Gee's Revenge

I awoke the next morning in the kind of glorious haze you only get after fucking an Asian lesbian in the ass. You really must try it sometime. I didn't even bother to get out of bed until my over-full bladder insisted, and even then I didn't get dressed. In fact, apart from a few phone calls to my partners about Bev's proposal, I didn't do jack that day.

Retirement before you're 30: also highly recommended.

It wasn't until the late afternoon, when my stomach started complaining about the lack of attention, that I remembered Carla and our date. She had looked like she could use a good meal, so I dialed her. It took about nine rings before she answered.

"Hey, Mr. Cooper!" she said with poorly-feigned enthusiasm. "Is this about this evening?"

"Why yes, it is," I agreed. "I was wondering if you were free for dinner. Nothing fancy, but I thought I'd check out that new Italian joint over on Broad."

"Don't waste your money," she said. "Gino's sucks. Mafia run. And any Jersey guy who has to move to this town to make it, well, you gotta wonder. How about Michelina's, instead?" she proposed.

I considered. A little dive-y, perhaps, but I'd eaten there before. Good, basic Italian food, and probably cheaper than Gino's anyway. "Sure. Meet you there? Or shall I pick you up?"

"Um . . . that might be difficult, now," she said, nervously. "I'll see you there. Seven. Get a table in the back."

A few more hours of puttering around later, I found myself at Michelina's getting led to a back table by an enormous middle-aged woman who managed to mix the high points of both Italian and Southern accents, to humorous effect.. I ordered a bottle of the house red and munched on bread sticks and waited.

And waited. And waited.

It was quarter to eight before the prodigal whore appeared. She looked better than yesterday, but still very tired. You could park a car in the circles under her eyes. She was wearing a slightly flirty casual dress and way-too-high heels, and from the neck down looked supremely humpable. But her eyes gave her away. Her manager had apparently had her doing customer service calls all day, and it showed.

"Heya, Coop," she said as she plopped down. "Hope you weren't waiting long."

"Well, a while," I admitted. "I'm starved. And I'm ready to order." I poured her a glass of the red and waited while she scanned the menu. She ended up ordering the special before draining her glass in one long pull.

"That's the stuff," she said, approvingly, refilling the glass. "Cheap, red, and sweet."

"Busy day?"

"All day," she agreed. "I had a lot of catching up to do. Remind me never to pull that kinda shit again. I'm getting too old for this."

"Would you listen if I did?"

"Nope," she admitted. "I'm kinda stubborn. Taurus."

"So how many dicks have you sucked today?" I asked, conversationally. She looked at me through narrowed eyes.

"You kinda get off on hearing shit like that, don't you?" she accused.

"Well, yeah," I admitted. "That a problem?"

"I've had guys want me to stick baseball bats up their asses," she sighed, chuckling. "A little casual voyeurism isn't going to shock me. For your information, I've sucked five dicks, fucked three, and took it up the ass. And all for free, my little punishment for going AWOL. I knock you out, I'm back in with Bill."

"Is that terribly important to you?"

"At the moment, yes," she agreed, biting her lip. "Believe me, there are worse pimps in the neighborhood. Bill's a hard worker, doesn't abuse his girls, and he splits pretty fairly. I could do a lot worse. And he pulls some great clients, too. Gets them from that business school."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, Bill's getting his MBA." A pimp with a Master's degree. In business. Wow.

"That's . . . impressive."

"His Daddy runs most of the business around Central University, but he's mostly retired now. Bill's the oldest of his kids and is expected to inherit most of the business. But all of his siblings, legitimate and illegitimate, have gone on to college." She sipped her wine. "All seventeen of them."

"Now that's really impressive," I admitted. "You seem pretty knowledgeable about it." Carla shrugged, and rolled her eyes. "Look, just because I was a stupid cunt in High School and ended up a whore doesn't mean I'm an idiot," she said. "It's not a terribly complicated business, and I keep my eyes open and my mouth shut."

"When you aren't sucking someone off," I added.

"Actually, that's when I listen the most. It doesn't matter how smart or rich a man is, he's the most vulnerable when he's getting his oil changed. So yeah, I know about the business end of things. I didn't want to end up like . . . most entry-level girls. You cross the wrong person out of ignorance and you don't end up well. It's a survival skill."

"So now you're a seasoned professional. I can respect that. And I have to admit, you have the skills for it. And the looks." Even whores are subject to flattery. She favored me with a genuine smile.

"Are you sure that's not some left-over teenaged fantasy talking?" she chuckled.

"I won't deny it's coloring my perceptions," I agreed. "But I've spoken more to you in the last few days than I ever did in school."

"Which tells me that your either a cast-iron pervert or you're having delusions about 'saving' me," she said, suspiciously. "That actually happens a lot. 'What's a nice girl like you doing working the streets'? Usually they throw some God shit in there, and the really bad ones want to pray with me or read the Bible. Tell me to call my parents or some bullshit like that. But when the time comes for me to be swigging Scope, the most they do is leave a healthy tip. Every now and then someone gets obsessed and I have to have Bill have a talk with them. But they never really want to 'save' me, they just want to feel better about fucking a whore by pretending it's part of some goddamn sacred mission. Hypocritical bastards."

"Then chalk me down as a cast-iron pervert," I told her. "I get my jollies fucking the hell out of the nasty bitch cheerleader I knew from High School, and am working out my teenage revenge of the nerd fantasies. Not to mention feeling smugly superior for my achievements while you've taken an obvious left-turn on your journey through life."

Carla considered. "I can respect that," she decided. "I mean, I wouldn't mind being 'saved', as long as it's a multi-millionaire playboy and not a balding Jesus freak, but the small number of millionaires in town just aren't beating down my door. To save me," she added. "They don't mind if I fuck them."

"Well, in all fairness, you aren't the best candidate for matrimony," I pointed out. "Oh, you've got the bedroom skills, but the drug addiction thing is kind of a buzz-kill in a long term relationship. Not to mention your pimp."

"Hey, I pay him off, I'm a free agent," she said, defiantly. "It could happen," she added, when I gave her a look. "In five years I could so be a suburban house-mommy, if I applied myself."

Our food came about then, and we actually had a good, cheap date. When she wasn't on guard Carla was actually pretty friendly, funny, and gave me a good non-sexual time. Not quite as good as my date with Bev, I noted, but then Bev was a special case. Carla got decently tipsy and encouraged me to get a second bottle to go with dessert and coffee (and for the record, the espresso was atrocious -- whoever said Italians knew their way around coffee was on crack). She disappeared into the bathroom while I paid the check, and after a lengthy wait she returned, her eyes aglow. Nothing like an after-dinner line of coke to put you in the mood, I suppose.

"So," she asked, lighting a cigarette as we left, "what did you have in mind for the evening? It's your call: whips, chains, anything but animals and small children. Or," she added, slyly, "I could give you the GFE, good and hard."

" 'GFE'?" I asked, curious. I thought I was up on all the latest kinky lingo. I knew I shouldn't have let my Maxim subscription lapse.

"The 'Girlfriend Experience'," she explained. "A lot of guys who I date actually want someone to act like their love-struck girlfriend. PDAs, publicly laughing at your stupid jokes, the works. Or you could just fuck me in the ass. Or all of it together. You've hit Free Parking."

"The Girlfriend Experience . . ." I chuckled. "Yeah, I can see how that would be popular. Like with my sci-fi group. Most of those boneheads need love and affection more than they need a good hummer. Sure, let's start with that. I always wanted a sycophantic sexpot on my arm, staring up at me adoringly."

She stopped and looked at me. "Sycophantic? That's not . . . that doesn't have anything to do with diapers, does it? Because I—"

"No, Peaches," I laughed. "Should have stayed awake in Senior English."

"Sorry, I was trying to fuck your brother instead," she said, sticking her tongue out at me childishly. "As long as there's no . . . icky stuff. For that I need a lot more coke."

"Nah, I just want you to cling to me like a barnacle. Hell, I wish there was someplace we could go. Just so I could get the full effect."

"No geek night clubs open on a school night?" she asked. "I'd think they'd be rockin' about now."

"No . . . but now that you mention it . . ." I said, reaching for my Crackberry. That's the whole point of carrying them, isn't it? I recalled seeing something for tonight, something of unparalleled geekiness that combined social experience with unabashed nerdery. "Aha!" I finally said when it floated up on my calendar. "I had almost forgotten . . ."

She looked at me, eyes wide, startled. "I was just joking about the clubs," she said, worried.

"Yeah, but even geeks have a social life of sorts," I pointed out. "And since you're pretending to be a girlfriend on a date, and we've had dinner, I guess it's time for the 'movie' portion of the evening," I said, chuckling to myself wickedly as I closed the device.

"I'm not sure I like that tone," she said, glancing around nervously.

"That hardly sounds like the devoted girlfriend I hired for the evening."

Carla nodded and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she had dropped into character perfectly.

"Sure, Coop, wherever you wanna go would be great!" she said with well-feigned exuberance. "Is there a Star Trek convention in town?"

"That's in two weeks. No, I just remembered that there is, indeed, a social occasion we can make. It's a midnight movie."

"O-kay," she said, cautiously. "No pointed ears? No princess costume?"

"Nah, not yet. But if you behave yourself, maybe next time."

She shrugged. "Lead on, darling!"

On the way across town she slid over to me and leaned her head on my shoulder, affectionately. Then she unzipped my pants and toyed with the boy for the remainder of the trip, kissing my neck and ear and whispering outrageously filthy things into my ear. Needless to say, when we arrived my cock could have cut steel. I paid for the tickets while she stared at the natives.

"Why are those people all wearing the same dorky knitted cap?"

"It's complicated."

"And why is that woman dressed up like a . . . coffee filter? A pink coffee filter?"

"She's just showing off. Come on, the show's about to start."

The place was a small strip-mall dinner theater that catered to small niche markets. The Indian Film Festival had been here a few weeks back, and every Friday night they still ran Rocky Horror Picture Show. But tonight there was a special charity screening of Serenity.

Carla was politely quiet during the introduction to the movie, the raffle, the door prizes, and the costume contest. The announcement was made about the upcoming Browncoat Christmas Ball, everyone sang a round of the theme song, followed by the Ballad of Jayne Cobb, and then the movie started. My temporary girlfriend looked at me as the lights went low. "This is some kind of cult, isn't it?"

"They're 'Browncoats'," I tried to explain. "And yes, it's a little cultish. But you'll like this -- one of the characters is a whore."

She raised her eyebrows skeptically, but didn't say anything.

"She's a really nice whore," I added, then gave up explaining to her.

Carla settled back, ready to be bored -- but then that breathless opening sequence began and by the time the Operative has dramatically slain the villainous Dr. Mathias with a sword and a nerve pinch, she was on the edge of her seat. Carla seemed genuinely interested in the plot for a while, until it turned to exposition. Then she remembered she was working. She snuggled up to me cozily and started playing with my dick through my pants. But then the bank robbery scene started, and she got caught up in the action and almost forgot about the action supposed to be happening in my pants.

Damn you and your compelling storylines, Joss Wheadon!

Actually, despite my simmering frustration it was strangely delightful to watch the former snob queen head cheerleader, responsible for so many feminine tears and male masturbatory fantasies over the years, become enthralled in the geekiest of sci-fi movies, surrounded by a sea of nerds. I watched Carla closely as she mindlessly ate popcorn, her eyes glued to the screen. Firefly is its own very special corner of geekdom, attracting nerds who had no idea they knew they were nerds until they're wearing long brown coats and singing "The Hero Of Canton" -- and by then it's too late. Firefly is insidious that way. And Serenity captures all the adventure and angst of the television show in movie form. In its way, it's arguably better written and produced than even the iconic Star Wars.

And Carla sat through every damn minute of it, my dick long ignored after the return to Haven, and she even grabbed my hand at a few of the scarier parts in the thrilling climax.

Afterwards, she was in a bit of a daze. "Wow," she said, thoughtfully. "That was a hell of a lot more fun than I thought it would be . . ."

"It's not all polyhedral dice and pocket protectors, you know," I assured her. "We are a rich and culturally diverse people."

"Sorry I . . . kinda forgot what I was doing," she said, sheepishly. "But DAMN! That was a good movie. And that's the first time that I've actually gone to a movie on a date in . . . a long time. Thanks, Coop. Most of the movies I see these days in my line of work have 'Booty' in the title. Now, tell me about this Inara chick . . ."

I tried to explain Inarra Serra's complicated and mysterious background as a freelance Registered Companion, which led me to explaining what the Companion's Guild was, which opened a discussion on the philosophical nature of whoring. Her perspective was intriguing, to say the least.

"Would I have chosen to be a prostitute?" she asked me, at one point. "Hell, no. But it wasn't exactly one of the items on the Guidance Counselor's form, was it? Now, 'high class call girl', maybe. If I had the option to become a . . . 'companion', maybe I wouldn't have gotten so fucked up along the way."

"You think you'd fuck for money if you didn't have to?"

She shrugged. "You know, when you take away some of the bad stuff, it isn't a bad way to make a living. Most women fuck for money -- or security, or to get something, same thing -- and pretend it's love or some lame shit like that. At least I'm honest about it. Most of the time I have a pretty good time, and getting paid at the end of the night is always cool. If I didn't have bills to pay . . . well, if I only had to pay normal-people bills and not pay off my pimp, I'd be making a pretty good living. Shit, it's better than being in the Mommy Zone, watching your brats suck up all your money and only getting fucked twice a month."

"Don't tell me you enjoy being a crackwhore . . ."

She stared at me. "No, not like that. But I wouldn't mind being a straight-up independent. I like what you've told me about Inara . . . it would be cool to have a company standing behind you, instead of a pimp."

"A lot of guys in the nerd community are pretty pro-prostitution," I offered. "Myself included. We need more high-class whores and less low-class celebrities."

"Amen, brother!" she sang. Her hand found my zipper again. "Here I am babbling about whoring when I should be taking care of my boyfriend! Come here, you . . ."

The Carla I took upstairs was a hell of a lot more relaxed and energetic than the Carla who showed up at the restaurant. She stopped the elevator for ten minutes between floors and sucked me sweetly, taking me just to the brink of climax before stopping and continuing towards my loft. Once there, she made me sit on the couch and insisted on performing what she called the "girlfriend tease" (different than the 'stripper tease' and the 'slut tease', based on some technical issues) with a barstool. It was effective and attractive, too -- the girl knew how to move her body.

The entire time the fake-but-sincere girlfriend smile was plastered on her face, the same adorable look I had been enchanted with in High School. As I watched her coquettishly slip out of her bra straps and peel her panties down from under her skirt, it suddenly didn't matter that she had done the same thing to a thousand other guys. The fact that she was doing it for me was suddenly very, very important. She might be faking the looks for my benefit, but it was working. I wanted her to be my girlfriend, for a wonderful five minutes.

When she got to the slut-crawl over to me, I was already hard as granite. She begged permission to see my cock, then touch it, then asked to take it into her mouth. Her nimble lips delighted the head and upper shaft, while her fingers traced every spot on my balls and lower shaft with sensual deliberation. I had let her know earlier that I wanted a long, slow, savory blowjob, and that's just what she gave to me. By the time my back arched and I exploded in her welcoming mouth, I was as close to bliss as I'd ever been. I glanced at the clock -- a little over an hour and a quarter.

"Damn," I whispered, reverently. "You really should get paid for this."

She started a girlish giggle that turned into a sly chuckle before my eyes. "Yeah, I'm good at sucking cock. All the cheerleaders were. I just don't usually have the leisure to do it right." She stretched, her position on the floor no doubt getting old. "I'm going to pee," she announced. "Why don't you get nekkid and I'll slowly suck you back to life, so we can fuck."

"I think I can manage that," I agreed, in a soft warm glow. Carla giggled again and got up.

Ten mintues later she was nursing on my dick again, while I was sprawled naked in my king-sized bed. Most of my loft looks like a fraternity house, but I splurged on the bed: it cost me close to $5000, and it's worth every penny. Carla curled up between my legs and continued fellating me until I was rock-hard and ready to go again, and then she mounted me, cowgirl.

I indulged in more boob-play than I had in a long time -- she had the rack for it, too. Big, pendulous breasts that were bordering on too-big, hanging down over me like ripe, juicy fruit, swaying with the rhythmic thrusts of her hips, nipples watching me intently. Most importantly, these were the tits of my adolescent dreams, always so elusive, always so divine. I indulged in every wanton caress, bold squeeze, and delicate nipple tracery I'd ever considered, while she patiently -- and enthusiastically -- rode my cock.

"Having fun?" she asked in a sing-song voice. I nodded happily. "Good!" she sighed. "I'm actually enjoying it quite a bit," she admitted. "It's almost like a real date."

"I guess some of the allure of just fucking wears off when you . . . careful . . . when you add in the profit motive."

"In some ways," she agreed. "But once you start whoring, there are whole new thrills involved. I am kinda wild," she confessed. "I get off on some of the sick shit."