It was the
liberation of his repressed sexuality he said to himself. The undoing of everything
he once thought as moral and chaste, not to mention dignified. The things he
asked for, the things he said, the tears he wept, came out in fits and bursts. A
grand mal of dismal and dark professions. Every muscle in his body had been
taught and his nerves keen and sensitive to the slightest pressures, making
every rake, every bite, every slap, feel like the world was coming to an end,
but in the best possible way. His date for the night was perfection, tender and touching, wild and wonton and ultimately the devil in every
way. As he stood trembling and buttoning up his trousers, she held out her hand
for payment.
“Three hundred,”
she said, all the sex gone from her voice and her body language.
“Of course,” he
said reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.
“Oh s**t,” he said
the color draining from his face. He realized he left his wallet at the house.
“Are you f*****g
kidding me?”
She pulled out
her cell phone and started dialing before he could explain, the look on her
face a mixture of disgust and annoyance. He knew from the conversation that it
was going to be a long walk home, but on the bright side, he knew he would have
company.
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