I spent the next several days tying up loose ends on my big warehouse deal and getting things straight with the lawyers, my time with Carla the Companion (or Peaches the Crackwhore, depending on your perspective) fading into a fuzzy and pleasant memory. I had to hand it to her – she made an excellent temporary girlfriend, and I didn't even have any of those pesky late night
"oh God, am I ever going to meet someone real for a relationship?"
moments in the middle of the night that single people are prone to.
Carla must have been just as busy, and we lost touch for a week or so until I saw her coming out of Honey's, a popular 24 hour coffee shoppe, at about three in the morning. I needed a waffle. Yes, at 3 in the morning. No, that's
not
normal. If I was normal, I wouldn't be rich.
"Hey, Peaches," I called, as she almost walked by me. She had a girlfriend in tow, a pretty black chick about ten years her junior.
"Coop!"
she said, giving me a hug in greeting when she realized who I was. Her eyes were spacey – coke, and plenty of it. "Coop, this is my girlfriend Rialta," she said, introducing me, and I shook her hand. She was a working girl, too, I could tell (no other reason to wear a mini skirt and tube top at a coffee shop at three in the morning) and she was pretty cranked, too. "We just got off work," Carla explained, "and were waiting for a cab."
"Getting some waffles," I explained. "Playing HALO 3 all night. Well, you girls have fun, 'kay?" I said. Not that I wasn't interested – but the economic news and my recent deals had made me a little more cost-conscious about pussy.
"You, uh, wanna . . ." Carla started to ask, softly. "You know . . .?"
"I gotta get home," Rialta complained. "My feet are killin' me, my asshole hurts, and I gotta get my kids up for school in the morning."
"I was just getting waffles," I told her. "I mean, of course I'm interested, but—"
"How about I trade you a blowjob for a place to crash, tonight?" she asked, beseechingly. "I hate to go back to my boyfriend's place . . . he's gonna be up all night with his fellas playing cards, and I'll never get to sleep."
It was an interesting proposal – I mean, if you're up for waffles at 3 a.m., how could you
not
be up for a blowjob? Sure, she looked shifty and nervous, but I figured that was the coke talking. But the prospect of inviting a known junkie back to your apartment for the evening – rest of the night – is always a little dicey. I hemmed and hawed about it, and postponed the decision until after my waffle.
"Tell you what," I proposed, "keep me company while I eat, and then I'll either take you up on it or I'll drop you off and spare you a cab ride."
She shrugged, not particularly happy about it, but not put out, either. "That works," she agreed. "What's it been like in nerdville, lately?"
"Oh, you know, new Star Wars action figures, bitching about the latest comic adaptations, that sort of thing," I said, sarcastically. "Oh, and putting together multi-million dollar deals. How's the whoring?"
"Did a frat party," she yawned. "Two grand, but I had to do seven guys. And Rialta. She took five up the butt, though, and that always makes you tired. Split the tip even." I sat down in the smoking section and ordered, our steely-eyed waitress looking at Carla with distaste.
"I think I'll stick with action figures," I chuckled.
"So, Coop," Carla said, hesitantly. "You got any more special work for me? Any more old guys that need blowing?"
"Not at the moment," I said, guardedly. "But maybe soon."
"Good – just between you and me, I need the money."
When doesn't a whore need the money? I knew she was in deep with her pimp over blow, but a couple of extra suck jobs, no matter how lucrative, weren't going to put a dent into her habit. "I could do a few referrals," I proposed, cautiously.
"That would be grand," she sighed. "I like fucking nerds. They have less expectation than the homeboys."
"Here's to the geeks of the world," I said, toasting with my coffee cup. "Lowering expectations for American masculinity for almost a hundred years!"
"No, no, I mean . . . well, they're just nicer. And they don't like it rough, not like some of my other clientele."
"A couple of the guys from my nerd party a while back have asked," I pointed out. "I could make a few calls."
"That would be great. There's a whole new crop of competition rising, and I need to find a good niche. Me an' Rialta were discussing it tonight after the party. My boyfriend just found two new eighteen year old white pussies to put on the market, and some of my regulars have switched." She sounded depressed about it.
"Eighteen, you say?" I asked, intrigued.
"Oh, FUCK no!" she exclaimed, a little pissed off. "Not you, too? Yes, they're fresh, but they barely know which end of a cock to put in their mouths. But the brothas like it fresh, so . . ."
"So you have to find other stuff to do while they take the limelight," I finished.
"Yeah," she admitted, lighting a cigarette. "I don't mind the competition, really – okay, a little, maybe – but it's the . . . well, shit like this frat party. More work. And it's a rough economy. And my boss says if I don't start picking up the pace and paying off my debt . . ." she let it hang there a moment.
"Donkey shows in Tiajuana?" I supplied, helpfully.
"Or worse. And before you ask, don't ask."
"I see," I said, thoughtfully. I recalled the conversation that Bev and I had about the potential advantage of a full-time whore on the payroll of our new enterprise – beyond the "employee morale" aspects – and let that part of my brain churn while I ate. Carla told me a couple of amusing whore stories until it was time to go, then looked at me expectantly.
"So, what about tonight?" she asked, finally.
"Yeah, come on back to my place," I decided. "I don't mind if you crash."
"I'll pay the rent first, promise," she said, happily.
And she did. As soon as we got through the door, she had me in my favorite recliner, slurping on my cock with her well-used mouth. I don't know how many frat boys she sucked off that night, but there was a definite looseness in her mouth that I found pleasant and strange at the same time. Still, she did a professional job, and I unloaded in less than ten minutes, my hand pushing her head down on my dick as far as it would go. We fell asleep in my bed, curled up like boyfriend and girlfriend. Just before I dropped off I reminded myself to ditch the sheets – no telling where those frat boys had been.
I had planned on my usual noon rising time, but some asshole was banging on my door at six a.m sharp, and that makes me grumpy. And you
don't
want to make a nerd grumpy. I flicked on my computer screen and clicked on the icon that opened up the hallway webcam, and saw two well-dressed African American men with determined jaws just outside my door. They carried themselves with the kind of confidence that only a large caliber handgun or a lifetime of martial arts training can impart.
"Coop?" Carla asked, nervously, as she saw the screen. "Um, I think they're here for me."
"No shit," I commented. "I don't have any appointments this morning."
"I'll get my stuff," she sighed, desperately.
"Wait," I told her, pushing her back down on the bed. "
No one
fucks with my beauty rest. I'll deal with them."
"Coop, no," Carla objected. "These guys—"
