The Hooker Chapter 1

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Chapter 1
by
G Philip Walmsley

I knew it had to be about two o'clock in the early morning. Damn, I was tired. The room was dressed in blackness, challenged only by the deep drags on my cigarette. The curtains blew back and forth while my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. As I squinted, the gray outlines of Mrs. Cranshaw's bedroom began to focus. I knew her stuff would be refined. She was that kind of lady. If I had been sober when we arrived, I probably would have remembered. "Oh, that demon, whiskey!", my old preacher would say on those long Sunday mornings.

Shaking my head in some attempt to clear it I rolled from her bed and moved in the direction of what I hoped was the bathroom. Lillian Cranshaw was still sleeping. This was a first meet with this client. Dinner, more drinks than I usually permit myself, and then some wild animalism at the end of the evening. I could only hope I made a good impression.

While I was aware that the meter was still ticking away, I couldn't help the feeling that I should compromise on the time that I was asleep. In fact, I probably would have left if I had been sober. I'm just Mr. Nice Guy!

With that incredible relief that comes from whizzing in the John after too many drinks I looked about the bathroom with eyes that were now opened wide.

Wow! I am impressed! These were my thoughts as I gazed at the huge Roman tub made of marble, with Greek or Roman columns at each of its corners. Mirrors were everywhere. A person couldn't hide a thing in here. Hmmm. I wondered how much this place was really worth. She could be a great source . . . and a great client if I played my cards right. My thoughts were soon interrupted.

"Good morning," came the voice of Lillian Cranshaw, who was standing in a veiled cover-up at the bathroom door.

"Hi! Did we have fun, yet?" was my naked reply.

With a glow of approval, Mrs. Cranshaw replied, "You were everything I was told you would be - more. You oiled some hinges I had forgotten about over the years."

I watched as she shuffled across the bathroom floor toward the toilet. She had a few extra pounds and a sagging expression, but all things considered, Lillian was a sexy lady - and rich. My kind of woman . . . at least, my kind of client. I relaxed. It sounded as though I pleased her.

She turned, looking at me, "You going to give a lady a little privacy, Philip? Or, maybe you do tricks on the toilet, too?"

With a grin I replied, "No, honey . . ." I moved toward the door turning to her and winking, "You do this act without me."

I closed the door behind me, just like a gentleman.

I flipped on the bedroom light and took a good look around. I liked what I saw. Great furniture and other trappings. The king size bed where we made love bore the remains of a good tussle. I hoped she had a maid. Then again, it might be better for me if she didn't. I sure screwed myself out of Mrs. Bodgrass's life. Literally. What a maid she had! Discipline! I need more discipline.

Philip Marks: Provider of fantasy . . . Purveyor of carnality. These were my thoughts as I reflected over my life these days and my worth as a commodity in the market of life's steamy sea; filling voids with temporary fixes. Persons like me are a bitter-sweet tonic that fill some of the loneliness of which our world has an abundance. I often think about what I do; and wonder if I would still want to do it if circumstances were different. What if I was still on the force? If the boys could just see me, now! I could just see . . .

The flush of the toilet brought me back to business. As the door opened I watched a beckoning finger call me to the bathroom.
Oh, boy! Here we go again. These were the kind of thoughts that brought pleasure and pain as I moved in the direction of the bathroom, just like any other good lamb being led to the . . ., well perhaps not that bad.

She spoke softly, seductively, "How about a nice hot shower, love?" Her eyes twinkled as she turned the water on in a gold framed shower enclosure with etched swans on the glass. "This time I want a memory of everything we do. Not a vague pressure between my legs and a frenched tongue filling my mouth, or. . . You understand, don't you, lover-boy?"

I understood that repeat business meant leaving a client with good memories and I wanted to please this lady. I moved closer and kissed the small of her neck while dropping the cover-up from her shoulders. It's a good thing I slept a little. Something told me I was about to earn my fee.


We stood twisting and squirming like a pair of ventricle snakes. Just enough to raise a slight sweat on the surface of the skin before entering the shower. I used the soap on her body in that special way I knew she would love. She massaged my scalp as she shampooed my hair; running her fingers through it again and again.

"You have a great head of hair, Phil. In fact, you are a very hairy man. Everywhere! I love to run my fingers through a man's hair. It turns me on."

For a moment, just a moment, I forgot who was the client. She slid her hands down my neck and down my back, squeezing my butt with her strong, hard fingers. Then, sinking to her knees, she began nibbling at my groin.

Later, as I awoke with my body twisted in Mrs. Cranshaw's silk sheets, I looked over at her curled up form. She was sound asleep with that look of contentment on her face. I was proud of myself. You know when it's good. You know when the customer feels like anything but a customer and you fill that role in their secret life. That roll called fantasy.

I lit another disgusting fag and blew the smoke toward her. She stirred and struggled to open those big brown eyes.

"Morning, baby," I murmured.

"Please, don't call me baby!"

She spoke the words with a sharpness that cut the smoke filled air like a drill sergeant's command.

"And please don't smoke in my bedroom. It stinks."

She left no doubt in my mind that the honeymoon was over. I did what she wanted and apologized with my best sincerity. Back to business. I pulled myself from the bed and started to get dressed.

"How much?" she asked, a note of annoyance in her voice.

The cold light of day brings a reality to some that can be hard to deal with. The beautiful memory of being seduced and the coldness of a business deal to buy that memory can't occupy the same space in time. It goes against the ego and scores our self-image. I looked her right in the eyes.

"Nothing, ba.., Mrs. Cranshaw. You owe nothing. I guess I'll be on my way."

I learned that compliments at such times never seem to be appropriate. They just increase the pain and spirit the client away from the thought of parting with their fantasy. I began dressing.

She rose from the bed and walked toward me with anger in her eyes. "Don't hand me that crap!" she said. "Do you think I don't know my lawyer paid you to take care of this business? How much did Larry pay you?"

She was right, of course. This is not an unusual arrangement; someone engaging people like me for someone else. It takes the coldness away and preserves their dignity. Sometimes.

"Okay." I said. Fifty an hour, plus expenses."

She lit a cigarette and watched me from the corner of her eye. "I don't suppose I was good enough for you to cut the price?"

I grinned again, "Sorry. If you weren't happy with me we can work something out, maybe. I could be generous on a good referral. I won't bill you for the time we slept. I think that's fair."

I was being just a little brazen, but sometimes people will do that, cutting their costs while increasing my business.

"Really!" She asked with interest, "How does that work?"

I studied her face as she came closer to me. Was she really a cheap bitch; trying to get a balling for nothing, or was she serious . . . serious about making money. This pad seemed to indicate she didn't need the money, or . . . I decided to find out.

"You get me business and I'll give you twenty percent."

"Fifty percent!", she shot back, holding the cigarette she just lit to my mouth.

I pretended to be surprised, "Fifty percent! Fifty. . . I do all the work and you take half."

She exploded with a burst of wild laughter.

"Work! You call what you do, work? Give me a break, honey. Fucking, isn't work."

A little anger rose in my throat. "Give me a break, honey, if you saw some of my clients you wouldn't say, 'it isn't work.' Besides, on a busy week, even fucking can be very taxing. If you doubt that, try being a man for awhile. Thirty percent. I'll give you thirty percent, and I do no dogs. I mean, no dogs."

She paused and looked at me like a person who was holding a straight flush.

"Fifty percent, and no real bad dogs." She paused again, looking me straight in the eye.

Then with a wink, she continued, "But, you don't charge enough. The people I am talking about can afford more than what you charge. And, I think they will pay. In particular they will pay for discretion. You still stand to take home what you do now, after my end is paid."

Her eyes flashed with the fire you see in an executive's eye when making that offer the other side can't refuse. I wondered if she could deliver, or was she simply enjoying a little mind-fuck with me. I decided I had nothing to lose.

I made my voice hard, "Hundred bucks an hour, and you get half? Why not? You're on, Lillian." I extended my hand, "Put it there."

"Put it here!" she said, taking me in hand while rubbing me against her naked thigh. "Incidently, Philip," she continued, "partners don't pay. Think of me as a training expense."

I laughed, leaning forward to kiss her on the nose. "You're on the clock until you deliver, baby. Besides, I have a 'nooner' and I need what's left. You do understand, don't you Lillian?"

She nodded, wetting her pale lips with a purplish tongue while smiling lightly at me. Smiling a devilish smile. I thought how she might be very good at what I do. For now, I would tuck those thoughts away.

"By the way", I said to her as I put on my clothes, "Why are you doing this? Thrills? Or, do you need the bread?"

Still smiling, but with a much stiffer smile, Lillian spoke in a soft voice;

"My personal life is not on the table, Phil. I prefer to remain confidential, just like a client. That's important. Is there any problem with that arrangement? I have to know?"

"No problem, Lillian. For the record, though, you do know this is not a game. It's illegal. I mean, this is prostitution. I'm a whore and you wanna be my pimp."

She wasn't smiling, now. I watched as she moved across the floor, picking up her robe. I thought she might change her mind.

"I prefer the term partner. Well. . .", she began, "I am engaging in the same crime by being a customer. Right? So, let's just forget about the legalities, except to say I have no intention of getting in trouble. As for morality, my late husband was the biggest whore around - a business whore. Even worse, he forced others to sell their integrity and anything else he needed to make his day go right. He was engaged in 'White Slavery' of a business sort. Hell, I've been a whore, or a ‘Jane’, or what ever you call it, a good part of my life. I just didn't know it."

Now, I was smiling. I might even like my new partner. Even if she couldn't deliver on her promises. Some whores kid themselves. Some are into a kind of sickness. A few, like me, enjoy the work and try real hard to savor the flavor and not become desensitized as a human-being.

She drew her fingernails across the hairs on my chest. "By the way, Phil, just how old are you?"

"Thirty seven." I said. I knew better to ask her the same question. After all, she was still just a client.

"Your firm," she said, "but not too hard. Except, of course, where it counts. I like that in a man."

I kissed her on the lips, not passionate, just as a token of some bond. I told her I would show myself out and made sure she had a number where she could reach me.

Chapter 2

I thought the traffic was particularly heavy as I worked my way through honking horns and rancid exhausts in the late day sun. The city provided me with that degree of anonymity that was needed to work my trade. I could move about with a few friends and acquaintances that had no need to know my other life.

My mind drifted back as though trying to escape the busy avenues and darting obstacles that are known to us drivers as pedestrians. I recalled my move to New Orleans just three years ago. It now seemed like a life-time to me. It was.

My visits to this lower Mississippi town grew more frequent as I was drawn to her soul; growing more and more discontented with the Florida that I had retired to some years before. I feared the move because I knew the life-style found here would consume me someday. Living around the "Vieux Carre'" was unlike any other place in America. It was a place where archaic beauty stands nose to nose with filth. The "Quarter" had a charm all of its own, despite a quiet decadence that could lead a clergyman from his path of righteousness.

The contrast found here was not unlike that found within my own life. Those years spent as a police officer were intense. They gave my ego much of the sustenance needed to bolster an attitude of survival in a world that can be very hard on the weak.

From upholding law and trying to protect people from the vermin that would prey on them, I now found myself a law breaker. Some law, in my opinion, needs to be broken. The difference to me is that some unlawful services fill needs for society without inflicting unnecessary pain or causing victimization.

The older I get, the harder it becomes to accept a system that is corrupt, yet pretends to be pure. Our society creates its own brand of victim. Vice laws make it illegal for human behavior to satisfy natural needs between consenting adults. This in turn creates a market for both sides to pursue as commercial enterprise.

My disability pension gives me some degree of independence and lends credibility for the time I have to "spare". The pension isn't big enough to live on comfortably, but it provides nicely for minimal survival. It's not like my life is seriously disrupted by the black-out spells that punctuate my normally healthy routine, but most work is beyond my reach.

Life is that highway we all travel. How we travel depends in large part upon what we are willing to accept as happiness and the price we are willing to pay for it. Since my world was turned upside down by the bright flash of a muzzle that took my career away, I have adapted to a new one.

I never heard the gun's report as the bullet entered my head on that terrifying night. I just saw the blinding explosion of fire which launched me into a seven month coma of darkness. The last thing I remembered before that moment was a look of surprised fear on my partner's face as his own gun was put to his head by one of the two punks that held us prisoner, and the trigger pulled. Jimmy's head exploded. I can never erase that picture.

I was lucky, I guess. The bullet that entered my head circled the skull and stopped before doing more damage. The other two entered my body, missing all my vital areas. I would like to think my partner never knew what hit him, but he probably did. They told me he lived for almost three hours.

We were being executed by two dirt-bags because we hesitated using our guns without a clear target during a robbery-hostage situation. They took control of us, and our guns. It was that or risk killing two hostages. The two hostages were killed, anyway. Talk about adding insult to injury, well . . .. Now, after all of these years, they are still appealing the "cruelty" of three life sentences.

“Oh, shit!” I heard myself blurt. My mind slipped back to the now and the crowded traffic. I was feeling dizzy. Nausea crept into me and I knew I had to park my car or risk an accident. I was having an attack.

I pulled over and turned off the engine. I could never be sure what it was like to be on the other side of my brain's curtain. I remember glancing at the clock as I slipped away and into the murky grayness that swallowed my awareness.

As my awareness returned I looked around. This had been a short episode. Less than fifteen minutes by my reckoning. Sometimes they were much longer. Sometimes, even shorter. I looked about the street and felt assured that no one had paid any attention to my condition. Once again, I was grateful.

I resumed my trip and hoped there would be no more attacks for awhile. The medication to help stave off my attacks seemed less and less effective. Since I had no attacks recently I hadn't taken any of this crap. It tastes awful, but I should have.

I pulled up in front of the fashionable apartment house. I was a few minutes late. Hopefully my client would not take exception to it.

She answered the door with a wide smile and greeted me.

"You must be Philip?" Her lips parted and the words rolled through her large white teeth. "Please, come in." Her arms waved in a sweeping motion. Almost like a bow.

I moved into an expansive living room, nodding with a large smile of my own. She was a broad woman, maybe sixty. Her make-up was heavy, but I was used to that in many of my clientele. Make-up was not always to preserve youth and enhance the ego. Sometimes it was just to satisfy an urge, a lust.

I watched her as she extended a cocktail toward me. Before it passed to my lips I could tell it was scotch. I hate scotch. She must have seen my wince.

"Oh, is something wrong, my dear," she said as she moved close and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

Bells went off, but I couldn't be sure of my suspicions. Something caught my eye, something that . . . I backed off, just a little, then invited her to my arms. I slid my hands to her ass and then moved one hand to the front of her crotch and closed my fingers. It was just as I thought. My trick was a dick! And, I don't mean a cop!

My gut reaction was to smack her in the face. But, people like this are part of the business.

"That will be two hundred bucks, thank you." I said. "And, I'll be out of here."

My instincts were pretty sharp when they had to be. A man's stubble is hard to hide from that distance. "Ugh!"

The "lady" gave a short pretense before recoiling into indignation, and telling me to get out. I picked up what appeared to be a very expensive artifact and posing the threat of breaking it into many pieces, extended my other hand for my fee.

With one of those looks that could kill, my host called me some names that were not very polite, but managed to throw some money my way - a hundred and twenty bucks. Which I gratefully accepted. Setting the figure down, I extended my hand, moving close enough to grab his hair. It was just as I thought, a wig. As I was leaving he threatened to call the police. I bid him goodby, closing the door behind me.

This, of course, is not unheard of in the business. Homosexuals in drag figuring that if you hook you might go both ways. While that may be true for some, there are those of us who do have our limits. We give as good as we get in our lustful occupation, but . . . the plumbing has to be right.

The sun was starting to drop toward the skyline, casting long shadows against the craggy cement of the Quarter. I took my turn off Canal Street winding my way up St. Peter's to The Gumbo Shop. This place was great for authentic Creole food and their Gumbo was heaven.

The dark leathery skin of Monet' was not unlike that found on any old tanned hide. Monet' was the shop's owner; the lagniappe of Gumbo. And, one of my best friends. As he saw me approach he threw his arms wide in that familiar way, as though wanting to wrestle, and grinned his familiar broad smile with ancient eyes that twinkled above a nose that had suffered from too much broken cartilage.

"Ahhh..., Philip! Philip, mon ami," he greeted as we embraced each other in a bear's grip of pain. "Where have you been these long weeks?"

"Days, Monet', days! Not weeks!" I said, correcting his sense of time that always seemed distorted.

Sometimes it would seem that Monet' really was confused, but I know he likes to taunt his customers. Monet' has lived here all of his life; sixty five years. Or, to put it his way, a decade for each foot he is tall. Truly, a man worth knowing. But, not if he didn't like you.

"Philip, mon ami. Some cafe' au lait while I get your Gumbo?"

"Make it a beer, Monet'. Also, I need oysters tonight."

He burst into laughter. "Ah, but of course, Philip. You are busy, no?"

Monet' was one of the few persons that knew me well enough to know how I made a living. I nodded and he disappeared beyond the swinging doors to the kitchen.

After quenching my thirst with three brewski's, I looked at my watch as though trying to time the sunset. I had a nine o'clock and did not want to be late.

Normally, I would not drink on my way to "work" but Ramona would not mind. She was a middle-aged red head that loved beer, bareness, and bed. I liked her as a client because there was no pretense, no sparring. She was good pay, and a good lay.

Her husband was an executive, a busy executive that left his wife to find her own amusement. She did. Her nick name for me was her "toy". I always stopped on my way to meet her and picked up flowers. They were not required, but she always seemed to get pleasure from them. What the Hell!

It was now one-thirty in the morning and I was on my way home from Ramona's. What an animal. I was thankful for the oysters. With gratitude, I pocketed two "C" notes. I couldn't help thinking what tonight's "Gig" would have been like if my mid-day with the bearded jock in drag would have been legit. Oh, my God!

Thankful for another day's end, I drifted into dreamland, utterly exhausted. My last thought was about tomorrow and no gigs to perform. Funny, I like to think of them as GIGS instead of Tricks. I guess because I admire musicians more than hookers.