Sitting down and taking my shoes off getting ready to relax, I looked across to the seating to my right, in the stretch limousine, and sitting there is the most gorgeous specimen of a man wearing a black silk tux. He was stunning in his appearance and looks. I had never seen a man like him black or white. He’s sitting with his legs crossed and grinning at me. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for a working girl to be in this part of town?” I had unknowingly walked on the Westside highway and ended up on Wall Street. The last thing I remember was heading in the direction of the Brooklyn Bridge but found myself closer to the Brooklyn Tunnel.
After watching for my reaction, he took a sip of his drink from a crystal glass filled to the brim with some kind of liquor. From watching bartenders at Troy’s club, I’d say it was Scotch whisky with no ice. It appeared to be straight liquor and he was drinking it like you would a bottle of Pepsi or Coke.
I remember thinking that he must have bigger problems he wanted to forget. Much worse than I had. If he was getting wasted like this, it must be serious. He looked young, like a rich man in his late twenties. Maybe he had to turn himself in to the police the next morning.
I glanced up at him. “I thought this car was empty. Why did the driver pick me up? I said watching at his face which was hidden by a small beard that made him look sexy in the low light. He wore an expensive black tux with a bow tie accentuated by a white shirt with expensive gold cuff links with initials on them. My eyes caught a pair of expensive black shoes with shoe strings, and a buffed shine on them. Not the kind of shoes where you pull them on or kick them off.
“I directed him to stop for you.” So he didn’t just rent this car, he owns it. I’m thinking.
At the time I didn’t realize that the guy thought I was a prostitute waiting to be picked up, after all, what woman would walk on the Westside highway if she didn’t have serious business to transact or she had lost her mind?
“I had a bad day,” I said to him straightening my skirt. “I’m a working girl, but just not the kind you’re talking about.”
He leans to his left and says, “What’s the matter little lady, you didn’t make enough money to satisfy your pimp?” He wasn’t being demeaning, he appeared concerned about me. He reached into his pocket and took out a roll of hundred dollar bills, “Here take it. Consider it a gift.”
“I can’t take that. I’m not a prostitute.”
“I know you’re a working girl,” he says with a smirk, not understanding, or he was too drunk for anything to register. “You can take it, it doesn’t mean anything to me. Maybe you can find some use for the money. Leaning over in my direction he places the wad of money on my lap. Looking down, I furrowed my brow, then my horrified sharp gaze flicks back to him.
“Don’t worry, I don’t want you to suck my dick or fuck you in the ass, or anything like that,” he says with a drunken tone to his voice. “But the way I feel I couldn’t get it up for you anyway.” He glances at me with his big blue eyes and he sees the frown on my face. “You’re pretty and have a great figure under that blue suit, but I’m just not in the mood.”
“I wouldn’t do that thing you said about my ass anyway, and besides you’re a strange man, and you’re drunk, and you could have any number of things wrong with you,” I say to him taking offense at his conversation.
“What’s wrong with me?” He questions.
“Nothing. You’re handsome for a white guy, but I’m not into white men.”
“Well, what kind of working girl are you? You can’t make any money unless you’re willing to suck dicks white and black, and the other stuff with your ass. If you plan on making any kind of money you can’t be particular.”
He pours himself another drink. “What’s wrong with white guys anyway?” He drinks his drink in one gulp. “Why don’t you want to fuck me?” he says his voice
“You’re not listening to me. I’m not a prostitute. You are a handsome man and I would fuck you but like you said you are too drunk.” I’m trying to humor him because he has self-esteem problems. I understand that because I’m having a few of those myself. But I’m not trying to self-medicate like him. And unlike him, I don’t want to forget what Troy did to me and to our perfect relationship. Well, I thought it was perfect.
The limo slows down and stops at the red light. He takes his drink and moves in the seat next to me. He’s making me uncomfortable being that close to me. I lean away from him. My scan of his body gives an incomplete picture of him. Now I can see his eyes, they are a mixture of lavender and blue. His body is muscular firm and poised, and his gaze is on me as if studying me too. I search around for words to explain to him why I wouldn’t have sex with him and I can’t find a reason, except maybe he drinks too much. I turn facing him, his eyes are on me, but his mind is somewhere else.
“I’m having a problem with my boyfriend,” and I stop...he glances at me as if he wouldn’t believe me anyway, so I just say, “Can you have your driver take me home?”
“Where do you live?”
“I live...I had forgotten that I didn’t live there anymore. “Take me to Brooklyn across the bridge and drop me at the Atlantic Avenue subway and I’ll get home.”
“No. Let me take you home. I have nothing to do and I don’t want to go to my apartment, there is no one there waiting for me. Not unless you want to spend the night with me.” He’s waiting for an answer.
“I said I’m not a prostitute and I’m not about to go to a strange man’s home.”
“You got into a strangers car.”
“That’s because...I didn’t feel like going through that again. It was a bridge to nowhere with him because he was obviously drunk. So I changed the subject. “What about your wife?”
“I don’t have a wife.” He looks at me trying to decide whether to pour his heart out to me. “I was engaged but I caught her with my best friend.” He takes another drink.
“Then she wasn’t worth you being upset over.” I was the last to talk. Here I am finding my fiancé fucking a woman in a position that he declared wasn’t respectable and animalistic, but I still wanted him to turn around and send her away. After all that I still wanted him. “I don’t know what to tell you,” I say meeting his gaze.
“It’s what the heart desires that gets us in trouble. The heart wants what the heart wants.” I say to him. I didn’t know where that piece of philosophical crap came from but it seemed appropriate at the time and for the conservation we were having.
We were both being fucked over by the people we desired the most.
He turns to me picking up the money I placed between us and says, “Here, take the money. I know you don’t want to take it.” He puts it in my hand. “Would you prefer to work for it?”
“I told you before and you weren’t listening. I’m not that kind of girl. I work for a living.”
“Yes I know,” and before I could try to make some sense with him because he was pissing me off, he leans over and kisses me. His kiss burned through me and I taste liquor and smelled the scent of an expensive cologne or body wash. His tongue meandering around my mouth heating me through and through. I couldn’t catch my breath. His hands dropped to my legs and I felt as if I could give in and let him think that I got in his car for sex, but as desperate as I felt, and as much as I wanted to be loved by a man, I didn’t want that feeling from a stranger.
I needed that feeling from Troy even if he was a dog.
When his hands reached my mound and his lips searched for my nipples, I pulled back from him. He looks at me confused. “You will never make a dime as a working girl. You can’t be so tense.”
“I thought you didn’t want anything from me?” I say to him. Now I’m angry because he’s too drunk to even hear me, or make sense of what I’ve said.
“I don’t want anything from you if you don’t consent to having sex with me. I was just feeling sorry for myself because my best friend and fiancé betrayed me, and still I want her more than ever. I thought if I could fuck you, then I wouldn’t feel as bad. I see it as a revenge fuck. Fucking another woman.”
“I caught my fiancé tonight fucking a woman over his desk in his office and I didn’t want to fuck you.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s not what you do when you have a traumatic situation. You don’t just pick up a woman and fuck her and in a car.” My voice raised as I chastised him.
“Would you come with me to my apartment?”
“You’re not listening to me.” I find my hands holding his gorgeous face. “You just don’t get it, do you? I find you very attractive, but I just don’t go around having sex with a man when I first meet him.”
“I normally don’t either,” he says to me leaning and ready to reach under my skirt, but I swat his hand away from me. “You really aren’t a prostitute? Are you?”
“Now you get it. No. I’m not.”
“Then would you consider seeing me again.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Because I’m white?”
“No, because you are trying to fuck away your pain. I don’t want any relationship with a man black or white or any other color who wants to have a woman because another woman has disappointed him. And I wouldn’t be a good date anyway because I’m thinking about my boyfriend. I look up and the driver has stopped at the subway station on Atlantic Avenue.
“Thank you and it was an interesting night.” I extend my hand to shake his and hand him back the money.
He reaches for my hand and raises it to his mouth and kiss it. “You’re interesting and you make me laugh. What’s your name?” He questions opening the door.
“It’s Leila Brooks, and it was a pleasure meeting you.” He reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out a card, and hands it to me before standing outside and extending his manicured hand for me to take when I step out of the limo.
My eyes drops on his cuff links the initial are E.H. “If you need anything call me.” I took his card without looking at it and shoved it into my purse. I walked down the dark stairs and through the turnstile and stood waiting for a train to Prospect Park.