He said who sent him. She told him to come in.
The room was warm and full of a good smell.
She was wearing a see-through negligee.
Her feet were tucked in fuck-me shoes he’d heard
her man call them, said he’d be turned on pronto,
using the Wild West vernacular of the place.
He knew she was wearing a wig and he knew why.
You didn’t have to tell him everything, not at all.
He grew up on the other side of the tracks,
after all. He asked what he owed her. He knew
she like all of them would want it up front.
She asked what he wanted, he told her the usual,
and she said, Fifty. He put five tens in her hand
and she asked if he’d like a drink or prefer to smoke
a joint, and he took the drink, bourbon and soda.
She excused herself and left him alone with his glass,
closing the bathroom door behind her. She changed
her ankle-length negligee for one barely reaching
her thighs, and returning she got down to work.
He let her bring him up slowly with her mouth.
He made sounds he could not help but make.
When she could feel the sap rising she rolled
over and guided him on top of her and on in.
Soon he was flaccid and dressed and sat a while
at her invitation getting to know her, she him,
though she doubted they would ever do this again.
He was the same as when she met him at the house
where she went now as soon as she could get away.
She kept three tens and he two. He took her in bed
all the ways she loved and next morning added
some she had not yet known but he was nothing
if not versatile. She was pleased she gave pleasure
to one who seemed so appreciative. She took off
her wig, finally. Her man asked her if she knew
how much he loved her and said it all over again
when he realized she was taking a minute to think.
She would do this every night the rest of the month.
He’d sit at the Marriott bar and give her a call
when he’d found a man to send up for her to love.
She went on living the life she had lived before.
Sure, she loved him. She knew he didn’t love her.
(3 October 2010)