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Writer’s Block

Category: Lesbian Sex
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Author’s note: To Kait, whose kindness, friendship and intelligence proved inspirational.

Part I. New York

No, I had never actively sought a call girl before and it wasn’t helping that she had to have rather special qualities. She had to be young, experienced, smart, and bisexual; a combination of features which excluded everyone I had stumbled across so far.

The outlandish idea was to use her life as a springboard, for a story that rolled to and fro through my brain’s storybook almost daily. Frankly, I doubted I’d ever find her because the plot was all too complex, too full of nuance. Still all in all, I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

Don’t get me wrong, having lived in New York I knew there was no shortage of bisexual women. Once you placed an ad, they oozed from the woodwork. The hourly rate was an attraction no doubt, but I eventually came to realize I couldn’t use an east coast girl; they didn’t fit the strict outline I had conjured for the story’s central character. The more I thought about it, the more I was drawn to a west coast setting. I needed something very different from what I was used to. But until I found the girl, the concept remained dormant; adrift amidst writer’s block.

The book, if it ever matured into something readable, would be my twenty-first and I naturally wanted to hit the lofty promotional target my publisher set for me. But the problem with accomplishment is that it has so many components and its heights are often measured by standards which make little sense to anyone except the writer.

The pieces making up success don’t always fit together coherently. I had learned, for example, that achievement and contentment don’t necessarily go hand in hand. Having had three best-sellers, a movie option and an endorsement by Oprah, I practically possessed a license to print money. But all of this hadn’t brought happiness. You see, in my case, although writing had always been a piece of my identity, it was never its cornerstone. Russell was.

We had met in English class and fell madly in love. His Grecian looks and muscular body, maintained through religious exercise, took me by storm and our saga was the talk of Roosevelt High.

The whole affair was deliciously lurid, sweltering really. I was so predictably typical in retrospect. Determined to keep him, I allowed him to finger me on our first date.

From there, it was a short hop to steamy nights where we hurriedly fumbled through mutual masturbation, oral sex and finally, we did it. Of course, I wouldn’t swallow, despite his pleading, thinking that feat was a little something I should save for marriage.

Though separated by a short distance during our college years in upstate New York, I managed to find my way to him almost every weekend where I fucked like a wild woman.

Not allowing anyone else in my body, I saved myself just for him and abstained from the temptations of those definitive years. A major accomplishment by anyone’s standard in this day and age.

And I not only saved myself for him, but I saved some of myself for later. No anal – well, all right, when he insisted I allowed him to insert a thumb – and still no swallowing. I know the latter rule survived only until the end of freshman year and I also know I said not until marriage but in the end, I caved. If I didn’t do it, I reasoned, someone else would. I mean, just how does a girl make a cock her very own these days?

Silly me, while my friends were hooking up with whomever they pleased, I held back. Oddly, I wasn’t envious of them, but did feel a bit out of place in the budding new world of female sexuality. My adorable roommate Kaitlin thought I was nuts, but supported me none the less.

Imagine the reaction of my girlfriends as I remained loyal to Russell through it all. To me, excluding all other men from my warm body was wonderfully romantic.

Soon after graduation we both took jobs in the city; he on Wall Street while I became an assistant editor at Elle. We had it all, or so it seemed.

But Russell grew restive and started working late, which, given the fiscal collapse after September 11 seemed understandable. The problem was, it continued thereafter, even as life in the financial district experienced rebirth. I knew something was up, especially since his sexual interest waned in inverse proportion to the rising markets. And then he just walked in one day and said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Can’t do what?” I asked; a lightning chill ascending my spine.

“I can’t be married, Heather. And I’m not going to argue or discuss it. I’m leaving.” The explicitness in his voice left me frightened and collapsing inside.

Tossing a few things into a bag, he walked out of my life.

Not knowing what to do without him, I crashed into chaos.

Scurrying about the recesses of my mind like a cornered animal, I wrote — then developed writer’s block. I lost weight – not through choice, but bulimia, I cut my long red hair just above the shoulder because I thought it would look shoddy, and I broadcast depression. I was a mess.

And I shaved — Yuk! Russell had always preferred me natural but I knew the world had changed and now at forty-one, I had to become a part of…well, something I was never a part of to begin with.

But even with my so called ‘improvements,’ I still found myself lost. I wandered aimlessly through a city which now felt foreign.

My editor, Peter Willett witnessed everything. Every single pathetic phase of my misery passed before his discerning eyes. A kind and patient man of sixty-two, he had proven a steadying hand in my life, certainly throughout my years of writing and even more so now that Russell was gone. But at a private meeting three weeks ago, he confronted me.

“You’re crumbling Heather and I’m worried about you.” His words burned into my mind. “It’s showing in your writing, or I should say, in your failure to write. I can tell you’re not eating properly, you’ve missed two deadlines for the Playgirl article and you’re removed. Even from me.”

I said nothing; just looked out the window and attempted a passive defense comprised of embarrassment and disturbance. From his twenty second floor office, so much a part of the vertical world of Manhattan, I could only see small slivers of blue between concrete and glass skyscrapers.

“Heather, are you listening to me? Without waiting for a response, he continued. “I’m going to lose you if you can’t break away from your own past. It’s been a year. It’s over with Russell and it’s time you dealt with it.”

The harsh abruptness of his verbal mugging startled me. Peter had always been such a gentleman.

I hastily stood, pacing his office. It was a small place and my long legs made it feel even smaller. I felt pent up, frustrated.

Then I struck back. “It’s not over!” I shouted in my most threatening tone, wanting to attack him for having the impudence to be honest. Collapsing back in my seat and fighting back tears, I put my head in my hands.

“He’ll be back goddam it; I know he will, Peter. Why are you doing this to me?”

“I’m not doing it to you Heather, Russell is. And I’m raising these concerns because it’s the truth and because I’m worried about you, and…” He passed a deep breath, and when he spoke he drove the final stake of despair into my heart. “…because I saw Russ last week and he was with that awful woman, Allison…something. You know… I’m not stupid Heather, they’re serious and he’s been seeing her for some time. Come on honey, if you’re not realistic about this, your life will remain stuck in a world that’s gone now.”

“Fuck you Peter,” I spat. Picking up my laptop and jacket, I stormed out and left the building. I trudged aimlessly, sobbing through midtown for the next hour. He was right and I knew it. Being so lonely in a place where there are a hundred thousand people per block only made it worse. Alone – such irony.

With sore feet, smeared makeup and the remnants of my spirit dragging behind me like damaged airport luggage, I shamefacedly returned to Peter’s office.

Of all things, he was happy to see me; clearly my words hadn’t affected the unconditional love embedded in our long friendship. He was such a patient man and I was such a bitch. I’d have felt better had he screamed at me.

“I’m so sorry Peter, I…”

“Stop,” he interrupted. “There’s no need for that. It was something we both had to do. I’m just worried, that’s all. I’m afraid for you. Can you understand that?”

“Of course,” I said. Then, admitting the self-evident, I blurted out a decision made weeks earlier. “I have to get out of here Peter. I have to leave New York. I’m going to work on that project I told you about.”

Even though he represented dozens of other authors he immediately recalled the shadowy scheme I was alluding to. “The one about the girl, you mean?”

“…the bisexual, yes.”

“But you don’t know who she is,” he ventured, a look of utter discouragement on his handsome face.

Assuming he probably thought I was about to run off on a wild goose chase, I responded, “I know that Peter. I’ll go to San Francisco. My hunt may not end there but it’s as good a place to begin looking for her as any. I need to be away right now and I want to find a woman, a young woman – one who lives a life contradicting my own – my opposite. If I can find her, the rest will fall into place and I’ll be able to write my book. I just know it.”

Probing, Peter explored further. “Tell me again, what you want to accomplish, thematically I mean.”

Reflecting momentarily on my years in college, on my years of waiting and denying myself, I said, “I want to find a girl who doesn’t need men. I don’t care if she likes men – I just want her to be as free of them as she chooses. She has to be young, beautiful and openly sexual. I have to…”

“You have to get into her head to learn what the world looks like through her eyes. Yes, I understand. But Heather, I have a question. In principle, I like the idea. It’s fresh and will sell to a public interested in what motivates such a person.”

Here it comes, I thought.

“But in the past, you’ve been able to stand off to one side of your subject – objectively looking in. Given your emotional state, is that realistic now? What if you don’t find a willing participant? If she doesn’t even exist, you might be compelled to make her up. I understand you well enough to know you’ll view your own work as a haunting literary corruption. ”

“Think about the risks,” he continued. “If you can find her, you will be asking a woman — a woman you don’t know – to reveal her innermost thoughts to you. It’s a long shot. If she doesn’t materialize, will your disappointment simply contribute to your current path to emotional collapse? Do you see where I’m going with this? I don’t think you should be looking at the project as some sort of therapeutic resolution to the Russell problem. It has to stand on its own merits Heather.”

“I realize that Peter. Trust me, it’s not a crutch. It’s something I’ve been thinking of doing for a long time. A thought I’ve had since I started writing really, and I just never found her. I’m too wrapped up in New York and different surroundings will resolve that. Believe me, I can do this.”

Though skeptical, he didn’t know what else to do with me.

“I’ll be gone a year and have saved enough from previous book sales to get by,” I added. “I’ll stay in touch with you, but probably not much. I need some time…”

“I understand,” he murmured. “Do what you think is best.”

The thought suddenly struck me that Peter seemed to be battling with something in his own mind.

“Heather, I have something to explain to you.” His entire demeanor changed in an instant, from one of caring friend to that of stern and unyielding father.


“I’m going to disclose something to you and…well…”

“Don’t keep me in suspense Peter; tell me.”

“There’s a woman I know. I mean, who I’ve been seeing during business trips.”

“What woman?”

It occurred to me that in my own selfish preoccupation I had paid little attention to Peter’s needs, even though he treated me like his own daughter. I knew almost nothing of his private life, though I had known Margaret, his gracious wife of thirty years, before she tragically succumbed to ovarian cancer.

“Peter, tell me. Who is she?”

“I’ve grown lonely Heather, more so than I’ve ever let on. I met her in Seattle but have seen her in various places, for weekends sometimes.”

“Oh Peter, that’s wonderful,” I said, rising to give him a hug. Then, holding him at arm’s length and feeling like a broken record, I repeated my question, “Who is she?”

Turning away from me, he spoke swiftly, unveiling Laya, a twenty-one year old escort he had started seeing the previous year. To prevent myself from falling over in shock I slowly and without taking my eyes from his, sat back in my chair.

“Go on…”

“She’s everything you’ve described. It’s almost too much to comprehend but given the story you want to write, her age, her physical beauty, her occupation and skill as a communicator, she’d be someone I’d want you to meet.”

Momentarily stuck on stupid, I kept repeating, “A call girl…you’re seeing a call girl…”

“Heather, please don’t judge me. When I was married I never touched another woman. Margaret was my world. Then she died and I was left alone. During a visit to see Justin in Seattle last year, I met a cocktail waitress at a hotel bar and she was nice to me. She listened and promised to sit with me when her shift ended. We talked for a long time; about everything. She cleared my mind of anxiety and soon after…well, you can imagine the rest.”

Pulling my fragmented senses together, I took a deep breath and said, “Peter, I understand loneliness. Is Laya…?”

“A lesbian? She says she is but she may have done that because men fantasize about such things. I like her though, and trust her enough to say, yes, I think she’s probably leveling with me; it’s likely she is a lesbian. She’s also smart and very sexual…”

“Sexual? How so? Is she any different from what you might expect of a typical prostitute?”

“Oh, she’s not a prostitute or at least I’ve never thought of her that way. And maybe this is just a naïve aging man talking, but this girl is special. Let me give you an example. I apologize; I know I’ve never spoken of such things with you before and I…”

“Don’t apologize Peter; just tell me about her.”

“Well, that evening, after finishing at the bar we moved to a booth and as she sat down she worked her panties off and slipped them across the table to me. Every muscle in my body became rejuvenated. It’s been a long time since I was ‘out there’ Heather and she really threw me. I’ve been seeing her ever since. Would you like me to arrange a meeting?”

Part II: Seattle

After landing I spent the day getting oriented to my novel surroundings. In my hotel room acting on blind faith in Peter, I organized questions for my first meeting with Laya. He believed she’d be perfect for my story, and I hoped to spend a lot of time with her, infiltrating her alien world.

While still in his office in New York, Peter had called the mystery woman. Though he had cradled the earpiece so I didn’t hear her voice, I knew she was agreeable. He later told me where to meet her and described her look. His words were all I had to go on, saying ‘She’ll dress provocatively and will stand out in public. If she walks in, you’ll know it – she shows more than most women.’

Thinking that final comment was probably a reflection of Peter’s age, I had listened carefully as he explained my appearance to her and assumed finding one another at the little restaurant shouldn’t present a problem.

Calculating a bit, I decided to arrive at the Fish’n Chips shop on Pier 59 in Seattle before time so I could watch the door and scrutinize her. Walking in, I paused for a moment, waiting for my sunglasses to adjust in the dimness. More than ready, I carried a leather tote on my shoulder, containing laptop and organizers.

My red hair, sun-baked from the walk down the busy pier, was hot against my cheeks. It had only taken a minute of being outside of my air conditioned rental to realize I was over-dressed. The double button navy jacket was the first to go. At least my collared shirt was white.

Having packed only skirts was something I began to view as a minor blessing. The floor was slatted pine and it clacked under my modest heels as I walked. We were due to meet at eleven; so I took a seat in a booth facing the door. It was an old trick I used to keep a new subject a little off balance.

After ordering an iced tea I took out my notepad, one hair clip and an elastic band. It took only twenty-eight seconds to pull my hair up into a modest French twist; a personal best. I hoped it wouldn’t be my only achievement of the day.

Eleven o’clock came and went. Laya didn’t show. Repeatedly waving off the waiter who tried to bring me a menu, I allowed for an additional fifteen minutes before I began to fidget. Not knowing how long Laya was going to keep me waiting, I phoned Peter.

He was just getting ready to meet with a client but took my call none the less. He was surprised Laya hadn’t shown. “She’s always so punctual,” he remarked.

“I’ve been sitting here for awhile, Peter. Maybe I should try to call her directly.”

“You can’t do that Heather,” he reluctantly responded. “Laya made it clear; you were not to have her number until she knew whether you and she could work together. I’m sure she’ll be there.”

“I’ll give it another half hour,” I told him. “Then I’ll start searching for someone else; this time on my own.”

I hung up.

My eyes scanned the little place. Now past 11:15, it was getting busy. A woman wandered in. Young, pretty and wearing a string bikini top under a see-through white t-shirt, I began to rise as she approached. But she walked by, greeting a man waiting two booths back. “Shit,” I thought. “She’s not going to show, I just know it.”

Several couples walked in, some had little children with them. No way.

“You’re Heather, aren’t you?” The voice of a young woman came from the booth directly behind me. Turning, I saw her half-smiling, flirtatious half-smile.

Rising from her seat, she stepped toward me.

Damn it, I thought, this fucking bitch has been here all along. She watched when I arrived and had, by the way she dressed, tricked me into overlooking her as just another businesswoman at lunch. She was smart.

I began to rise, extending my hand in greeting.

“Please, don’t get up,” she offered, a subtle look of triumphant satisfaction on her face. “I’m Laya.”

“Yes…I figured that. Why didn’t…”

“I had to decide whether to show myself to you first. I hope you won’t be mad at me. A girl has to be careful you know.”

Laya sat down at my booth, smoothly sliding one bare leg over the other. She wasn’t dressed at all like Peter had described. The hem of her one-piece jumper skirt was ruffled and short, but not extremely so. It was made of spotless white fabric and the straps crossing her shoulders and chest created a deep V that would have revealed a lot of skin, were it not for the short sleeved blouse she wore underneath.

Surprisingly modest, she didn’t even have the buttons undone and the dress displayed a slight metallic shimmer that seemed to add to her radiance.

Her lipstick was just the right shade of red, and it glistened wetly. Her hair was dark, nearing black, which, like the rest of her, shocked me. I had expected a tasteless blond, or at least a fake one. She was challenging my stereotypes.

Stating the obvious, I remarked, “You don’t look…”

“I know,” Laya said. Her voice was sweet and youthful. “That’s the idea. I figured Peter told you how I usually dressed and didn’t want to reveal myself until I was ready. But you look okay.”

She was perfectly beautiful, though I didn’t admit it and remained pissed over the fact that, sitting just three feet away, she had made me wait. She had some nerve.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I lied, “but you’ve wasted valuable time and I…”

Cutting me off again, with a wave of her hand, she interjected, “I know and I’m sorry, but I haven’t started the clock yet, so don’t worry.”

“Big of you,” I thought.

“And since you haven’t told me to go fist myself, I’ll assume we can continue on with this?”

She was playing a game with me and I was failing to anticipate her moves. I couldn’t tell if it was some sort of power struggle or if she had something to prove to me, but she was winning. What had Peter been thinking? Laya was a nutcase. Men; they’ll fall for anyone who spreads her legs.

“Yes Laya, I’m still sitting; despite your insolence. Peter said you were reliable, smart and sexual.”

“And a lesbian?”

“Yes and if I knew of another girl who fit that description I’d walk out and find her right now.”

Shifting her weight on the chair she began to get up. “I’m not one of a kind Heather. I have the names of a dozen girls in my BlackBerry who fit your wacky bill, but I promise none of them would expose herself to you, or swallow your snippety New York attitude.”

“Wait,” I said, thinking better of it. “Let’s start this over.” Slipping back into her seat, she rested her chin in her hands. Her dark hair fell across her wrists and her champagne-colored eyes bore holes in me. Her hair was just a little bit longer than mine.

“So, Heather, why exactly are we here? This is an unusual referral.”

“Because you’re a whore,” I said, instantly realizing it was the dirtiest shot I could take at her.

“Yeah, and you’re some big shit author with writer’s block. Your husband dumped you right? Yeah, Pete let that slip. I bet it was some slut who stole him. Is that why you tracked me down; to take it out on me?

I could have slapped her smiling face. She was ignorant for assuming things about me, but I realized I had done the same to her. My curiosity melted the lump of anger that clogged my throat.

“No Laya, I said blankly, “I’m not here to take it out on you. But everything else you said is true.” Taking out my legal pad I laid it on my side of the table where she couldn’t read it.

“What’s that?”

“Just some things I want to ask you. You’re right, I am trying to write a book and I’m looking for the right subject; a young woman who has sex with men, for money but whose deeper passion is other women.”

“All right, I guess that’s me, but there has to be something more. I’m not the only dyke who turns tricks for cash,” she said smiling. I was surprised she didn’t ask me why I would choose such a topic.

“My editor thought you’d be articulate enough.”

I explained that I would probably need to meet with her over a lengthy period of time, at which she frowned – the first one I had seen – and started to look impatient.

“I don’t know how much time I can devote to this, Heather.” As if it had a bad taste, her face pinched as she said my name. “I think I’ll call you Thea, is that okay?

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

“Good. So, Thea what did you want to ask me? Remember, we’re on the clock now, so its two hundred an hour as long as there’s no sex involved.”

“Do I get frequent flyer miles with that?” I asked sarcastically.

Laya chuckled, relaxing a little. “You’ll get frequent fucker miles, if you want.”

God, she was quick.

“I’ll just stick with the questions, thanks.”

As I was about to begin probing, her cell phone rang grinding our already limited momentum to a halt.

“You can’t be serious,” I said.

“Don’t be so New-Yorkish Thea,” Laya responded as she brought the phone to her ear. Hearing her side of the exchange that followed, I frowned.

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

Taking her advice I tried not to show my mounting aggravation.

“I’m sorry, Thea, I have to run. Listen, I know I fucked up this first meeting, but at least we know each other now. 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 the hem of 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. I love redheads. Listen, I just have to meet this guy, so I’ll be tied up for awhile. Get it? Tied up? Anyway, we can resume this later, right? I haven’t scared you off have I?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

“Good. I’ll meet you here.” She seized my notepad and hurriedly jotted down the name of a pub.

I read it aloud. “T. S. McHugh’s.”

“It’s on Mercer Street; every cabbie knows where it is. I’ll be there at seven o’clock.”

Nodding curtly, I watched her leave.

Part III

I spent the rest of the afternoon alone, glued to my laptop. The meeting with Laya had not gone well, but perhaps my expectations had been too high. Despite her initial prickliness, she had done exactly what I had wanted her to do; she inspired me.

Within an hour, I had every minuscule detail from our first encounter, such as it was, on my screen. As detailed a record as I could make, it included everything, even the way her eyes flashed angrily at being called a whore, even though her smile never faltered. I described her smile, her lashes, thick and full, and her perfect skin. How her knee once bumped into mine and how I had felt a strange sensation of warmth travel up my leg, not unlike the stir I experienced when Kait bought me a girl at ‘Rick’s Cabaret’ during my bachelorette party before the wedding. Her hands roamed my body like a snake and she left me wet, something I never told Russell about and had been too apprehensive to take any further.

I knew her now; at least a little and I understood how fast she moved I knew how difficult it would be for me to keep pace with a mind that traveled at Warp speed. Peter had been right about her essential qualities, but I hadn’t had the opportunity to learn whether she would really open up to me so that I might, as he had so astutely put it, ‘get inside her head.’

Part of me thought it was just a matter of geography. Had she been on my home turf in New York, with its attitude, crowding and speed, she might have been the one off balance. But it was me who was out of place here. At the end of our abbreviated encounter, I understood she had played me just enough to keep my head spinning.

I found myself pausing, staring into space as I picked apart the details of her high-powered performance. She was interesting, though I wasn’t anywhere near ready to admit that 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 might be, we had only talked in the shop for a few minutes, and that alone wasn’t enough for me to consider making her the main character of my book.

As evening approached, I showered and dressed 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 I knew it lit up my eyes like New York’s Fourth of July fireworks display. The tight strapless top fit my boobs perfectly and did little to hide my cleavage, something I had grown ever more fond of flaunting since the divorce.

As expected, Laya was already there when I arrived at McHugh’s. This time I at least recognized her and she was dressed more in the manner Peter had described. She was stunning in her tight, black, one piece dress. In the small spaces between the ribbing 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 knew I was onto after this morning’s stormy encounter. She had one leg folded over the other and her short hemline was stretched tightly, like spider silk high up on her thighs and afforded little coverage. It was not a dress meant to be worn while sitting, but sitting she was. My immediate thought was that it wasn’t a dress at all; it was an exclamation point representing Laya’s free-wheeling sexuality and I had no doubt that was why she chose it.

Her choice of a table was interesting; it wasn’t in some far, dimly-lit corner but right in the middle of the place, directly beneath a strong, unflattering light. She already had a scotch in her hand as I sat down.

“Laya,” I said, mustering a friendly smile and shaking her hand in greeting, “I see you don’t want to do this quietly.”

“It’s my usual seat.” She shrugged, “I like the attention Thea.” Her handshake was tentative, but firm.

The waiter approached and I ordered a vodka martini as I pulled a notebook from my bag.

“I’ll have one too,” she added as he nodded and headed back to the bar.

“You go right to work, don’t you Thea?” she murmured, her eyes brightening just a little.

“Well, I had hoped to have some of the preliminaries out of the way this morning, but your, ah… schedule interfered with that.”

“Oh, just a little,” she said, sipping the heavy liquid and looking at me with a glint of mischief in her bright eyes. In an obvious attempt to be coy, she struck first, asking, “Have you picked up on the scent of it?”

I had, but was too shy to say so it, so I played oblivious. Besides, I was growing tired of her games. “What scent are you talking about Laya?” I asked, my eyes disingenuously searching the menu.

“Don’t be naïve with me Thea,” she pouted. If we’re going to do this we have to be friends. And if we’re going to be friends, we have to be honest with each other. This is the place to start. So, answer me…do you smell it?”

In total control, she was seizing the moment again, leaving me speechless. I found myself half amused since I was old enough to be her mother.

“All right,” I remarked, throwing an arm over the back of the chair. Though abruptly readjusting my body language, I knew she had already spotted it, the defensiveness I had been so guilty of displaying since Russ had left. Momentarily regaining my grasp of things, I simply blurted, “You smell like sex Laya! There. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Well, we’re getting there; I do smell like sex,” Laya countered, shrugging the comment off as if I had just told her that her pocket was sticking out. “But that’s not really what you smell, now is it? So say it. Be honest; don’t be ashamed for a change, tell me what you smell.”

Looking directly into her eyes, I snapped, “All right, you smell like sperm.”

“No I don’t Heather. You really can’t say it, can you?”

“I can smell sperm and it’s in you.”

She smiled faintly and picking up the menu, this time it was she who pretended to read it, but her sharp rejoinder followed smartly. “Well, maybe I should have been a dentist Heather, because dealing with you is like pulling teeth. Remember the guy who called during our first meeting this morning? I fucked him and another an hour ago. That last one came in my ass, so you’re picking up on that naughty combination.”

“Don’t you use…”

She barreled through my question, “I also blew him and swallowed, so I have the smack of cum in my mouth. That’s why I drank scotch. It’s a god awful drink but it cleans better than Listerine. Guys would be disgusted if they knew how used I was before fucking them, now wouldn’t they?”

“Each chooses to think he’s my only client of the day,” she continued. “But sometimes I barely have time to clean the cum off my tits with a handy-wipe before I’m on to the next one. Sometimes it leaks out of me, kind of like right now.”

“Don’t you think this moment is full of contrasts Thea? I mean, you’re sitting here, acting the complete prude and dressed like a flirt, while I leak some stranger’s jizz.”

“Stop it Laya,” I half shouted. “Point taken, okay? I get it. We can cut the bullshit and speak openly. That’s what I want too. Now, can we get started?”

Laya, her face brightening, settled back in her chair and returned to scanning the menu.

“The Chicken Cordon Bleu is excellent here,” she commented as the waiter efficiently placed the martini glasses on the table.

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

“Look,” she said suddenly, pointing to the tallish, good looking man of about forty-five, standing at the bar. “Watch this…”

Getting up, she dumped the remainder of her drink into my glass and strolled over to him. It took her just a brief moment to engage the stranger. Soon after, the bartender was mixing a martini which he slipped to Laya as the man peeled off a bill in payment. Glancing over at me, he smiled. After just a few minutes she returned, that already familiar look of triumph on her lovely face.

“You’re not having your period are you Thea?”

“No, ah…why do you ask?”

“Because he wants to meet you too,” she whispered, taking her place once again at the table.

“He wants to meet me, really?” It had been a while since I had allowed a man anywhere near me, at least not intimately. But he was kind of handsome and the thought of sleeping with him was tempting.

As I considered the possibilities, she 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 kinda important.”

“And what’s that, Laya?” I asked, assuming she had just lapsed back into an all too familiar brand of prankstership.

“I have an idea for your book. I mean, you’ve been asking me questions about my work, but it’s been mechanical stuff. The fact is, you and I come from different worlds and frankly, we’ve had a little trouble connecting today, wouldn’t you say?”

Knowing she was right, I nodded in agreement.


“Heather, I think you should come with me when I fuck this guy.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so,” I snapped. “I just couldn’t do it. At least not with another woman present.”

“Don’t be so dismissive until you’ve heard me out. Pay attention for a change. I just let that guy pick me up and I lied to him. He thinks we work as a team.”

Placing my elbows on the white linen table cloth, I leaned forward menacingly. “As a what?”

“Once he glanced over at you and saw those fabulous 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 and has already agreed to pay for two girls.”

Frankly, I don’t think he’s completely comfortable with, well, just me. I’m too young for him and he’s probably got a wife at home and, well, you know how it is. He’ll just feel better about it. Besides, men don’t often have two girls, right?”

I looked at her in astonishment; partly because what she was proposing was outrageous and partly because I was actually listening to her.

Disregarding the look on my face, she continued. “At the same time, I’ve decided you should know the reason why I haven’t taken you awfully seriously today. Now, I told you I was going to be completely honest and want the same from you.”

“So why?” I asked curiously. “Why have you been such a bitch Laya?”

“It’s simple; I don’t respect you.”

I looked at her disdainfully, but she went on. Think about it; you’ve come here acting like you can write about something you don’t know a thing about. You come across like an idiot and 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? Something’s not real until you do it, until you experience it for yourself. That’s all that’s wrong with you Thea. You just haven’t lived.”

In a fit of momentary incredulity, I abruptly refocused. Astonishingly, it was I who then blurted the unthinkable. “You’re right Laya…but I think…”

“Don’t think for a change. Just do it. We’ll go with him 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?”

Remaining silent for a minute, I sat back in my chair. My heart was beating as my mind scrambled to find a way to remain outwardly calm while at the same time I was bursting with nervous excitement at the thought of joining in the unlikely scenario. “All right…I’ll do it under one condition, you must tell no one – ever. You have to promise me you will never reveal what we do tonight.”

“I promise,” she answered offhandedly, without batting an eye.

Wondering if I had just lost my mind, I watched as Laya returned to the man. Five minutes later, after he had picked up the tab, we were crossing the street to the Mediterranean Inn.

Part IV

Justin happened to be a gracious man who didn’t say much during what was, for me a somewhat distressing trip up the elevator, but he seemed comfortable with his arm around my waist. Paradoxically, it felt good to be held, like I was on my first date again.

Defying my innate apprehension, I found him attractive, with a strong jaw and distinguished eyebrows. His suit was perfectly cut for his body and there was a delicacy about his strong hands. He kept leaning over as if to say something, but stopped as his nose touched my hair, after which, he would turn away and nuzzle Laya, who, using the chrome shine of the elevator door as a mirror to check her makeup, stood in front of us. Her bottom looked adorable.

The elevator dinged and Laya’s impromptu mirror slid back to reveal the lobby of the grandest hotel room I had seen since my wedding night.

“Oh my God,” Laya almost squealed, “You have the presidential suite!”

“Yes,” he answered softly, “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

With his mouth still against my hair, his voice rumbled in my ear and my body thrummed with the danger and excitement of it all. As might be expected, I was both stimulated to the point of wetness at the thought of sex with him, while at the same time, apprehension at the prospect of approaching the unknown oozed from my pores. “He mustn’t know I’m not a hooker,” I thought and wondered if he had ever read my books.

No, it didn’t matter, I quickly concluded. This wasn’t New York; this was Laya’s world — the one I had willingly ventured into. To him I was an escort from whom all he required was fantastic sex.

In a curious way, it was a relief to let myself go. The hard white tile clicked against our heels and taking our hands, Justin led us into the foyer. Moving slightly ahead of us, Laya began lifting the hem of her dress, giving us glimpses of her lacy blue panties.

“I’m going to mix us a drink, what would you like?”

“Water,” Laya smiled.

“Something stiff, I could use it tonight,” I added.

“Something stiff; I like that,” he countered with a smile.

As Justin turned towards the bar I straight away grabbed Laya’s arm, pulling her close.

“How do we know this guy isn’t the Unabomber or something?” I asked in a hurried whisper.

“Does he feel like the Unabomber my naïve girlfriend? You just keep that sexy pussy ready my dear, the rest will happen naturally. Is she wet?”

Knowing she had asked a silly question, I didn’t really have to think about its answer.

“Besides,” she rejoined, “you’re about to put in a serious workout and should have asked for water.”

“Really, you think? Shit. Laya, you’ve got to be faster about telling me things. You know I don’t know what I’m doing. What about condoms?”

Laya looked over my shoulder and ordered hurriedly, “When I start to giggle, pretend we just finished kissing. And this one’s married so we don’t need condoms. Besides, he’s kicked in an additional three hundred if we go bagless.”

Without waiting for a response, Laya jumped the gun, giggling loudly. She had her hand on my neck, our foreheads and noses touched and I could feel Justin watching, his blue eyes blazing lustfully into my back.

I pecked Laya softly on the chin, just enough to taste her but not hard enough to feel her, then turning my head I looked back to see whether he was enjoying the show. He was. So was Laya, who whispered into my ear as my head was turned, “Sure you’re ready?”

Determined there was no going back, I breathed deeply and nodded.

Justin approached us holding our drinks. Gazing directly at Laya, he ordered me to undress her.

“All right,” I interjected, staring at the ever receptive girl.

Smiling coyly, she placed her finger on my chin and slid it down my throat to my collar bone, then finally between my cleavage where it hooked the top of my dress. She pulled it slowly, looking at me instead of at Justin.

Knowing I was blushing and returning her gaze, I understood I had taken a step further into Laya’s darkly gripping world.

My breasts came free and quickly after Laya, using both hands, pulled the fabric down past my stomach and over my hips, letting it fall to the floor.

“My turn,” I whispered softly.

Expertly working buttons and clasps free, her dress came loose and I held it there momentarily, battling away one last ounce of anxiety.

Then, allowing it to fall to the floor I viewed the expected; she wasn’t sporting a bra, leaving us wearing only panties. Calmly lifting her hands over her head, she quite intentionally allowed her breasts to graze my own, pleasantly sparking sensual explosions along my spine.

Having placed our drinks on the night table, Justin stood beside us, loosening his tie. Obviously excited; his intentions spoke for themselves in the form of his rising masculine barometric indicator of things to come.

I couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of it as Laya’s hands slid down my bare chest to my waist and her fingers caught the tie up straps of my panties. She tugged until they too, dropped to the floor, puddling around my feet. She then slipped her own down her slender legs, tossing them aside with her toe.

Not wanting us to be the only ones naked, I reached over and pulled Justin’s tie until it came free. Tossing it aside, I immediately went to work on his belt. He helped by tearing his shirt off. The little dear…

I felt Laya slide up behind me, kissing my shoulder blade. She was watching me, guiding me, acting as mentor in an outlandish tutorial.

Obviously enthralled by the presence of two call girls, Justin, having removed the remainder of his clothes, waited patiently for our next move. Actually, all rested on the expertise of Laya as I hadn’t a clue to what she wanted me to do.

I tried to avert my eyes from his erection, though it was difficult to avoid due to his height, its size and its proximity to Laya’s breasts. I felt him stir as she daringly took my hand and placed it on him. The moist tip felt good as I ran my palm over it.

“The bed is through there,” he said, pointing toward the next room.

Completely naked now, we followed him and I found myself thinking the outrageous he had a cute butt, certainly not one used to lounging in leather chairs all day. In a flash, it struck me that I had thought the same of Laya’s pretty ass just moments before. What was happening to me?

Laya quickly pulled me onto the bed, saying, “Heather, come lie on your side; let me spoon with you.”

Nuzzling her ear I whispered, “What about him?”

Gazing into his eyes, she commented, “He knows what he wants, don’t worry.” Giggling as she helped me roll over, her smooth naked skin slid against mine as she settled, resting her hand on my knee, pulling it up a little to slide it between my thighs. Witnessing this sultry move, I don’t think Justin knew quite what to do.

But he lifted one knee up onto the bed and shuffled himself forward until his long rigid cock pressed against my lips.

“Open for him Thea,” Laya whispered, stroking my jaw.

The comment caught the man’s attention as he promptly asked, “Just how new is all of this to you Heather?”

Running my index finger from his balls to his perineum I murmured, “I’ll let you be the judge.”

Without missing a beat, I responding to Laya’s order allowing his erection past my parted lips. He swiftly found his way to the back of my throat. Its taste a reminder that his was only the second cock I had ever sucked. Oddly, I savored it, nursing it gently; using my tongue the way Russ had loved it. It was all I knew.

The two men were different though. Justin’s dick, thick and hard, felt wet and hot against my tongue, while Russell’s had been slender and long.

Breaking the spell of my momentary lapse into remembrance, Laya watching me carefully, touched my breasts and whispered tricks in my ear.

“Breathe through your mouth,” she advised.

I did and looked up, watching Justin’s reaction as his eyes rolled back in his head. She was good, this strange girl.

Laya didn’t touch him and gave little indication she wanted to. She had almost continuously touched me however and I was enjoying the subtlety of her feminine caresses. In what was transforming itself into a searingly heated moment, I was drawn by contact with this special woman, even interpreting her expert stimulation as a reward for my special variety of bravery and frankly, for my skillful brand of fellatio.

But all that aside, things had become one-sided and I didn’t wish to put on a show for either of these unlikely companions. Gripping the thick base of the slightly oozing cock lodged deeply in my mouth, I popped it out and lifted it to Laya’s pouting lips; a trail of thick saliva and precum following in its wake. Then turning, it was I who watched her skillful sucking. Poetry in motion, she was every bit the professional and she knew it.

Feeling the presence of fingers on my mound, and expecting Laya, I looked down to see Justin touching me. Smiling, I spread my legs, stretching the damp lips as he flicked my hood slowly with the smoothness of his nail.

In an attempt to stifle the moan arising from my throat, and experiencing a mysterious urge to take him back in my mouth, I lowered myself only to find Laya already there, slurping at his cock, her mouth and chin wet with dribbles of spit, something I strangely enjoyed the intimacy of and which she didn’t attempt to wipe away.

With his penis consumed by the beautiful call girl, I busied myself, burying my face in his heavy balls, wetting them with my mouth and blowing cold air across them.

As I stood again, he reached down and slipped a finger into my slit, where he tweaked the roof of my love canal. It had been so long since I had a man inside me, something I wanted to shout, but hesitated, knowing it was relevant only to me and would reveal the extended dry spell of my sexual inexperience.

Despite what was rapidly becoming a moment of sexploration, one breaking into my previously sheltered world, I followed Peter’s advice, compelling a certain part of myself to ‘stand aside’ observing the actions of people I had known only a few hours, as they devoured me.

Suddenly, Laya popped the head of his cock from her mouth and using her delicate hand, inserted it back in my own. Gurgling sounds filled the room as she shafted my throat, and I relaxed my tongue as she thrust him forward, his belly button touching my forehead. There, I thought, my eyes watering slightly from the unfamiliar exertion, I’ve done it; I’ve opened my throat to a man. Such a peculiar form of accomplishment, I mused to myself.

“That’s it, Heather,” Laya whispered into my ear, “Suck it all down.”

Acknowledging her encouragement with a slight nod, I wanted to smile in triumph but my lips were stretched tightly, causing my eyes to well with tears. So instead, reaching back and taking Laya’s hand, I pulled it between my thighs.

She pushed her nose into my hair and sucked hotly on my earlobe, as one of her fingers joined Justin’s and together they flicked and massaged my aching sex.

It was true, what they say about sex; the more you have the more you want. The atmosphere on the bed was hot and I wanted more.

Gasping for air, I pushed back on his stomach and he slid from my mouth. A thread of saliva glistened from my lips to the glorious crown of his purple cock, then, breaking under its own weight, it fell to the bed and I looked up at Justin, expressing to him with my mascara stained eyes, exactly what I wanted. I knew he understood.

Rolling over, I pushed Laya onto her back, sending her dark hair flying haphazardly across her dazzling face. Lifting one leg, I straddled her, my bottom high in the air.

The bed creaked as Justin moved up behind me. I felt his hands on my buttocks as his cock bumped against my puckered hole, and strangely, I didn’t falter. Looking down at Laya, her eyes now wide and aware, and perhaps showing a glint of surprise, she smiled, as if proud of the day’s accomplishments, as if pleased with me for having braved her strange underworld.

Unexpectedly, Justin didn’t put his dick in my ass, but rather opted for the sweet spot in my vagina. I lifted my head and didn’t object as he grabbed a fistful of my red mane, pulling my neck back and making me shout as he lunged deeply into me.

With Justin now buried in my pussy, my mental attentions turned to the call girl, wanting her to suck my nipples which tingled and ached for her. But even in the midst of this outlandish scene, I hesitated to ask her, preferring instead that she want it, that she might rather know instinctively what to do. In an emotional reverse, everything had changed and I now wanted her to desire me.

Were it not, I thought, for the distraction rendered by the tidal wave of sexual tension on the bed, I might have had time to be terrified at what I was feeling toward this enigmatic young woman, whose sexuality in one brief day seemed to have absorbed my own. The writer and thinker had become the conquest of her own subject.

But all thought ended by the distraction of Justin’s full length plunging into my depths. He withdrew his slick cock, only to shaft me again and again. My clit scraped against Laya’s pubic mound and I clenched my teeth, wanting him to release my hair so I could lean down and drink in her dark, enchanting lips. Marveling at what was happening, I wanted to taste her fully, wanted to drag every ounce of passion from her mouth.

But he didn’t let me go and I didn’t get to kiss her.

Instead, he smacked my rump, leaving my cheeks tingling as I yelped in pleasure.

“Here,” I heard Laya say, as she offered her fingers to fellate while Justin spanked my bottom. Taking them between my lips, I sucked on each as he continued.

I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me react. Searching Laya’s face, I knew she understood I had passed through a crucial portal. I was no longer willing to be trodden into submission by a man, especially one who was paying me.

The peculiar fact was that Laya and I had transitioned from adversaries to friends, from New York to Seattle, to a merging of women, both seeking a way through life that harbored some semblance of dignity and respect. It was a fascinating moment of triumph for each of us and I knew we both understood our lives would be intertwined thereafter.

Justin grunted and pulled his member from the grasping petals of my slit. Pushing me off Laya, he sat back. His chest was heaving and his skin flushed.

“You’re doing great Heather,” Laya said smiling at me. “I knew you could be a whore.”

There, she had used the word, the one I had previously employed so offhandedly and it hit me like a slap in the face, making me regret my earlier indiscretion. Caressing her cheek, I whispered, “I’m so sorry sweetheart.”

Nodding in acknowledgment, she rolled onto her stomach as she backed up on her hands and knees until her dripping vagina nudged against Justin’s erection.

Leaning forward I helped her position herself for what was to come, her lovely little ass bobbing in the air. She flicked her hair to the side and looked over at me with half closed eyes.

Justin suddenly smacked her and she drew a deep breath. Effortlessly, she had made him think he was in control. He struck her again and her dark skin reddened. Taking her hand, I squeezed it tightly. ‘So that’s truly the game,’ I reasoned. Squeezing it again, she opened her eyes and with a wide smile, moved her lips silently in praise of me.

“Move up,” Laya said, patting the bed in front of her. I repositioned and spread my legs for her. She kept bobbing her ass on Justin’s lap, but I knew her real attention was drawn to my sex. Keeping her thumb loose to play with my clit, she pushed four fingers into me, curling them upwards, feeling the spongy roof of my pussy.

She found a slow, grinding rhythm that turned my bones to jelly. My head tipped back, and my hair strewn across my face. She was going to make me orgasm I knew it.

“Get down here,” Justin’s deep voice suddenly panted. Opening my eyes I saw he was pointing to his engorged cock. I groaned, not wanting to move away from Laya’s fingers. But he was the client and seemed frustrated by the attentions that two women he had purchased were paying to each other.

Laya tried to keep her fingers in me but the angle was awkward. I crawled over her back and held my chin just above her ass.

“You want to cum for me, big man?” I asked, opening my mouth, “Can I have your hot cream?”

He grunted, shoving Laya off his lap I jumped on him and the taste and smell of her sweet juices abruptly collided with my senses.

And then his cock started pumping as hot slashes of thick liquid splashed over my open mouth, landing with a silent thud on my teeth. I tried to keep my face set in a smoldering display of daring sexuality but couldn’t help myself when a rivulet struck my eye, causing me to jerk back. Momentarily stunned by the burning sensation of his sperm, I reacted by breaking into a grin.

I had almost forgotten how much I loved the feel and look of it; an exploding cock that came so hard that its sperm bucked against my lips and face. Every vein of him was purple and pronounced; so rigid his slit was just a tiny hole, causing his cum to spout, rather than dribble into my open mouth. Instinctively, I prepared to swallow but a whisper of caution filled the air, stopping me.

“Don’t Heather,” I heard Laya say. “Hold it for me – for us.”

Carefully wiping the thick sperm from my eyelid, I did as she asked, pushing what had missed its target, into my mouth, containing his entire load on my tongue and refusing to allow it to slide down my throat. Instead, I pressed my messy lips together to lock it in.

Then I took Laya’s hand, guiding it to my sex, shivering when she slid her fingers back inside me. I was so close, and she knew exactly what to do. With my mouth filled with Justin’s ejaculate, I lay back and allowed Laya to tongue my clit, her fingers firmly lodged in my incredibly stretched vagina. This time her thumb entered my rectum, working its magic as our now spent customer, sat at the bedside gazing in amazement, watching as my orgasm rumbled forward.

I could feel it as my anus clenched itself around Laya’s thumb. After screaming in delight, I gradually calmed. Laya’s face, covered with the juices of my cunt, drifted to mine where she began to lick the remaining semen from my eyes, forehead and cheeks. After lapping up the nourishing milk like a kitten, she moved to my mouth.

I opened for her, sharing a deep kiss, tasting hot sperm. Laya’s sweetness and my own juices, all mingled into a witch’s brew of sensual rapture. Our mouths remaining joined in exploration for what seemed an eternity as we wallowed in each other’s arms, trading droplets of cum from one mouth to another.

Finally parting and looking deeply into one another’s eyes, we simultaneously swallowed, strangely signifying the oneness we had become, melded by the now immaterial man who sat by, representing little more than a mechanical contributor of a few drops of nectar from which an embryonic new love had just flowered.

Laboring slightly, Laya cleared her throat of its thick glaze and whispered in a leaden voice; “Now… my dazzling new friend, you’re ready to start your book.”

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