Torment Me (Rough Love 1)

He stood up then and went into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. He’d gotten what he wanted—oral without condoms, pending his test results. No need to lie beside me and pretend to be nice anymore.

“Are you coming in?” he yelled over the water.

Hell no, I wasn’t “coming in.” Boundaries, you asshole. I’d shower after he was gone, because if I went in there now and got in the shower with him, he’d start kissing me and being lovey-dovey and I’d fall for it hook, line, and sinker, which would only give him the chance to mock me again.

I must have fallen asleep to the sound of the shower. By the time I woke, the room was dark and silent. Empty.

I sat up, feeling grungy and unsettled. He’d left the key for me on the table. He always left the key so I could stay if I wanted, but I was looking for something else. My poetry. Why hadn’t he left me any poetry?

I was disappointed enough to turn and look at my back in the mirror. When I didn’t find any words, I inspected my entire body, as if I wouldn’t have woken up while he was writing on me. No. Nothing. Nothing but a bunch of ugly bamboo welts.

Well, this had certainly been an ego-bashing session. I thought he’d at least leave me with some poetry, something he’d picked out especially for this fucked-up moment between us, but he hadn’t, and I was left feeling small and ridiculous again. Ugh.

I took a long shower and tried to summon the glamorous, sexy Miss Kitty from the depths of my despair. Men paid a lot of money to spend time with me, to sleep with me. I had clients who paid just to take me out to dinner and have conversation. I was worth something besides fucking. I was kind and caring. I cared for Simon, who was a mess, and I didn’t complain about it.

I tried to build myself up, tried to avoid pitching into a depressive spiral. I felt a little better once I dried my hair and put my dress back on. It was a gorgeous dress, and it looked good on me. If W didn’t like it, he could go fuck himself. Someone would like it. I decided that I needed to be around people tonight, happy, uncomplicated people who didn’t know me as Miss Kitty, or Chere, or anybody.

I wasn’t a huge drinker, but tonight, I was going to the Gansevoort bar.

In Between

The Gansevoort’s rooftop bar wasn’t the scene it was in its heyday, but it was classy and elegant, and a really nice place to chill out under the night sky. Patrons crowded the tables, but it didn’t feel suffocating, and the sultry, jazzy music created a laid-back vibe. There were plenty of dark places and alcoves to hide in if you felt like it, but I sat at the main bar. I needed to be seen. I wanted to be admired. W was right about that, he was just too mean and sadistic about throwing it in my face.

The bartender smiled at me as he handed over my Old Fashioned. See, a friendly smile. That was all I needed. I felt some taut misery within me begin to uncoil. I knew in my heart that I was more than an escort. I was more than a “whore,” as W was so fond of saying. He didn’t know how much those careless comments poked at my tender spots. Or…wait. He probably did, which was exactly why he said them.

The dirty, depressing truth was that I hated escorting. The money was good, sure, but the work was so soul-deadening. So many of my clients annoyed me or disgusted me, and I felt disgusted by myself when I played along with their fantasies and desires. The whole thing was just so fake. I didn’t feel okay about my life. I didn’t feel authentic when I was playing that damn Miss Kitty role, because that wasn’t me.

And W was the one who’d made me face these truths, with his blatant disdain for my Miss Kitty persona and my profession. W was to blame for ninety-five percent of my unsettled feelings at the moment, which freaking made me mad. It’s not like I could quit and do something else. I had no degrees, no qualifications, no way to do any other job that would pay me enough to support Simon. I had to keep escorting until he made it through this rough patch, but maybe, just maybe, he was on the other side of it. He’d started painting with more energy and inspiration, getting ready for his show at Boris White’s gallery.

If Simon could straighten out his shit, get cleaned up and start making money again, then I’d feel more secure about killing Miss Kitty. I could go back to school, study fashion or art or design, and start a new career where things could be beautiful rather than squalid. W had told me he worked in design. If the two of us could have talked, really talked like friends, I might have asked him about design careers. But no, that wasn’t happening because he wasn’t my friend.