Calmly

Dear Reader: Here is a story based on a song titled "Call Me Calmly" by the Barenaked Ladies. It's a vignette more so than a story, to be honest.

The odds are you aren't familiar with the song, and if indeed you're not, then I strongly urge you to find it and listen to it on YouTube or wherever - you're in for a treat just for the music and you'll thank me for that. And the story may resonate more if you do.

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"Thank you for meeting me on such short notice," he said.

The short, slightly plump woman looked up at the younger man seated across from her in their booth at the hotel bar. She was not unattractive, but even heavily made up she was closer to plain than to beautiful, while he, going strictly by appearances, was well out of her league. "You don't have to be so polite and formal, 'John.' I told you the last time we met: if you have another panic attack, all you have to do is calmly call me. Hm, hm? Call me. Hm, hm?"

"That lilt in your voice is charming. And a little disturbing at the same time."

"Supposed to."

"So what's it mean?"

"Doesn't mean anything. I had this crazy feeling you'd be trying to get to me. So, basic service?"

"Right. Already venmoed you."

"I know. It notified me just before I left. I'm always willing to do more, you know. Pay up front, and you shall receive."

"I haven't decided about that."

She took another sip of her double martini. "You and I were meant to be."

"Don't even joke like that, Sally. This is strictly professional."

"I pity all you working stiffs. Living, wondering 'what if?'"

"What if, what?"

"Different men wonder 'what-if' about different things. I'm not talking about them. What do YOU wonder?"

"Well, for starters, I wonder about your starting assumption. I don't think of myself as a working stiff. Too much to lose, actually."

She smiled compassionately. "Even though you don't know me, 'John'? That's what makes it safe." The ambient noise in the crowded bar masked their conversation to any but a determined eavesdropper.

"I still worry."

"I don't even know your name."

"True. Makes it kind of an unequal relationship."

"And do you think that you know mine?"

"You told me it was -- wait, heh, good point. Sally Jefferson isn't a name that can be looked up with much certainty."

"So, you tried?"

He looked flummoxed again. "I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No worries. Sally Hemings is a personal hero. So I picked the name because of her."

"Hemings?" He paused for a beat. "Oh. Jefferson. Right."

"Like I said last time. Tonight I'll be your slave. Just like Sally. If you want, you can wonder, what if someday I was free."

"Look, I appreciate the small talk, if you're trying to help me relax. But I'm not here to talk about you - no offense intended. The reason I phoned is, I'm stressed out." His voice was lower now. "About this new contract I'm hammering out - with a guy in the industry who I really can't stand. And I can't stop thinking about making him do something disgusting. Humiliating. Perverted. Is that just me being messed up?

The woman's response was steady, probing. "Making him give you fellatio. Correct?"

"Yeah," he muttered. "You remember from last time. So...?" his voice trailed off.

There was an awkward pause. "And now you want to take me upstairs," the woman continued.

"Which is also messed up of me. You're a psychologist. And an expensive one. But not a hooker."

"I may be more than you can afford. But I'm sure we'll meet halfway."

"I can afford you. You know that." His upscale business-casual attire was consistent with his considerable means.

"Then, better me than some hooker, don't you think? She wouldn't understand about projection. Transference. Sublimation."

"You make it sound so clinical. But what I did with you - to you - the last two times --." His voice trailed off.

"Are you ashamed of what you've done?"

"I guess when you put it that way, yes."

"I found my true calling. The clinical world still has so far to go. So much to learn."

The man changed the subject back, his voice dropping to a defensive, almost apologetic tone. "It's just - I'm not gay. I told you."

"You more than proved that to me last time."

"You don't understand."

"So it's not just fellatio, this time," the woman inferred. "Is it." The last wasn't a question but a statement of fact.

The man sagged visibly, matching his vocal tone. "No. I visualize sodomizing him too. To make sure he KNOWS that he's the gay one."

The woman pondered. "Basic service won't cover that."

"I know." He cleared his throat and continued. "After what I did to you last time, I wasn't even sure you would take my phone call."

" All we did was have some fun."

"It wasn't fun. It was sex."

"You were lonely. I was bored."

"You said it made you feel like a prostitute."

"I hold my dates in high regard."

"Dates, plural? Ugh. I'm not sure saying it that way eases the particular concern."

"I have only a few clients. Actually, it wouldn't take too much more from you, to turn it into an exclusive arrangement. This is three times in less than a month."

"I'm not looking for exclusivity. Just a life preserver when I need one.

"Look, we can do it like last time. I brought my deck of cards. I'll deal the hand, you try your luck."

"And the stakes? Same as last time?"

"A pair gets me a week in rent. And a straight gets even more."

"You made it too easy last time."

She chuckled. "I'm no good at playing cards."

"That doesn't make it sound any better. I hurt you last time, before you, well, you know."

"Before I blew you. You can say it. I sucked your big cock. And I loved it. Every moment of it. Every inch of it." She finished her drink in one big gulp.

"I called you every name I could think of."

"The words alone made me wet. No, I was already wet when you used your belt. I was wet when I used my mouth. Then when you touched me, I mean when you really penetrated, I came so hard. I loved it."

"I'm glad you liked it."

"No, I loved it. I love you."

"You're trying to play some kind of psychologist game now, aren't you?"

"I told you. I'm no good at games."

"Not cards. Love. You explained about Transference last time. But I'm not looking for love."

"We're all looking for love. Transference is a dirty word in the therapy racket. Not for me. Not anymore. We're all human. I'm human."

"I wasn't questioning *that*." His eyes passed again over her display of very human cleavage courtesy of the semi-sheer blouse she had on.

"Love is never in-between. If it isn't one thing, then it's always something else. I don't even know what I mean. I thought that it was nothing, now I can't find nothing else. Oh, you can't hide. But at least you tried to call me, call me, calmly call me."

"You're trying to provoke me now. 'Cause I know you're not in love with me."

She smiled back. Her cold blue eyes took on additional life. "Does it make you angry? So then, take me upstairs. Take out your aggressions on me. Put me in my place."

He continued. "But if I sodomize you this time, on top of all that..." His voice trailed off in uncertainty.

"There's a bit of rope in my purse." Her words did not directly address his, and yet were plainly relevant.

"You trust me that much, so soon?"

"I won't judge, and I won't tell."

"But I'll hurt you."

"And I'll forget you when you've gone."

He pondered. "When I dialed your number, I was afraid you wouldn't answer."

"But the stress went away immediately when I did. Right?"

He sighed. "Right. You read me too well." He added, almost under his breath, "already."

"So let me ask you something: are you hard right now?"

He looked directly at her. "Hard? I was hard as soon as I heard your voice on the phone."

"Then let's go upstairs. Right now. I promise you'll feel better. You'll be glad you called. Good things happen when you calmly call me."