only confused.

Speaking of confused, why had I decided to stay here at the Empire, and sleep on this bed where W had done such horrible things to me?

But he hadn’t done them, not really. The Texas stranger had done them. Somehow the two of them had become separate in my head, which was fucked up, because they were the same person, and I should have been furious with that person. I should have stayed angry longer. The first time Simon hit me, I stayed angry for days, and then the rationalization started. Was I doing the same thing here? Rationalizing W’s behavior because I didn’t want to let him go?