by José Ralat

The girl who I had almost married and turned me into a cuckold went abroad several months ago. Ever since, my libido’s mercury has been rising. And now, after a night of bar hopping with some buddies, I found myself fumbling through the back of the Village Voice in order to put an end to this frustration. I would hire an Asian call girl!

But I knew I had to salve the Catholic mores long ago programmed into me. How to solve this dilemma: I’d placate my guilt-tripping inner mother by trying to interview the soon-to-arrive working girl. I would ask her how she got to the States: was she kidnapped, sold by her parents? That would wash the guilt right out of my soul.

"Wh...w...what province?" She scrunched her brow at me in puzzlement.

Okay. I know where that’s at. I didn’t. She refused to look at me; instead, her eyes were still transfixed by my room. Hugging herself, and throwing her shoulders forward, her dark skin peeked through her crotched vest and tank top. "How much time do we have left?" I got an hour for $150. That included traveling time.

"What?"

"Time. How much left?"

"Paper?" She asked this while she twirled her small hand through the air, her thumb and index fingers pressed together. I handed her a piece of scrap paper from a pile on my dresser.

On the note: 45 minutes. I glanced at my alarm clock to gauge the hour. 5:30 AM. When I turned around to face her again, she was still trying to acclimate to her new surroundings.

"Have you done this before?"

She shook her head and pointed at the lamp on my nightstand. "Off, please."

"Huh? Sure, but I’m going to turn on the TV. Is that okay?" I sat on the edge of my futon and she nodded with a frown. I still wasn’t sure if this was an act or if she was sincerely afraid. Standing between my open legs, she took off her vest, tank top, and Capris. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and a tan line framed her tiny breasts. Then, kneeling, she pointed to my crotch.

"Take off," she blurted. I did.

"Shirt, too." She stood again. I placed my hands on her hips, just above the strings of her purple lace bikini, while she continued to inspect the room. That’s when I decided to take her panties off.

"Well...o...o...okay, why don’t we start with a massage."

In preparation for the massage, I decided to lay on my belly. I looked over my shoulder to see what she was doing. Momentarily frozen, her eyes were locked on my backside. Was it my hairy ass? What the hell was I doing? I couldn’t fuck this girl. I mean, geez, she was clearly nervous, right? Then, she straddled my butt and began to knead and rub my back.

It was amazing: slow, deep, and thorough. I could feel her pubic hair gristling, knotting in the small of my back. Then, she turned me onto my back and slowly squatted over my torso. Her fingers worked down my shoulders and chest. However, I began to protest as she inched her way to my stomach and groin. Propping myself on my elbows as she came ever closer to my penis, I stared as she cupped my semi-hard cock with one hand and reached for the condom. I grabbed the money I owed her.

I thought, I could go through with this. I need this. I really need this. Then. My eyes caught the portrait of my confirmation saint San Martin de Porres.

The angel painting given to me by my great aunt the hippie. The Jesus candle slightly hidden by the TV. The condom in the nameless girl’s hand. The look in her eye. My dick went limp.

"Here." I held out the $150. "Take this. And take this for yourself. An extra $50. Hide it. This is for you."

Clearly stunned but with what looked like a sigh of relief, the girl gathered her clothes, dressed quickly, and made to leave. I escorted her out the door as stealthily as possible. After she left, I showered and fell asleep to Saturday morning cartoons.