Loading...Another hot one, 3 in a row, it was an official summer heat wave, after just having had one last week and the week before. Judging by the extended weather forecast, next week didn’t offer much relief from the 90 plus degree, high humidity weather. The kind of day that Frank could fry an egg on the sidewalk, he’d be too hot to eat it.
He was looking forward to seeing snow; it had been a while since he saw any. Yet, he should have a problem. He was alive, when so many of his best buddies were dead. Compared to what he endured during his 4 tours of desert duty in Afghanistan and Iraq and before that, during the Gulf War, in Kuwait, and special op missions in between, this weather was a relief.
Now that he was finally home, the chow he had here was better than eating baby food, mushy ready-to-eat meals, MRE’s. Still coughing up and spitting out sand, he was looking forward to grilling out later. A linguist with an expert ear for dialects, fluent in 10 languages, he could curse in Pashto, Dari, Arabic, Kurdish, Urdu, French, Italian, Spanish, German, and English. Even at his age, with his skills, he was still highly regarded by the CIA and a dozen private, mercenary outfits, that pay by body count, dead or alive. They all enticed him with money to return to active duty.
This hot summer weather was nothing like the deadly weather Frank endured, when wearing a vest and a helmet, carrying a weapon, and shouldering a full backpack of gear when in country, all while watching his ass and protecting the backs of his buddies. Relaxing, but never fully relaxed, always on edge, he remained vigilant. Continually on and never off, he couldn’t help himself, that’s how he was trained to be.
With his back to the wall, much in the way how Wild Bill Hickok sat when playing poker in the saloon, so that no one could surprise him from behind and shoot him in the back, he sat on his stoop having a beer in his shorts and tee shirt, while wearing his ever present unlaced combat boots. Sitting in this way from his perch on the top step, with a commanding view of the street, his back was one side he didn’t have to watch. Normal men hate it when their backs are up against the wall but Frank preferred it. Besides, there was nothing normal about Frank. He was a trained killer, an assassin.
Already in a foul mood, he hated how his old neighborhood had deteriorated in his absence. Hoping to improve his mood, he listened to his favorite team lose a ballgame on the radio. His team losing another game, when in a pennant race, always put him in a lousy mood. Bored and antsy, bouncing off the wall, he was thinking about re-upping. He rubbed the sweat from his crew cut and spat his indecision on the sidewalk.
“Marine Corps! OORAH!”
Programmed to die for his country and for his buddies, removing him from combat was akin to bringing a cage fighter to a formal dance. Out of his element, he didn’t belong here. He more belonged in the desert with his buddies, the guys who understood what they needed to do and did it to survive. The conscience that never came into play then, reared its ugly head now. He was having the headaches and the bad dreams again. He couldn’t sleep.
He took a good look at his street. Foreclosures had taken their toll and every other house on the street was boarded up or had a for sale sign in front. With transients replacing familiar faces, now a stranger in his own neighborhood, he didn’t recognize anyone. Not hard to find, the gutter collected needles and spent condoms; there was litter everywhere. The trees that lined his street were dead or dying. Pit bulls walked wanna-be tough guys and, in a four-on-one confrontation, he convinced the gang members that sold drugs on his street to find another corner in a different neighborhood to do their dirty business. With him home now and on duty 24/7, the Marine has landed, this neighborhood was on its way to being secured.
He grew up here and this used to be a beautiful street with kids playing and families gathering. Now, look at it. Symbolic of the state of the economy and the empty political rhetoric on the war on drugs and on gun control, his old neighborhood was no different than any other slum anywhere in America. A war zone and an unsafe place where residents had to watch their backs, this street could have been a street in Bagdad. What happened to his country?
Frank watched a woman walking on the other side of the street. He didn’t recognize her and even though he never saw her before, he knew what she was. She was a young, pretty thing, petite but with big tits. She was a prostitute. He’s been with enough of them all over the world to recognize their gait and their stare. They all had the same walk and look about them, especially when approaching a potential customer.
“Hi ya, baby,” she said with a wave and a smile, as she neared. “Wanna date?”
There was always a man behind the woman and when he woke up from his drunkenness and put his pants and shoes on to leave, he felt bad about taking advantage of these women. Impossible to overcome what they had endured, he felt bad about leaving them behind to fend for themselves. Yet, if he let his guard down, they’d slit his throat. Had he been somewhere else, anywhere else, he’d take care of their man and set them free. Yet, where would they go and what would they do? Akin to indentured servitude, some women were born into that lifestyle and it was the only life they knew.
Suddenly, his mind morphed into a stew of naked body parts, tits, asses, and pussies. When not on duty, when not in combat, drunk out of his mind, he just wanted to forget and how better to chill than to be with a woman. Faceless women, as foreign to him as he was to them, they all looked alike. Yet, when with him, they all had one thing in common. No matter what language they spoke, he taught them all to say God bless America.
“Say it now, say it. Say God bless America,” he’d tell them, just before he was about to cum.
“God bless America.”
Some said it better than others, but it was the sentiment that counted. Most times, most women, didn’t even understand what they were saying. Repeating his words phonetically, they smiled their cooperation for the money he gave them.
“Louder. Say it louder.”
“God bless America!”
Appropriately, his way of indelibly stamping their brains with those words, after he fucked their bodies, maybe they’d make the connection in their minds. Certainly, if they repeated those words to the wrong person, they’d be targets themselves. He fucked them, just as his country fucked him with non-existent help from the Veterans’ Administration for the emotional wreck that he was now. How could some Army doctor, who had never been in combat and who had never taken a life, help him? He was too far gone. Keeping him out there too long, his country fucked him up real good.
“God bless America,” he said softly.
Needing to chill not to lose his mind, needing some sense of comfort from someone, he had been with so many women in so many countries, he lost count. More dangerous for the women than it was for him, in the part of the world where he was, stoning was the sentence for adultery and worse for prostitution. Yet, no matter, where he went, there were always women willing to do anything for money and anything to survive.
“Don’t tell me your name. I don’t want to know,” he’d say to them. Not knowing their names was his way of staying disconnected from them and from the real world. Caring for someone other than himself and his buddies’ backs would slow his reactions. He didn’t have time to think and knowing their names would clutter his mind with all the women he’s fucked and with emotions he couldn’t afford to have. “I’ll call you Robin.”
His favorite bird, he called every woman of the street Robin and no matter if they understood him or not, they’d just smile. Then, when he was done with them, in his mind’s eye, he’d watched them fly away.
“Fly. Fly. Fly away little birdie, my beautiful robin. You’re free. Bye, bye.”
Unfocused thinking, fantasizing about pumping her pussy or her sucking his cock, daydreaming about some woman, while pumping rounds in the enemy, would get him killed. He needed to stay focused. He needed to stay in the zone, the war zone.
He was the sweeper, the cleaner, and they called him in as a last resort. He cleaned up the political messes that the Generals made. There was no place for love in the Hell where he was stationed and where he was going, when he died. He only had room for hate.
He had the instincts of a veteran street cop, but one without the attitude, the backup, and the badge. He didn’t have time for attitude. When in country, it’s that cockiness that will get you killed. Besides, already the best of the best, better than all the rest, he was a Marine.
“Oorah,” he mumbled under his breath, now that he wasn’t alone and now that he had an audience of one watching him.
Wrapped too tight, he was having difficulty loosening up without unraveling. He’s seen some stuff, too much stuff, and he’s done some stuff he’s not proud of doing. Yet, when it was him against the enemy, either he did what he had to do to survive or die trying.
He watched her walk closer and it was obvious that she was inexperienced. He wondered if this was her first time and if he was her first, potential customer. She looked that raw. She had to start somewhere, why not with him?
He could tell from her body language that she was nervous. Was she wondering if he was a cop? He certainly looked like one. All he needed was the uniform and patrol car. Too dumb to know any better or maybe she was too desperate to care, he knew she was going to solicit him anyway.
His neighborhood had gone to shit, since he left. After an IED nearly killed him, he was home for good or so he thought. Even after he got his hearing back, he still had the headaches. Tortured with physical pain and mental anguish, even when he didn’t have the headaches, the bad dreams kept him awake.
After he was released from the hospital and home for only a couple of months, his Colonel called him wanting to know if he’d accept a special op mission, going deep undercover, and kidnapping a bad guy from Pakistan. It was suicide, but it sounded like fun. It sounded like something he’d do and had done, so many times before. Suddenly, pumped with adrenaline and feeling like Rambo again, he slept like a baby.
“Oorah!”
Now with a mission on the horizon and real purpose to his life again, he felt alive. He felt needed. A key player, he was part of a team.
“God bless America.”
Just like Rambo, his motto was they drew first blood, not me. The same as Rambo, that was always his justification to kill, not that he needed any. Pulling the trigger was easy. It was the consequences of his decision to kill or to set his adversary free that he had to live with later. The judge, the jury, and the executioner, he was God when out there. He was okay with those roles, that is, until he was home alone with his bad self and all those he killed returned as ghosts to haunt him.
Assembling a team of the best of the best, he was first on the list. Only, if they were captured in Pakistan, they’d be on their own; the United States couldn’t help them. He didn’t even have to think about it; he said yes. After just two months home, with nothing to hold him here, he was already stir crazy and ready to re-enlist.
“Semper Fidelis.”
Trying to make herself appear sexy, he watched her walk her walk. Strutting her stuff, she was laughable. He’s had plenty pay-as-you go pussy the world over and she had much to learn. Yet, there was something about her that he liked, a veiled innocence that made him feel protective of her, as a father would lookout for his innocent daughter, only he could see that she wasn’t so innocent.
“Either you have money in the bank or you’re crazy,” she said crossing the street and walking closer. “You talk to yourself more than I ever talked to my dog,” she said with a laugh.
“You have a dog?”
“I did, but he died.”
“I don’t have any money in the bank,” he said with a laugh.
She was so young, younger than his youngest daughter. She was just a kid. Figuring she was older, guessing she was in her early twenties, she looked 18-years-old. He wondered how life could get so bad so quickly for someone so young? Two of a kind, a paradox and a quagmire with both selling themselves short, the parallel of her selling herself for money and him selling himself for his country wasn’t lost on him.
Judging by her complexion and her hair, she looked like a natural blonde and after spending so much time with women who had dark hair, dark skin, and brown eyes, he was attracted to her blue eyes. Nearly as tall as he was, she wasn’t a bad looking woman. With a bit of makeup, her hair done, and some nice clothes, she’d be pretty.
He had been with worse, only, even when he was in Bangkok and offered supposed Thai virgins, he had never been with anyone as young as he imagined she was. Maybe he felt bad for them, but he preferred the older whores to the younger ones, and he always chose the ones that the others didn’t want. They were the ones more appreciated of him selecting them and they always showed him a better time.
It had been a while, since he had been with a woman, one who could speak English, that is, and he was already thinking about accepting her proposition, before she even asked. How old was she, he wondered? Eighteen? Nineteen? He’d be surprised to learn, later, that she was twenty-five.
“Twenty bucks for a blowjob, Mister,” she said stopping in front of him.
She had a lot to learn. If he was a cop, he could have arrested her. Maybe he was underestimating her. Maybe she knew he wasn’t a cop. Maybe she didn’t care, if he was.
For some reason, he could see his cock in her mouth, while fondling her enormous tits. It’s been a while, since he’s seen, felt, and sucked a rack like hers. Feeling a bit tense, he could use a blowjob right about now. She looked hot and tired and he thought about inviting her upstairs to his air conditioned apartment for a cool drink and some hot sex. Yet, if he was going to make the effort to take the time to be with her, he’d want more than a blowjob.
Tired of paying for sex, he wanted a commitment. He needed a girlfriend, someone to love him for who he was. If he had a girlfriend, a woman to come home to, he wouldn’t even think about re-upping. Suddenly, he felt as tired as he was old. His mind wasn’t right. A suicide mission, he knew if he went back in county this time, he wouldn’t return.
“That’s pretty cheap,” he said giving her the look over.
“It’s a tough economy and I go with the flow to make a living,” she said.
“Are you any good at sucking cock?”
“I’ve sucked my share without complaints. Put it this way, no one has asked for a refund,” she said with a laugh that made him laugh with her.
She was cute and he liked her. Only, instead of feeling excited to have his cock sucked by her, he felt sad. She made him feel bad. This is America, the land of the free and the home of the brave. It saddened him that his buddies, better men than even him, better men than she’d ever meet, died for her right to walk the street to solicit him.
With three daughters of his own, he wished he could help her. As his way of continuing to give back in hopes of fixing all that is so wrong with his country and his neighborhood, he had a sudden need to help her. His ex, after she remarried, wanting to get as far away from him, as she could, took his daughters and moved to California, when they were still young.
Perhaps, his need to help her was a manifestation of a need he had to still be in the lives of his daughters. Out of control with Post Traumatic Stress, something he didn’t even know he had, until he was diagnosed with it and given therapy for it, his ex-wife, his daughters, and their marriage were all victims of his rage.
Now, when he wasn’t filled with adrenaline with the thoughts of re-upping for the sake of a mission, he had nothing but headaches, heartaches, and bad dreams. It hurt his head and pained his heart to think of all that he sacrificed for his country for the likes of this streetwalker and everyone else who now plagued his neighborhood. Forsaking ballgames, barbeques, and long drives through the country on a nice sunny day, ever since 9/11 and Pappa Bush before that, he hasn’t been around much. Always gone and landing on some makeshift runway in a God forsaken place, there was always some fire, somewhere in the world, that needed to be extinguished. He hadn’t been much of a Dad, and he wondered if his daughters even remembered who he was, but he loved his girls.
With all the death and misery he saw and had an active role in creating, he had a difficult time trying to live a normal life and feel real emotions. Standing on a tightrope of indecision, if he felt anything, if he waivered while walking the line of his call to duty to God and to his country, he’d die. If he needed to feel, then he needed to stay home. If he could still sever his emotions, then he was fit for duty and could return.
With his head turned around by all that he’s been through, he had a hard time severing his feelings. Returning home and returning to everything familiar made him feel and made him realize all he had done in the name of his country. When he was 6,000 miles from home, in a foreign land so far from home that it was surreal, he didn’t have time to feel. He didn’t have time to think. He only had time to react or die. Now he needed to make a choice. Either he was a Marine or a civilian.
“Oorah.”
Everything he felt was gag reflex. He didn’t even have to think about his next move. He was trained not to think, just to do. With a flick of his hand, a kick of his boot, or a butt of his head, he just reacted. He was trained to get his opponents down on the ground, where he could control them and put real hurt to them. Don’t let them get up, never give them an inch. No mercy. Stand tall. Be brave. You’re a Marine.
He wasn’t a regular Marine. Most times, when working for the CIA, he didn’t even wear a uniform. Able to mingle with the locals, he was invisible. He was a ghost. He was a specialist. He was a killer. He was the one they called when they needed someone to be found or someone to disappear. The only fear he felt was failing his mission. He couldn’t die. They couldn’t kill him. He was dead already.
“No, I don’t think so, but thank you anyway for offering to blow me,” he said with a little laugh, while giving her a smile and studying her. She walked away looking rejected, as if just having interviewed for a job she didn’t get, and he felt bad.
She had a nice ass and he’d do her, just to spend some quality time with those big melons. Maybe some alone time with a woman was just what he needed to quell his headaches and stop the bad dreams. For sure, he’d never call her Robin and with that, he wondered what her name was.
He had the urge to give her the twenty bucks. She looked like she could use it. Except for her big tits, she was so gangly thin. She looked like she could use some grub and he suddenly had the need to feed her, to take her under his wing, and to take care of her. Maybe he was reading her all wrong, but she looked just as broken, as he was.
Whether putting his adversaries at ease with conversation and a kind word or beating them senseless in hand-to-hand combat, he always engaged the enemy. It’s funny how he perceived her as much an enemy to his neighborhood, as was her pimp and as were those drug dealers he relocated. He loved to meet up with that guy. Just as he did with those four gang members selling drugs at the corner, he’d make it so that he’d never run another hooker on his street again.
“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.”
She looked at him and smiled and he felt his cock twinge for her. She was so damn pretty, when she smiled.
“Will you be my special guy?”
Imagining having her in his life, as her special guy and her his special gal, he softened with her words, that is, until reality kicked him hard in the nuts.
“I’m too old for you,” he said looking away from her tits to look at her face. She was so damn pretty that he didn’t know where to look. “I’m old enough to be your father.”
He wished he had met her twenty years ago, when he was 35-years-old, but then she’d only be 5-years-old. This won’t work. This will never work. What’s wrong with him to even think she’d be interested in him.
“I’ve been with older men, before, some of my mother’s boyfriends had their way with me.”
“I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”
“It’s just the way it was, back then,” she said so matter of fact, as if not expecting any more out of life. “Her Johns would beat me, if I didn’t give them what they wanted and when my mother found out that I was giving it away for free, taking away her business, she threw me out.”
He knew she was a survivor. He recognized it in her eyes. She was the type who’d do whatever she had to survive. He had been right about that with her. Yet, is that what she’s doing now? Is she playing him for a place to live and for food to eat? When she sat on the edge of the couch, he scooted over to make more room for her and when he rested his hand on her exposed thigh, when he felt her warm, soft skin, he didn’t care if she was using him or not.
She reached out her hand and fondled his cock through his underwear. He watched her toying with his cock, before looking up at her face. Immediately he became hard with the touch of her hand and when they made eye contact, he wanted to kiss her. He had never kissed a prostitute before. Just as he called them all Robin, so as not to get emotionally attached, they didn’t want to be kissed for the same reason. Only, even though she was a hooker, he didn’t see her as that.
“Robin, I’m not in a good place right now.”
“I can make you forget your problems,” she said fingering his cock with her fingertips, before tracing the length of his penis with her fingers, and cupping his balls with her hand.
“I’m too vulnerable and I–”
“Shut up, Frank,” she said.
She reached her hand in the pee hole of his boxers and removed his cock from his underwear. She held his cock in her hand looking at it, fingering it, and fondling it, before stroking it. Then, she leaned down and took him in her mouth.
He reached out his hand and felt her body from her shoulder, down her back, to her round ass. Soft, yet firm, a ripe piece of fruit, she felt so young, unlike so many of the foreign, prostitute women he had been with. He reached down and around to fondle her breast and finger her nipple through her nightgown. She had such big tits and her nipples were so hard. He couldn’t wait to see them. He couldn’t wait to suck them.
He moved her hair out of the way, so that he could see his cock in her mouth and when he did, she looked up at him and smiled. With all the hookers he hired over the years, even though he found that so erotically exciting, not one has looked up at him with his cock in her mouth and smiled. None of them teased him in that way and looked like they enjoyed what they were doing. A total unexpected contrast with Robin, he was pleasantly amazed at how lustfully she sucked his cock. He loved seeing her pretty face, while he stroked her long, blonde hair and fucked her warm, wet mouth.
Unaccustomed to having a woman actively participate in his lovemaking, she actually appeared to enjoy blowing him. He’s had a lot of blowjobs over the years, but this blowjob from Robin, was the best, by far. He put a hand to the back of her head and ran his fingers through her lush, blonde hair. Then, lifting her up to him, he kissed her. She was the first woman he had kissed, since his ex-wife, and he could taste himself on her lips.
Unable to remember the last time he French kissed a woman, he couldn’t get enough of her soft, full lips and her warm, wet tongue. She totally blanked his mind with her kisses. With every kiss and with every touch of her oh, so young body, he had reached an excitement he had never felt before.
At first he was uncomfortable because she was so young, younger than his youngest daughter, but now that he was with her and she was such a willing and giving sexual partner, he could get used to having her in his life. She made him feel younger. She made his cock the hardest it’s ever been and he liked the feeling of protecting her, comforting her, and having her in his life. In one fluid motion, she removed her nightgown and took him by the hand to bed.
From that first night that she took him to bed, they had sex every night after that. The best sex he ever had, it was more than the sex. It was the connection. It was the relationship. It was love. Definitely, she was the best kisser and never had he experienced a woman with breasts so big.
A warm and generous lover, when he was on top of her and inside of her, kissing her with her big breasts flattened against his muscular chest, he’d reach down and cup her sweet ass with both hands. Pulling her up and closer, he was able to go so deep inside her pussy that he felt he was one with her. Including his ex-wife, never had he been with a woman who had an orgasm from intercourse and she had one nearly every time they were together.
“Oh, Frank! Oh, Frank! Oh, yeah, that’s it, baby, don’t stop. Fuck me, baby, fuck me.”
Between her kisses, her good looks, her big tits, and her screaming his name every time she had an orgasm, she made him feel special. He loved it when she rolled him over and got on top of him. Sitting upright on his cock, he loved watching her big tits bouncing, before he reached up to corral them with his big hands. Then, while still sitting on his cock, with his prick deep inside of her, he loved it when she leaned down to kiss him. He loved the feel of her long, blonde hair on his chest, before she lowered herself further and, as if being electrified, touched his chest with her big boobs.
“I love you, Frank,” she said looking in his eyes and he knew she did.
“I love you, Robin,” he said looking in her eyes and meaning it.
Since his ex-wife left him, able to sever his emotions to be with every hooker he called Robin, never did he ever think he’d say he loved a woman again. She wasn’t kidding about her cock sucking skills, either. Never has he had his cock sucked like that. Sex is one thing but love is another dimension and never has he had anyone make love to him in the way that Robin made love to him.
No matter the difference in their ages, they had made a real love connection. After spending a season of summer lovin’, they were married and bought a house in a better neighborhood. A year later, she was pregnant. Finally Frank was home for good and Robin had a home with a bed.