Politics. Escorts. Blackmail. (7 page)

Thursday—July 21, 2011

M
idori averaged one to two clients per day, which could add up to a minimum of fourteen thousand dollars per week if she averaged a thousand a pop. She’d wished for money before, having no choice but to depend on Romeo giving it to her whenever he got good and ready, but now that cash wasn’t an issue, she seemed focused on what it would take to get past her demons and live a normal life with the white picket fence, husband, two kids, and dog.

If there was any prospect of who she felt would learn to love her, it would’ve been Virgil Daye—that is, if she hadn’t been lying about what she did for a living, but even he had backed off lately. She knew in her heart of hearts that there would probably be no real future with him, that the stepson of a presidential candidate could never marry a hooker. Most men would judge her, but maybe there’d be someone who wouldn’t, and they’d live happily ever after. Maybe the sex would bond them and blind them and they’d want more. Just maybe.

The thing with her and Virgil was they hadn’t yet had sex. So the bonding theory was not in the mix, which to her signaled he must’ve genuinely cared about spending time with her, taking her out, laughing with her, and being her companion, for reasons beyond what everyone else wanted her for. Actually, Virgil was a twenty-eight-year-old virgin. He wanted to wait until he was married to have sex. Though deep down she knew that even though they hadn’t consummated their relationship, the virgin and the hooker could never be a match made in heaven.

She ended up having lunch with Virgil and gave him his beloved ink pen. They’d talked a few times since then, though she felt he was unusually distant. They hadn’t seen each other in over a month. But tonight he wanted to come by. She promised to call after her last real estate showing of the day. He was on standby. And he appeared to be very anxious to see her, which made her happy.

It was late afternoon, almost rush hour, and she took a taxi to Park Avenue South and Twenty-Ninth Street, for a 6:00 appointment in a luxurious room at the Gansevoort Hotel.

Mr. 21 lived there. She’d had regular appointments with him for the past year. He always insisted she come to him. He was a Homeland Security executive, single, and was the one she called the “bitch” man, because he had such a fascination with the word. He also had another fascination.

She’d arrived at his chic apartment and headed straight to his bed. She stretched her hands back toward the silver studded headboard, wearing nothing but a smile. He liked her to lay nude first.

He sat upon the silver leather sofa. The glowing embers from the granite fireplace added to the allure. He wore boxer shorts and his dark penis poked through the opening, aimed straight at her. He looked at her and she just looked back. She knew to say nothing.

Finally, he spoke with his regular kinkiness, always smelling like he wore too much Armani Code cologne. “Look at the pretty-ass bitch in my bed.” The only sound other than their voices was the sound of the shower running in the bathroom.

“Yes, I am. And waiting for you.”

“Oh, you know I’m gonna have to fuck that shit.”

She tried her best to look excited. “Yes, you are.”

He stood, grabbing a condom from the chrome table and letting his dick wear it. He stepped along the wood floor of the bedroom. She propped a purple pillow under her head.

“Turn over so I can see your fat ass.”

She obliged.

“That is a pretty damn sight there. Bitch’s ass is big and round and young.”

“I know you’re an ass man.”

He watched himself in the wall mirror while mounting her as she lay on her stomach. As he inserted himself, she eased him in by doing a circle grind, milking him with a tight grip. She made sure to keep her legs straight while taking his dick for a ride.

She ground and fucked, and felt his penetration wall to wall. Though he was short, he had a wide dick. It always hit just the right spot to put pressure on her G spot, causing more of a sensation than she really wanted from him. She tended to play off her sensations until she was ready for his finale, but she was feeling it.

He said suddenly, “Okay, bitch. Get in the shower.”

They both got up and stepped into the chocolate-tiled, open glass shower together.

His penis was at full attention. She faced the wall behind him. He stood behind her and rubbed his penis on her ass. He then took a step back and turned the water down, all the way to cold.

“Ahhh.” He tightened his jaw and clenched his teeth, seeming to make sure the sprays of water hit his dick.

She knew what he was about to do. What he’d always do. What he paid double for. It was what made her dread seeing him.

It was his machismo water sports game that did something for him. Something that continued to prove to her that men rented women for sex not just because they couldn’t get laid, but also so they could live out the fantasies that most women would judge them for. They paid so someone would play along.

He turned back toward her as his dick had become semi-flaccid and stood with his legs far apart.

She closed her eyes.

He released a stream of pee on her backside while she stood, wishing with all her might it was over.

The temperature of his pee was warm and the flow was strong.

“You like that shit, bitch?”

“Uh-huh.” Lying was part of the game, as was resisting the urge to turn around and slap the shit out of him.

He didn’t even ejaculate. She always figured he’d do that later. He then said what he always said after he did his business, “You can leave after your shower.” He stepped out and she turned the water up to hot, wanting to wash off his cologne and his urine and his presence. She turned up the force of the spray, washing, wishing, wondering.
Why?

Fifteen minutes later she was in the cab.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that she had to put up with such disrespect for the money, she got a text from freaky Bailey Brenner, requesting an appointment with her directly at midnight.

Can’t
was her only reply.

Bailey replied,
Why not?

She didn’t respond. She texted Virgil,
Be home in an hour. See you then.

Virgil replied,
C u then.

She texted,
Can’t wait.

When she got home, she tried her best to get herself together in time for Virgil’s arrival. Not only her body, again making sure to scrub herself clean from her client’s degrading urine, but also her mind, getting the word
bitch
out of her head. Getting herself in the mood to act like she’d been selling houses, not pussy. And not her self-esteem.

By eight that evening, she sat in the living room of her one-bedroom Upper East Side apartment at the Lucerne.

Wearing a shorts set, she stepped barefoot along the butterscotch carpet of her living room and headed to the limestone entryway at the front door.

“What’s up?” Virgil asked, as she opened the door.

“Hi.” She gave a half smile and hugged him.

He hugged her back, walking in as she closed the door. He made his way to her sectional, looking normal, but as soon as he sat his face went serious.

She noticed the change as she sat beside him. “What?”

He said, flat out, “I need to say something important. I’ve wondered what was up with you. I’ve wondered about you for a while now. And I can’t believe you put me and my family in the position we’re in.” It was like every word was rehearsed.

She angled her stare. “Virgil. What are you talking about?”

“Midori, I’m done. With us.”

“Why?”

“Just know that.”

“You came over here to break up with me?”

He sat forward with his elbows along his knees. “We were never together really. Just dating. I never told you I wanted a relationship.”

She looked as though she begged to differ. “We both know the deal. We’re a couple. You wouldn’t come here using the term
done
if in your opinion nothing was ever started. That’s game playing.”

“Game playing?” He put his hand toward his chest. “Me. Okay. Where were you today?”

“Working. I told you I had a showing.” She kept her sights on him, rarely even blinking.

“What were you showing, your nasty-ass pussy?” His face wore a snarl.

Her eyebrows raised and she gasped. “What?”

He began to speak louder. “Don’t sit there like you’re an angel. I know you went to the Florida Keys to fuck a doctor for money. You’re a damn ho.” He looked away and then back at her. “And your sister is your fucking pimp. This is some bullshit.”

She felt her heart racing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Give it up. Stop with the bullshit.”

“What is wrong with you?” Midori asked, then waited, knowing she was 100 percent busted. “My gosh.”

He continued his rant. “Oh please. And to top it all off, there really is some shit going on with Mayor Graves, but not the racist crap I was talking about. Even my stepfather is mixed up in your little service you have going on. This shit can blow up in my face and screw up my family. You knew, and still you kept me in the dark just to have me in your life while playing this shit off. The question is, what is
your
problem?”

She fought to focus on how he was adding up all of the information correctly, wondering how he came up with the truth. “Okay. Wait. Obviously you did something to find that all out. Question is, what have you been up to? You’re pointing the finger at me, but you’re the one talking about breaking into e-mail accounts.” She looked as though a light bulb had been turned on. “Hold up. That damn ink pen. Was that some kind of bugging device? Did you record me that day I talked to my sister? Did you put that pen in my purse on purpose?” She looked at him differently. “Why, you sneaky asshole.”

“First of all, why would you worry about whether or not I’m recording something if nothing I say is true?” He came to a stance, reaching in his pocket for his keys. “Whatever. Bottom line is, I can’t see you anymore.”

She stood and pointed to the door. “Then get the hell out.” In her heart she wanted to beg him to understand, but couldn’t get past his deceit. She couldn’t believe he’d been recording her.

He walked toward the door.

She added, her eyes beginning to water, “You’re trying to start something between us out of something that’s really no big deal.”

“Oh, it
is
a big deal. You and your sister will be arrested.”

“And you and your family will be ruined. Like you’re going to say something anyway. Can’t believe you have the nerve to blame me when your stepfather has the problem. He’s the one who feels the need to go outside of his marriage and cheat on your mom with rented pussy. You need to be at home talking to him.”

He looked back at her as she followed behind him, and cut his eyes. “Thanks for admitting that all I said was right. I needed you to say just what you said.”

“Whatever. You could’ve told me all of this over the phone. You’re wasting my damn time.” She felt a tear fall and wiped her cheek.

He stood at the door, his hand on the knob. “I told you in person out of respect. Respect is something you never showed me. And yeah, your time is worth about what, five hundred dollars an hour? I’ll send you a check.”

She wanted to say fifteen hundred, but instead she asked sarcastically, “Are you recording this, too?”

He yanked the door open. “Maybe.”

She put her hand on the door, waiting for him to cross the threshold, still playing off her feelings. “Get the hell out of here. You are a straight-up mess. Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Who am I? I’m a man who wanted to get to know you but doesn’t want to take a chance on turning a ho into a housewife. But maybe that’s the very question you need to ask yourself. What would make you think I’d want a whore as my woman? That was a fantasy on your part that will never, ever come true.” He looked like he was trying hard to nail her to the wall with his words.

All she could say was “Fuck you.”

“Glad that never happened. With your nasty ass.” He stepped away and was down the hall in a flash.

She yelled at his back, “Don’t act like I’m the only problem, Virgil the virgin. You and your family can do a good enough job of fucking up without me. You wiretapping fool.” She slammed the door and began to cry, voice still raised. “I can’t believe he recorded me. If Money ever found out she’d kill me
and
him. Shit.”

Midori grabbed her purse and took out her phone, sending a text to Bailey.
When and where?

He replied back immediately.
2 hours. The Roosevelt. I’ll send you the room number later. Love you.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she prepared herself to leave in an hour. Her tears came in full force from her feeling the loss of her only chance at being in a normal relationship with a companion, someone who would check on her and care about her well-being, who was interested in her, and who until recently would take her to dinner and dancing, making her laugh. It was over now, all because she lied about who she really was.

So she did the only thing she knew how to do, which was show up and spend time with somebody who unconditionally wanted her body for the hooker she was, since she couldn’t have anyone who wanted her for her heart.

Other than maybe Bailey Brenner.

Friday—July 22, 2011

T
he six-thousand-square-foot, natural stone estate home that Ursula and Darrell Ellington lived in was in affluent Scarsdale, in Westchester County. It was the very district that Senator Ellington served.

The senator’s home office was large—so large, in fact, that it was only a tad bit smaller than the actual Oval Office at the White House.

Darrell Ellington had just hung up his cell phone as Virgil walked inside his office.

“Hey there, Virgil,” Darrell said.

“I know you’re not fond of me.”

He looked at Virgil as if to say,
What the hell?
“Why would you say something like that? Have I ever given you that impression?”

“I know that you really don’t like me.”

“Of course I do. You’re my son. Where is all of this coming from?”

The topic changed, sort of. “How’s the race going?”

“It’s going.” Darrell Ellington began writing on a pad of paper.

“Everybody keeping their noses clean?”

“I guess so. Keeping clean is not something you focus on. You just live clean and the rest is spent on the campaign.”

“I see. You think Mayor Graves keeps it clean?”

“I don’t know.”

Virgil took one step closer. “You think the world would trip if they knew that you cheat on my mother?”

He shook his head like he was hearing things. “Virgil. What? That’s not true.”

“Okay. I guess what I really want to know is, why do you cheat on her?”

“Excuse me?”

“Lip Service.”

“What?”

“Oh no. You play dumb just about as terribly as someone else I know. Small world, huh?”

“Virgil, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He looked down at his work.

Virgil approached and stopped within a few feet. “You do. I often wondered about you. I always thought you were just a little too good to be true. I should’ve known you were a freak.”

“What are you talking about?”

Virgil was amazed by his stepfather’s act of innocence. “Wow. You’d make a really great president. You’re in the right line of work. Denial, denial, denial. You try your best to find out what the other person knows and then you see how weak the information is, and keep playing stupid. Very good.”

Darrell shook his head again and put the pen down, gathering his papers. He arranged them by page number and sorted through them. “You know what? This conversation is over. I’m lost as to what you’re referring to. You can have this conversation by yourself.” He came to a stance and took hold of his cell.

“Actually, the best thing for you to do would be to save that dumb line of responses for my mom. I’m not the one you’re fucking around on with hookers. But I will tell you one thing: my mother’s well-being and happiness is my concern. You let this shit come back to bite her in the ass, and I will tell everything I know. You can bet on that.”

He passed by Virgil, almost grazing his shoulder, saying, “Good-bye, son.”

“Stop,” Virgil demanded.

Darrell Ellington turned to face him.

“I am not your son. I’m your wife’s son. And your wife wants the White House. You will give her that. And what I get out of it is two million dollars. Find it where you can. Money laundering or whatever. Call it a loan if need be. I’m starting a site. My own business. Better than where I work at Google. You’ll tell Mom you offered it to me to help out and I took it. Yep, two million will help me lose my memory for sure.”

“A loan?”

“Good listener.”

“For silence?”

“A loan that I will never fucking pay your sorry cheating ass back.”

Darrell turned and walked toward the door. “You have lost your mind. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Will three million help you remember?”

He stopped but kept his back to Virgil. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. In case you never noticed, I care about as much about you as the shit I flush down the toilet. I care about my mom. What she wants is what I want. And you hurting her is not gonna happen.”

“Exactly. I would never hurt her. And I’m not loaning you a dime.” Darrell exited swiftly, looking certain.

“Try me.” Virgil’s voice was loud and sure.

That evening, Virgil sat in his bedroom on the upstairs level of their home. He had a large bedroom and private bath, and an office for all of his computer gadgets, desktops, laptops, printers, and devices.

He was proud of himself for coming up with a way to make his stepfather pay for cheating on his mother by way of funding the establishment of Virgil’s new business venture. For now, it seemed like the right thing to do. He knew his stepfather, who had inherited millions, could definitely afford it.

He lay back upon his bed, coming to grips with what started it all…his naiveté upon first meeting Midori that evening at an event where someone stood her up. And how he bonded to her, all the while thinking she was selling homes for a living. And now discovering she was an escort, running a line so close to his personal life. Out of all the escort agencies in the world, his stepfather—who was campaigning to be the next president of the United States—had to be patronizing Lip Service.

Sex was not something Virgil was familiar with, and he had a hard time understanding why people felt the need to go to such great lengths to get it, paying someone to lay them even when the person who paid was married.

Sex was, after all, overrated. It shouldn’t be difficult for someone to wait for their ordained mate, their last love, their significant other. To save their bodies for that person shouldn’t be so difficult. “Horny-ass mothafucka,” he said aloud about his stepfather. “What is this world coming to?”

He then wondered who he was fooling. He wasn’t born again. He and his mom went to church before, but not often since she married his stepfather. Virgil had no church home.
Ordained
to him meant someone saved who was destined to be with someone else who was saved. Saved wasn’t what he was. Yes, he was saving himself, but not for the right one. He was saving himself from himself. From having to feel what he felt before. He was afraid.

Virgil’s mind wandered back to that time, so long ago. It was the night of his high school prom. The night in a hotel room that was paid for by his mom. There was nothing uncommon about a teenaged boy and girl spending the night out. But the girl he’d been seeing, who promised to give it to him good that night, took one look at what he was packing or wasn’t packing and laughed hysterically when she saw the size of his penis.

He hadn’t played sports, so he never did the locker room thing. When he went to the bathroom and used the urinal, he never looked over at someone else’s penis. He kept his eyes on himself. He just assumed other boys had done the same thing. He hadn’t watched dirty movies as a teen. He’d only read a few
Playboy
magazines and had seen the women’s vaginas on the pages. He jacked off to a centerfold model here and there. He really didn’t know what to compare his own size to.

The technical term for what he had was a micropenis. Fully erect, his penis was about the size of his thumb. Compared to the average-size penis, he had a small shaft that was flanked by the pubis skin of his uncircumcised gland. The only other person who knew before his prom date was his mother. When he was young, she took him to the doctor because he was overweight. The doctor mentioned it and suggested waiting to see if he further developed after losing weight and after puberty, and that sometimes the hormonal process is delayed and the testosterone can take longer to do its thing.

Well, he did lose weight, but his mother never saw Virgil nude after that moment.

Now in his late twenties, nearly six feet tall and 190 pounds, it was obvious to Virgil that his penis wasn’t going to grow on its own. And his mother just never brought it up again. Neither did he. Especially after what happened on prom night.

Though sex was something Virgil was able to live without for now, he did find self-stimulation to be a calming way of relieving stress. And this day had been a ten on the stress Richter scale.

He had pulled down his pants, taking his foot out of one leg of his sweats, and began massaging his penis. He’d usually find a way to stimulate himself, erecting it to its full two and one half inches. His library of dirty movies usually helped.

He used his index finger and thumb and twisted it, rubbed it, twirled it while watching a volumeless girl-on-girl movie. In his mind, he compared himself to the clit the way he would tease his dick. He assumed that he’d need to eventually use artificial ways of penetrating his last love, thinking in terms of doing what lesbians do, using his mouth to please her.

The movie he watched was of an Asian woman with a black woman, one extra slim, one extra curvy. He imagined what the sensation would feel like, as he leaned over and took the small pocket pussy, a hand masturbator shaped like a vagina, from his nightstand. He’d always kept it deep inside of a shoe box.

He barely got himself an inch inside of the nude-colored flexible stimulator when he began to moan, watching the vision of the Asian woman between the black woman’s legs, prodding her with a tiny blue dildo. As the tip of the blue dildo went in, he focused on his tip going in the fake vagina he used, squeezing the rubberlike texture of the pussy as tight as he could to grip his penis. Before, he’d think of Midori, imagining her taking the time to let him stick his dick inside of her. Thinking of her always got him off. He thought he’d be too mad for that fantasy in his head, considering the argument they had, but he surprised himself, still feeling the turn-on of her in his mind.

Just as he was about to try to get another inch deeper, he reached over again and took the small bottle of lube, and squeezed a couple of drops inside, bringing the pussy to his head again, squeezing it with all of his might, giving a few good pumps while he watched the blue dildo push past the soft, bald lips of the dark, porcelain-skinned black girl, and he thought of Midori, naked, watching him.

He geared himself up to come just as the Asian woman got a good oral grip on the girl’s clit, sucking like she was sucking her own finger, and to Virgil, that was the sensation he dreamed of feeling upon his tip. It brought him to a tenseness that caused his ass cheeks and thighs to flex. His toes pointed and his hand went to work, gripping the vagina around his tiny tip and then stopping as he felt himself giving off his orgasm, squirting his semen inside of the pocket pussy while he tightened his eyes to shut out the movie and focus only on the vision in his head of Midori, turned on by him masturbating.

“Oooo, yesss. Ahhhh, yesssss.” He sucked his teeth and then heard a knock at his door, and someone turning the doorknob, but it was locked. His eyes popped open and his voice traveled from porn to norm. “Yes. Just a minute.”

“You okay, son?” his mother, Ursula Ellington, asked.

He froze as he answered, “Yes. I am.”

“Okay. Didn’t want anything. Just checking.”

He knew she knew.

He said nothing in reply but heard her footsteps slowly fade down the hallway.

She was the one who bought him the pocket pussy and all the other items in the shoe box. She had figured out what her son needed. For now the sex toys, but eventually a woman to love him as he was.

And he knew what his mother needed for herself. To be the next First Lady. Period.

In the meantime, he washed off his soft, dependable, no-hassle girlfriend and put her back in the drawer.

Back to the other issue at hand.

How to deal with his now ex-girlfriend, the escort, and his political stepfather, the John.