Chapter 5–Be aggressive, B-E agressive!


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My mind drifted in and out of present tense, past tense, and, of course, a great deal worry about the future. Let’s recap, my burgeoning career as a writer is pretty much stalled out on the side of the road, stuck at a road block, crashed out like a 1989 Mac Plus, and sucking. I had a politically connected pimp following me around, but not so much like a puppy dog, that wanted to do me ill. Meanwhile, I’m trying to land a very cherry, very rare job at the Trib as an investigative journalist. But in order to get the cherry journo job, I had to try to spy on the dangerous pimp. So I had to pretend I liked the pimp. And I wasn’t doing a good job keeping things from getting too crazy.

Plus my relationship with my soon-to-be-I-hope fiance was kind dissolving into a messy open relationship. For all I knew he would want me to go to work for the pimp–for the kink of it!
Plus I had a Chicago civic/business leader who, I’ve been told, has declared himself my mortal enemy, bent on stopping me from becoming what I want to become. So, instead, I was making a living for the moment handing out pamphlets dressed as a sexy cheerleader outside Wrigley Field (who does that!?). And of course, pretending to be a professional journalist. The money was like zero, so here I am in my costume Fake it until you make it, they say.

So I decided to forget about my ridiculous life and focus my attention on the beautiful, interesting man who was trying so hard to attract my attention.

He was talking, and I have to admit I wasn’t really listening. I was off in my own head thinking about .. oh, all that other unimportant stuff I just explained. He was really good looking, muscular, handsome in a way that Patrick, my fiance to be, was not. Patrick was very cute. This guy was handsome … and … sexy. He was very sexy. Like Charlie Sheen before all the drugs and crazy.

I found myself nodding. I didn’t know this guy’s name, and I had just agreed to be his date for the baseball game in his corporate suite. “I got to let my boyfriend know what I’m doing,” I said and then waved to my boss, who was waving at me from the corner of Clark and Addison. I think she was trying to let me know she was out of flyers, but I wasn’t feeling concerned about that. She was going to be shotgun for me at this game, and that’s what I was concerned about. I needed a wing girl.

I picked up my phone and got ready to text Smallville, my wanna-be pimp. I suddenly felt incensed. There was no way that I was just let Smallville come over to my home and start to intimidate me. I didn’t know if I was a match for him, but I decided I was going to find out.

“I won’t be home tonight, and my boyfriend, Andrew, won’t know why you stopped by. Do you want me to interview at spa later this week?”

I was a little embarrassed because I didn’t have an outfit to change into, and at this point, and I didn’t feel good about running home, even though it was a short distance from Wrigley Field. I didn’t want to have Jimmy catch me at home when he stopped by. No matter what, I needed to put him on ice until I could figure how to play him. Chicago’s most notorious and connected pimp is not a man that I should trifle with. So far, I didn’t have any ideas on how to turn him into an informant or story in the Trib … without getting myself killed.

Unfortunately, I had the feeling that Jimmy had a lot of ideas about what he could do to … or with … me.

No way I could let him catch me at home without an idea of how I could play him, so I decided that I’d just have to go the game in my cheerleading costume and work t-shirt. Whatever, my bosses would praise me dedication in getting the info out about their sports site.

“Interview?” he texted back. “Shit, I gotta see you tonight. I’ll send somebody to u to pick u up. U home!?”

I shot a text back immediately: “The guy I’m with right now feels exactly the same way. Gotta see me 2nite. And he asked 1st. Sorry. How about Wed. at 2 p.m. We’ll see. ;-)”

“Your boyfriend probably don’t know what you’re up 2!! ;-p”

“Think again. We’re open. He knows all! Good boyfriend.”

“Interesting,” he texted, followed a few minutes later by “Tomorrow at 5.

“K” I agreed. “I’ll check my calendar tomorrow and let you know if that works. Pencil for 5 tomorrow.”

A few minutes later came his final reply: “In pencil in case I happen to pick you up a bit early! I don’t like to wait! See you soon. S.” I knew what he meant; I could show up at 5 tomorrow, or I could blow him off at 5 tomorrow, but we’d be meeting sometime. He’d make sure of that. I’d show up, or he’d pick me up. It suddenly occurred to me that as Chicago’s top pimp, he could have a couple police officers working for him. Maybe that bouncer at the door … doormen are often off-duty cops. I was suddenly afraid of going to the cops, or even getting approached by a police officer. What if they grab me and deliver me to Jimmy Smallville.

“Jesus, D, what did you get yourself mixed up in?” I mumbled to myself.

“Oh, it’ll be fun!” said my new friend. Turns out his name is Rodney, which cracked me up for some reason.

“I don’t know, I have a funny feeling this corporate box will be like a frat house,” I joked.

“Said the woman in a cheerleading skirt,” Rod said, perfectly keeping up with my humor.

I tugged at the hem. “Tell me the truth, is that why you invited me to go to the game.”

“Of course, the Cubs could use some help out there. I’m hoping you’ll tell us all to, ‘Be excited! B-E excited!'”

He did something amazing considering my mood and worried state of mind; he made me laugh. I liked this guy. I asked if I could call him Rod instead of Rodney.


The corporate box was definitely not a frat house. It was just a few older gents, me, Rod and my boss lady, and she did almost too good of a job being a wing girl. She didn’t so much as take her hands off me, let alone her eyes. She made sure she peed when I peed. Rod offered to walk me to the washroom, but she waved him off. “He’s trying to get you alone,” she whispered in my ear, taking me by my arm and leading me from the corporate box.

She knew the security guards or the ballpark and so got us into a small washroom reserved for employees, and then showed me the locker room door for the Cubs. “I bet you’d like to get in there after the game,” she said.

I told her that I was perfectly happy with me date for the night. She reminded me that it was 8 p.m. “I guess I’ve had too many beers, but I think I want to go home with Rod after the game.”
As we walked back to the corporate box, Patrick called. “Jimmy Smallville is here,” he said without saying hello. “Him, a big black guy named Lenard, and two prostitutes.”

“Is either of them Julie?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said. “A black prostitute named Lexi and a bottle blond named Jazzy.”

“Those are some classy ‘ho names.”

As I spoke to Patrick, my wing girl let me know that, since I didn’t need her, she was going to take off. And she disappeared into the crowd around a hot dog stand.

“Do you need me to call McDonald, my friend with friends on the police force,” I asked. “You must be scared.”

“No,” Patrick quickly said. “He just gave me the most expensive bottle of scotch I’ve ever seen. And he’s … being really nice. I mean super nice. I kind of … I don’t know … like him.”

“He’s a PIMP! And he wants to be MY PIMP! Do you want me selling $20 blow jobs on Lake Street?” I yelled into my smart phone. Five feet away, a family of four from the suburbs, waiting in line for hot dogs, turned slowly on their heals, each one lifting the bills of their Cubs hats to get a good look at me. “That was dignified,” I mumbled to myself, and hustled back toward the corporate box.

Patrick assured me that he thought he had it under control, but we agreed that I shouldn’t come home. “If there is any danger, it’s not to me,” Patrick said. “You’d be the one in danger. This guy Lenard could literally just pick you up and leave and I don’t think I could stop him. Stay where you’re at, if you have some place to be. I’ll try to get some info on you know who?”

“Don’t be too clever,” I said. “Just be safe. Jimmy’s more … intelligent than you’d expect.” I told him what I was doing. I told him that I was going to be sleeping with a random Cubs fan, and, for some reason, I felt it was importune to point out that I’d be with “handsome Rod” whether Jimmy were at my house or not. “I’m having a lovely evening,” I said, not knowing if I wanted to hurt him, make him jeleous or turn him on.

We decided that Patrick would hang out with Jimmy as long as he didn’t find it scary, collecting and gifts Jimmy wanted to give, and he’d ask Jimmy about Julie Benz. “Maybe I can get him to talk, you know, one man bragging to another,” he said. “I’ll act all impressed at the beauty of the women he’s with, his pimping and prostitutes, and then I’ll tell him that I’d heard that he’d turned out this really fine bitch named Julie Benz, and I wanted to know how many dudes she’s fucked and how many cocks she’s sucked and …”

“I get it I get it,” I interrupted. “That’s enough. But you’re right, that might work better than if I asked him. Don’t be so fake; just be yourself. He’ll see through you.”

“You know what might work even better?” he said. “I could pretend like I wanted him to turn you out. Like I was on his side, not your side.”

“That’s crazy,” I said. “That’s really crazy …. but you’re right. That might make him more willing to talk to you. Ask him for a cut of the money,” I added. “That will make him think you’re a greedy boyfriend. Tell him how broke we are.”

Patrick then revealed that he was recording the whole thing on his laptop computer camera. Wow, this was getting impressive. All I’d been able to do was … well I don’t wan to think about that right now, and he was getting footage of this S.O.B. I realized that Patrick wasn’t a good boyfriend … he was pretty awesome. “You da man,” I said.

“Did you expect less of me,” he joked. “I’m pretty sly at this secret agent shit.”

We decided that if things got ugly, Patrick would call or text me, and then I’d call McDonald, and McDonald would call his police contact and tell him to send the cavalry in. I called McDonald, and I told him, basically what me and Patrick were doing, running an unplanned Smallville sting, and asked him if he could send a police car by if we called him. “Yep, I’ll let him know that he may be needed right now,” he said. “And I’ll have him send a cop by at around 12 p.m. If Jimmy isn’t gone by then, the cop will get rid of him. You’re boyfriend is brave,” McDonald said. “And so are you. Jimmy is a dangerous man. I’m not sure I’d take such a risk myself.”

“Don’t tell me that,” I said. “You’re scaring me.”

“Fear is a good thing.”


By the time I made it back to the corporate box, I had been gone so long that I was worried that Rod would be gone, but he was still there. He had no idea at that point he was getting laid that night yet, but I really didn’t have anyway not to fuck him at that point. Like Richard Gere in “An Officer and a Gentleman,” I had no where else to go!

We ate some fine ball field grub (lobster ravioli, yum!), the Cubs got slaughtered, and then he proffered me with an invite back to his place, for a drink. While we were sipping champaign from fluted champaign glasses, on his apartment balcony overlooking the lake, he told me that “some French king designed these wine glasses to be the size of a woman’s breast.”

“That’s a strange fact. And that’s like an A or B cup, tops,” I laughed.

“Your breasts would overflow.”

“Anybody model a cup after my breasts would have to be an alcoholic.”

Rod revealed himself to be a bit of a devil, too. He went back into his apartment and returned with a “surprise.” It was a HD video camera.

“You ever make a movie,” he asked.

“I’m making one right now.”


“Never mind. A long story. You mean like a porno movie?”

“Porno is for other people,” he said. “Those girls are like hookers, fucking for money.”

He awoke me from my drunken stupor and I remembered I’d left my phone in the other room. I ran in and checked it. I checked for messages and texts. My heart plummeted when I saw Patrick had texted me an hour earlier. “Fuck!” I yelled. We’d taken a long walk back to his place, and then sat drinking out on his balcony. A couple hours passed before I realized I was supposed to be watching out for a message from Patrick.

I pulled up the text. “Jimmy says that he is working a girl named Julie. He’s acting like she is working for him. Weird thing is I think he’s lying. I think he’s just bragging. I think Lexi would tell me her name is Julie if Jimmy told her to. Let’s talk when you can. Things are fine. Don’t worry about me, Jimmy is harmless. I played it like I’m interested in Julie, and he’s a good pimp. He’s eager to make me a john. Just as you expected, he is trying to get me to help him turn you out. He’s trying to trade one night with Julie for me, for you being ‘his girl,’ but like I said, I think he’s full of shit about Julie. Been an interesting, somewhat scary evening. I think I have it recorded, too. Night.”

“Night,” I texted back. “I wonder if you should set up that date just to find out who Julie is.”
Patrick texted me back: “You do understand he wants me to trade you working as a whore, right? At least that’s my understanding.”

“Remember to tell him you’re broke, and you want him to cut you in,” I said boldly. “We got to help Julie, and I got to get this story.”

When I looked up, Rod was standing just inside the balcony door watching me, and he looked like a little boy with his hand in the cookie jar. “Sorry I suggested that,” he said, putting the camera down. “I hope you’re not pissed …”

“No it wasn’t you,” I said. “I forgot I was supposed to … set up a ride for my boyfriend. He’s working late in a bad neighborhood. He wanted me to call his company’s car service, and I forgot. Scared me for a second, but he handled it. He’s a little pissed at me for forgetting, but otherwise fine. You’re fine.”

“What did the text say?”

“You want to talk to me about my texts or do you want to make a dirty movie.”

He was taken off guard. “Uhm … make a movie.”

Unfortunately for Patrick, Rod took control of the situation, and it would be hours before I’d remember to check for a text again.


I sat back into the couch, wrapping his large blue robe around my naked body and sipped a glass of flat champaign. I’d just taken a long, hot shower. “Let’s see it, show me the filth we just made,” I said, pointing at the television. I glanced up at a clock he had on the wall. It was ten minutes past midnight. I walked to my phone and checked for more messages.

“Go ahead and send in the cavalry. Jimmy is turning on the heat. Lexi is all over me, Jimmy is a broken record talking about “where you at?’ I can’t get him to leave,” Patrick texted at 10 p.m., two and a half hours earlier. And then at 10:40, he texted, “OK. Where are the cops? What’s going on? RU getting fucked or something!? Jimmy won’t go. I need help!” Next he wrote: “I think I fucked up. I just promised him I’d help turn you out. I don’t know why I did it. I’m in over my head over here. I’m drunk. I’m tired, and a pussy undercover journalist. Sorry. PS SEND THE COPS!!!” Finally, at 12:10, “Cop came and Jimmy left.” At 12:45 he texted: “Seriously, where are you? I’m a little worried. Jimmy seems pretty intent on U. You safe?”

“No I’m not safe,” I wrote back to him.

I looked up and saw an overhead view of Rod’s erect rod (Rod was filming by hand as I blew him) his fat shaft twitched and the white stuff came out in my mouth, dripping on my chin, followed by a second ejaculation that sprayed my face like modern art as I leaned back from the unexpected load in my mouth.

“I’m making dirty movies with my friend. I’ll show them to you tomorrow or the next time I see you. I got to lay low. I got a pimp trying hard to recruit me.”

I looked up again and saw my naked body, prone. It was a side view. Rod had placed the camera on a small tripod next to the bed. It’s strange to see yourself that way, naked and on a television screen. It looks like you, but not quite how you see yourself. It was like watching amateur porn but the star looked a lot like me. Rod came into the screen with a clear full frontal, close up on his penis, bulging veins and all. He took me by the neck and by the hips, and pulled me up, onto my knees, and slid his hard cock into my hot warm hole.

I was awoken from my self voyeurism by the vibration of my phone.

Patrick texted back immediately. “There is a convertible Cadillac parked out front. Could be nothing, but could be trouble. Stay away. Don’t come home. Have fun making movies.”

The sound of flesh rhythmically slapping together came from the television. I looked up and saw my body being fucked hard, pink testicles slapping into the pink underside of my womanhood.
“K,” I texted back.

“Rewind the movie,” I said to Rod. “Lets watch it all from the beginning.”

Rod told me he had to work the next day, and so he begged off and went to bed. I told him I needed to stay up to make a copy of the video for my boyfriend, and gave him a memorable kiss goodnight.
I wasn’t going to let Rod keep the movie either. I copied it on to two thumb drives, one I put into my purse, and the other that I would destroy before I left for good. Then I got comfortable, poured myself some half-flat, expensive champagne, and sat back into the comfortable couch and voyaged the night away. The naked blonde woman on the screen was riding Rod revers cowgirl when I think I fell asleep, and before I knew it, Rod was wearing a suit, morning light coming through his floor to ceiling windows, the 26th floor, and he was apologizing that he had to leave. My cheerleading skirt was folded nicely on the glass coffee table in front of me.

I realized that meant I would have to leave, and he read the disappointment on my face.
“Hey, don’t look so hurt,” he said. “I’m working a bit late tonight, but I do want to finish watching our movie with you. Why don’t you come back and hang out at the pool and I’ll meet you for dinner. Sound good?”

He produced a bikini that I could wear at the pool, and told me to come back at 3. I couldn’t really complain. He’d let me stay the night, but I was still a veritable stranger. He couldn’t leave me in his home alone, and I didn’t want to beg. I still had my pride.

I decided I’d just have to go home and change. I shot Patrick at text, asking about the Cadi, and he said it was gone. He was on the train going to work when I caught him.

So I put on my now dirty t-shirt, and dirty panties, and tight little high-school cheerleading skirt, and took the bikini with me. I wasn’t terribly self-conscience, but I didn’t feel like walking around Chicago, or taking a bus, in a cheerleading skirt during rush hour. That seemed kind of … strange. I had $10 on me. It would have to get me at least close to home in a taxi.

I asked the taxi driver to get me as close to my address for $8. He was a complete ass about it, so I kept the extra $2 tip that I was going to give him, and stiffed him properly, and then walked for 15 minutes through the North Side, passing mothers taking their kids to school, in my cheerleading skirt. I realized that I was seriously starting to look like a degenerate.

I needed to get home, so I picked up the pace. I lived near the elevated train tracks, and I was still a little nervous that I was being watched, so I took the back alley to get home, walking along the tracks to a fire escape on the side of my building, and then climbed in through the bathroom window.

“She came in through the bathroom window!” I belted out loudly. “Protected by her silver spoon!”
I would have sung more, but I was disturbed by a knocking at the back door. I froze, stopping in the door jam of the bathroom. Who the fuck was that? I couldn’t move; my knees only buckled slightly. I stood silently in my bathroom, looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, waiting for something else to happen.

Knock, knock, knock.

Holy fuck, somebody is on my back porch. I lived above a neighborhood eye doctor, on the second floor of a corner building, and on the residential side of the building there was a staircase from the sidewalk that climbed up to my back porch, where we had lawn chairs and a small grill. Somebody was standing on that back porch, next to my grill, and probably looking through the window on my back door, which was obscured only by sheer, lacy curtains that I got from my grandmother’s house after she died two years ago. If I took one step further into the hallway, the knocker would be able to look through that windowpane and decades old Amish lace and see me in my soiled cheerleading skirt. (Last night I found out that Rod was very, very attracted to me for the dirty cheerleader look I was rocking. The skirt got … used.)

“Pound, pound, pound!” yelled the door again. My mystery guest was becoming insistent.
I heard some rustling, and then a woman’s voice, “Yep, she’s here, but she’s pretending like she ain”t.”

She wasn’t talking to me; she was tailing into a cell phone. It took a minute to place the voice–Lexi. She’d just called and told somebody–who? Smallville? Lenard? Julie Benz?–that I was home. “See you in a few minutes.”

Pound, pound, pound!

I was still frozen in place. I realized that I should look to see if it was Lexi as I feared. So I took one step through the bathroom door and into the hallway. I looked through the kitchen and saw saw Lexi in a skin tight, black latex top standing in the rear window of my home. I froze again with fear.
“Okay, D, let me in,” Lexi said, with a stern but kind voice. “We going to have us a meeting. Your man, Patrick, says you should meet with Jimmy right now.”

I was still frozen. It was too late to back up into the bathroom and out of view.

“I’m not leaving until you open this door, so just open it already,” Lexi said, again with a strong, but warm voice. “Ain’t doing nothing now but wasting both our time. Don’t be afraid. Open up!”
My feet began moving me toward the back door of my apartment.

“That’s right girl,” she said in a calm voice. “Come and let me in.”

I put my hand on the cold doorknob, and then paused again, feeling the cold metal in my right hand. I threw the bolt with my left hand and opened the door.

Lexi walked in. She was wearing a black latex dress, fishnet stockings, black gauntlets and high-heal boots. The eye doctor must have been wondering why there was such an obvious whore sitting in my rattan recliner chair all day.

“You see, now that’s nice,” she said. “I knew you would be nice about this.”

“What do you want?” I said.

She walked in and took me by the wrist, pulling my fist off the doorknob. She pushed me into a kitchen chair, and slammed the door behind herself. She threw her black leather purse on the kitchen table and got right to work, taking out a pair of handcuffs and a length of white, nylon rope from her bag.

“You a nice girl D,” she said with a wicked smile. “I’m not that nice, I guess.”

She grabbed my write wrist, and pulled it behind the kitchen chair back. “Just give me your other hand now,” she said. “Don’t put up a fight, ho.”

“But …” I tried to speak.

“Give me you fuckin’ hand, ho!”

“I …”

“Give me the hand! Then after I have your other wrist, we can talk about it.”


“Just give it up!” she said with that same stern, but warm, voice. “You don’t want to fight me.”

I looked up at her, looking her in the eye, and saw anger in the midnight irises. Her face was inches from mine; I could smell Red Bull on her breath. “Let’s be nice. Give it up.”

I picked my left hand up off of my lap and put it behind me. With two quick slaps of cold metal, my hands were cuffed, and I was helpless. “You’ve done that before,” I said, trying to joke with her, offering a weak, nervous smile.

For my efforts she took me by the chin, and pulled my face up to her’s. Her anger was only greater now that she had me this way. “Don’t fuck with me,” she said. “You in it now,” she said and dropped my chin.

“Fuck,” I said out loud. “Fuck!”

“Stupid,” Lexi said, chuckling bemused. She wasn’t talking to me anymore. She was talking about me. She quickly looped the rope around the the short chain between the steel cuffs and then secured it to the back of the chair, Then she took the other end of the rope, looped it around my ankles a few times, and the hoisted my feet up under the seat of the chair.

She took a short break to tug the bottom her her short black latex dress, and remove a tiny piece of lint from her chest, just below the scoop neck of the dress. She was dressed impeccably. The seam up the back of her stockings was straight and her hair looked round an perfect. “I got you now, ‘ho,” she reminded me, and then got back to work.

“Why are you doing this” I asked. But she didn’t answer. Obviously, I was a job, not a person.

She took a ball gag, and slid that into my mouth, buckling it behind my head, and finally she began lacing rope around my legs, starting from my ankles and working up to my waste. Finally, she secured my upper body to the chair, crossing white nylon rope across my chest.
She went to my refrigerator, and took a can of beer, opening it and sitting down across the kitchen table from me. She took a sip. “Jimmy will be here any minute,” she said. “He’s going to sell you on a street corner. You going to be his girl now, and you gonna work on your back. You ain’t going anywhere, so I might as well tell you. You his ‘ho now, so just get used to that,” she said standing up. She slicked the shiny latex of her dress again, and stuck her hip out, smiling down at me, her captive. I writhed slightly, pulling against the ropes. I was tightly bound. It was futile. She watched me and giggled as I tested the bindings on my ankles, and then my legs, and then criss-crossing my chest. I moaned, trying to speak, but the red ball in my mouth wouldn’t permit it. I heard the back door to my apartment open behind me, and the breeze from outside hit the back of my head, and then I heard his voice: “Nice job Lexi,” Jimmy said, from just three feet behind me. “You a good ‘ho. She’s mine now.”


Pound, Pound, Pound! The persistent knocking at the door stirred me from my waking nightmare.

“Open up, D!” Lexi yelled. Her voice, sent such a chill down my spine that it caused me to loose control. It was fortunate, at least, that I as only wearing already soiled panties under a short skirt, because I, at that moment, lost it. It all became too much, and with the terrifying fantasy I’d just had, it frightened me like a little girl, and I wet myself. Quickly my underpants became over saturated. The warm, yellow liquid poured down my bare legs, into my shoes and finally forming a small, yellow puddle on the bathroom floor between my running shoes.

Pound, pound, pound!

I didn’t know what to do, other than run. I took two steps backward, my shoes squeaking slightly in the piss, I stepped up on the side of the tub and then launched my body up into the small bathroom window that I had only minutes ago climbed through. My arms were trembling, and my hands were wet with my own urine, but I summoned the strength to flip out of the small window, ass over head, holding onto the sill with both hands, and then dropping to the black steel grate of the fire escape. I could hear Lexi pound on the kitchen door again, and call in to me. “D, I hear you, woman. Just let me in!”

I quickly started running down the steel staircase, stepping quickly at first, because my shoes were so wet. I wanted to be quiet, but I was breathing so heavily, and my rubber souls were squeaking with moisture, and so Lexi heard me and leaned out over the railing of the balcony and saw me coming down the stairs.

“Girl, I see you,” she said.

She headed for her stairs, and I broke into a run. I hit the pavement, jumped a fence into the ally, and then started running for the street. Lexi was faster than she looked, and made it to the mouth of the ally, just as I got there. Standing two feet in front of me, she wasn’t dressed exactly as I had fantasized. She wore red top, and her hair was in braids, but from the waste down–black latex mini skirt, fishnets, and boots–she was dressed just as I had thought.

Again I froze.

“D just wait for a minute girl,” she said, taking me by the arm. “I need to talk to you. I need to get you, okay/”

What should she do>
Stop and talk–Perhaps Lexi is there to help her.
Stand and fight! Women’s boxing has come a long way, baby!

Chapter 4: To blog, or not to blog …

“You want what?” I asked. I suddenly couldn’t tolerate the spoonful of rice and canned soup, a Wednesday-night staple since my career hit the skids … a meal born of poverty and not culinary dreams. It spaced back onto my plate.
“Hey man, you’re splashing your jambalia,” Patrick said, giggling.
We had been laughing and sharing and joking about the wild week I’d had just a few days earlier. This consisted of us imitating a cheesy 1970’s porn star and saying “steppin’ out” repeatedly. As in, “She’s been steppin’ out.” And then we’d laugh like 16-year-old stoners in the back of a van.
Then he dropped the bombshell. I guess it seemed like a good time for it.
“What?” he asked, sensing my annoyance.
“You want me to write about it.”
“Well, you get embarrassed when I ask you about it.”
“I don’t like to talk about …”
“I know,” he said. “You’re squeamish on the issue of sex.”
“So you want me to write it down.”
“And what would you do with that information.”
I started to feel like he wanted to turn my life into a porno movie. He just wanted to live with a porn star, so he decided to make me one. This was all part of some masturbatory, male fantasy. “You’ll share this diary with your buddies, right?”
“Of course not.”
“Would you like to watch video tapes, pictures of me fucking other men?”
“Well … yes … but I’m not asking for that. That would be … I don’t know … too much to ask.”
“What would you do when you read this diary?”
“Look, if you’re steppin’ out, swinging, then it’s on my terms. If not, then you’re just cheating. Either you’re a swinger or …”
“A slut!” I shouted.
I got up and left the 1950-era dinner table that we ate at regularly. Patrick stayed and finished his dinner. It was a good call. He took his time, and then came out to the couch, where I’d been pouting 20 minutes earlier. “I didn’t force you,” he said. “You seemed game for all this. All I’m saying … is I want in.”
“I guess I thought of it as my secret life. I had you to come home to, and then I had this exciting stuff happening when I was on my own.”
“Secrets and relationships don’t work. Particularly if those secrets are about sex with other people. You have to let me in on this. You don’t want me to sleep with other women. Well, all I’m asking is I want to know what you’re doing.”
“If it turns you on, I don’t want you wasting all your energy in the closet. You should come to bed with me,” I said. “I’m not a porn star; I’m a real woman. I’m your woman, don’t forget that.”
He put out his hand, and I cast my eyes down. “I don’t want to do that right now,” I said. “I’m upset.”
“I’m not taking you to bed,” he said. He held his hand out in front of me until I finally connected and took it. He pulled me up and into his arms and then kissed me aggressively.
He led me to the kitchen, and tossed me up on the kitchen table. “I didn’t say were weren’t going to have sex,” he said. “You didn’t eat your jambalia so I figure you need some extra sausage.
‘I got somewhere to go tonight,” I pleaded, but he was insistent as he led me to the kitchen, to the old 1950 kitchen table. I got in the mood fast, and it took off faster than I expected. He was inside me in the grips of passion when the legs of the old table finally gave away. We went crashing to the cheep linoleum floor headfirst. “Ouch!” I yelled.
“Worst dinner ever,” he said, rubbing his forehead.
“That’s going to leave a mark,” I said, looking at his face. He’d planted himself face first. His hands were … too busy to catch himself. His poor pretty face.
We laid panting on the mess of the floor for several munutes. “Great, now we need a new table,” I said at long last.
“So where are you going tonight,” he asked.
“I have to check up on a friend,” I said. “I think she’s in trouble, and I want to protect her.”
“Do you need my help?” Patrick asked. “I’m not doing anything.”
Earlier that day, I’d asked Ray McDonald where I could find a pimp. Where do they hang out? Of course, I couldn’t mention that I was worried that Julie Benz was tied somehow with Jimmie Smallville. That she was in trouble, perhaps deep trouble. I couldn’t mention this because she worked for McDonald, in her day job, and it would destroy her. That would be the opposite of what I wanted to accomplish. Julie was a friend and I wanted to help her, perhaps save her from herself. So while Ray had connections with the police that would be helpful to me, I couldn’t call him for help. It was just me versus Smallville.
“What happened that night when you met Smallville,” Patrick asked as he drove me to the south side of the city.
“He drove me home,” I said. “He talked a good game. ”
“What did he talk about?”
“About me working for him.”
“What did you say?”
“I said no.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“Read my diary.”
We found the bar McDonald told me about. It was a nondescript place called Molly’s. It wasn’t too far from the expressway, so it made a good place to operate from, but it was in an urban wasteland, so the cops weren’t pressed by neighbors to clean it up. We parked around the corner. “I’ve never been so happy that I don’t have a nice car,” Patrick joked.
We were nervous and so we paused on the corner eyeballing the entrance. We were both waiting for the other to come up with the guts to go in. At the door were two large black men in their 30s, and they didn’t ask for our driver’s licenses. “What’s up,” the one on the right said. He had kinder eyes. The other seemed perpetually angry.
“Is there a cover charge?” Patrick asked.
“No cover,” the bouncer responded. “What are you looking for?”
“I was here the other night,” I said, stepping forward. I recognized it.
“Who with,” the bouncer asked.
“Jimmy Smallville.”
The bouncer looked me up and down. I was wearing baggie khaki pants with pockets on the hips and a concert t-shirt. I deliberately dressed as unsexy as I could. I didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention. I just wanted to have a look around. Maybe I’d find Julie. Maybe I’d meet somebody who could tell me if she was involved with Smallville.
“I’m a friend of Smallville,” I repeated.
The meaner looking bouncer’s angry continence broke, and he grinned slightly, knowingly down at me. He was extremely tall, thick and muscular. He leaned down and, taking me by the arm, said, “I’d like a blow job, sugar.” He started leading me toward a door off to the left of the entrance. Patrick was blocked by the other bouncer, who distracted him in a conversation about about getting in. “I didn’t recognize you at first, in all that baggy clothing.”
Suddenly I recognized him as well.

“Boss, Lexi wants to go home,” the bouncer said, poking his head into a back office.
It startled me, and my head popped up and I looked over my shoulder. I was naked other than my black bikini panties and two black pumps, that were getting scuffed on the toes. I covered my breasts with my free arm. In the other fist I was holding Jimmy’s erect penis that glistened in the dim light of the hard wood, private office at the back of the bar. Jimmy either owned the bar, or managed it, or oversaw it in some underworld sense.
Jimmy reclined in the black leather chair, the fly unzipped and pulled down to beneath his testicles. I enjoyed the feeling of his muscular thighs on either side of me. I enjoyed how sexy he made me feel with his eyes and his words. His hard cock was wet with my saliva but also some pre-ejaculate, that was emerging from the dark black helmet, that I had started to taste on the back of my tongue.
Jimmy took me by the back of my head and guided my mouth back to his phallus. “Boe, can’t you see I have my hands full?” he asked. “Take Lexi home.”

“I don’t work for Jimmie,” I said. “I don’t work for anyone. I’m not interested.”
“I don’t need to let you in then,” Boe said.
“Boe, let me go,” I insisted. “Boe, cut it out.”
I broke my grip and then staggered toward the door. “Let’s go,” I called to Patrick. We hopped back into the car, just two minutes after getting out, and headed toward the highway. I felt sickened, but not because of the sexual proposition. I had failed Julie.
“The bouncer said he didn’t know of a hooker named Julie or J.B. I didn’t give him her last name. I just told him she was a gorgeous brunette and we thought she was working for Smallville.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that Smallville had a couple good looking brunettes working for him.”
“Really?” I asked. “And one of them is named Julie. Did he say what she looked like?”
“White girls,” the bouncer said. “He said Smallville specializes in pretty white girls.”
Yes he does, I thought to myself, remembering vaguely recruiting efforts he’d made on me.

At work the next day, I felt strange.
“It’s not such a bad job,” Olin said, crossing his arms over his wide, muscular chest.
“What?” I said, taken aback. “I’m just tired. And a little sad about something else.”
“You and your boyfriend fighting?” Olin asked.
What a question, I thought. How do I answer any question about my boyfriend. My boyfriend is a cuckold, I imagined telling Olin. It’s the craziest thing, you could fuck me right now, and he’d be excited and titillated to hear about it, I joked to myself in my head. I imagined bending over, Come on, jump on and have a go, everyone rides for free apparently, I thought to myself, and it made me snicker.
“Hey, what are you laughing at,” Olin asked. “Did I say something funny.”
“Sorry, I guess I just that just struck me as funny, because we are totally getting along fine,” I said. “It’s strange, very strange, how well my relationships are going. Right now. No problems in the boyfriends department.”
“Boyfriends,” Olin said. “You said boyfriends. That’s funny. And relationships.”
Freudian slip, I thought. “I’ll have to get black to you on that.”
“‘Black to you'” he joked again. “What’s got you so tongue tied.”
Tongue tied. A vision of my tongue swirling around the head of Jimmie’s large, erect black penis came to mind, and it almost made me wince, it was so vivid. I could practically taste the sticky ooze coming from the tip.
“Take me out for coffee sometime, and I’ll tell you all about it,” I said.
Unfortunately, a CTA bus had just laid on the horn, and Olin, gorgeous model Olin, didn’t hear a word of my invitation. The Jeremy waved him over, and I was left with my thoughts.
I thought back to my last conversation I’d had with Patrick. I spoke to him for about 20 minutes about affair I’d had the night before with a black man, and he was so desperate for every detail that he almost stopped me from coming to work at the ball field. He couldn’t get enough.
Olin was the first thing to ask me about my relationship since this whole crazy thing had started. What do I say for myself when people ask about my relationship with Patrick? How could I describe this situation to my friends? I’m sleeping around on my boyfriend, but it’s not cheating because he’s into it. What would Olin think of that? Why did that bother me so much? Why was Olin so important to me? He was walking back over toward me. I looked down at his white tennis shoes, scanning up his muscular legs to his athletic shorts, which he filled out nicely. Then I looked at his muscular arms, finally up to his strong, deep-set eyes. Oh, right, that’s why it was so important to me.
“Sorry I interrupted,” he said. “You were saying about Patrick.”
It hit me. Olin was awfully eager to learn more about how well Patrick and I were getting along. Perhaps he was as in to me as I was in him. “Uhm, no we’re not fighting. My boyfriends couldn’t be happier.”
“Boyfriends?” he laughed. “You said boyfriends again!”
“Man, freudian slip again!” I laughed.
“Freudian what?” he asked.
“Boyfriend,” I said, “I only have one.” But I’m fucking another man, I added in my head. “Weird you know?” I said as if that explained it, and then rolled my eyes. “Boyfriends?” I gave a weak, fake laugh. I could feel my face flush with color. “I’d love to tell you all about it over a cup of …”
“Jeremy was asking about you today,” Julie said, interrupting my conversation with Olin. The large bronze statue of a man turned halfway, like he was having second thoughts or was confused (definitely confused), and then walked off to greet a small group of middle aged women in Cubs hats. “Who is the biggest Cubbie fan?” he asked enthusiastically, and the women all shrieked in response. One waved an oversized blue foam hand with the index finger extended.
“What’s that, Julie,” I asked.
“Thanks for wearing the cheerleading outfit again,” Julie said, changing the direction of the conversation. She slicked the back of my skirt. I knew it needed to be cleaned. “Get this laundered while the Cubs are in Cleveland next week. We had literally three comments on it this morning on the Facebook page, and I just thought it looked really, really … adorable.”
She then went on to ask with great and somewhat animated concern about why I seemed so distraught. I told her that I was worried about a friend, and left it at that. Then she mentioned that Jeremy was asking about me. “What did you say about Jeremy?” I asked.
“He said he expected you in the CitySport office today, but you didn’t show up?”
“What?!” I said, upset again. Now I was going to lose that job, too?!
“Don’t worry, D,” she said. “I totally covered for you. I told him that you told me he’d asked you to come by tomorrow. We agreed that it must have been confusion.”
“Wow, that was cool of you,” I said.
She explained that he had a bit of editing work, I needed to fill out some paperwork, and then they wanted to discuss the direction of Citysport in the City, your column.”
I suddenly realized why Julie was being so nice to me. I was going to be writing about my job, and she didn’t want to be portrayed as some sort of bitch boss. As someone who just discovered how profoundly powerless she is–powerless to get her dream job, even if she’s wiling to … for it–it was nice to see I still had a tiny bit of power. “Thanks,” I said. “You’re the best. I think I’ll write my first column about how great my boss is.”
She threw her arms around me and gave me a squeeze and kiss on the cheek. “You’re a dear!” Then she told me to go to the bleachers gate and start handing out flyers. She was, after all, still my boss.
“Maybe I’ll do my first feature about you,” I joked.
“Well then,” she said. “We’ll have to make sure that you have something to write about. We’ll have to hang out more often.”
It was 1 p.m., and I lost my coworkers quickly in the flurry of baseball fans who swarmed Wrigley that warm afternoon. Olin disappeared completely, and I was starting to feel a bit abused. He spent so much time laughing at me. Here I was a new swinger, and the boy I most wanted to swing with was making it difficult. It shouldn’t be so difficult for me.
I felt my phone buzz on my hip:
“Gotta talk 2u tonight. Will cum by your place on IP.”
I assumed that IP referred to the street that I lived on, Irving Park.
I didn’t recognize the number, so I copied it and then typed it into a search engine.  The screen blanked and then came back, and the name of the bar I’d been the night before.
I texted back, “Smallville?”
“That’s my name.”
My heart pounded.  The night before Patrick and I had been snooping around asking questions at this very bar, and now he was setting up a meeting.  He had to know. What did he want?
“How did you get my address?” I texted furiously.  I could see Julie out of the corner of my eye.  She was walking over.  The crowds were thick and I was texting.  I knew that was what she would say.
I put the phone back into its holster just in time to hear her say, “It’s time to hustle,” but in a very blithe way.  “Let’s catch this game if we can.” The invitation was a relief, she wasn’t’ mad.  As she walked away, I jumped behind a t-shirt vendor and popped my phone out to check his response.
“I dropped you off remember? And from your application to my massage parlor. I think you’re working for me now. It’s good $$$$!”
Now my heart thumped.  I didn’t want to meet with him.
“I’ll text you when I can meet,” was all I wrote, and then put the phone away.
My heart thumped. Jimmy probably knew I came by the night before. Of course, Boe told him. Why didn’t I think about that. And Jimmy had my application for the massage parlor. Did he want to interrogate me about what I was doing asking questions about one of his hookers at his club last night?  Was he going to put me to work at his massage parlor?  Did he plan to turn me out, make me a streetwalker or an escort?
I look across the street and I saw Julie talking to a woman dressed like a streetwalker, in short-shorts, a t-shirt and high heals, who was also handing out cards.  I read her t-shirt, and it said, “Red Dog Strip Club.”  I realized the stripper was wearing more clothing and less porny (me in my tight cheerleading costume) than I was.
What was I worried about? I didn’t have to worry that Jimmy wanted to turn me out, make me a prostitute. Of course he did.  He’s a pimp you idiot!  What am I doing, a girl from Omaha, messing around with a Chicago pimp?  What am I think ….
I spun around to see a moon faced little boy, his Cubs hat on backward, with his hands pressed together as if in prayer and jammed up my skirt. He was giving me a wedgie from beneath, pressing his wee, sharp little fingertips, tipped only by my panties, against my anus, and I don’t mean gently.  He spread his hands from the fingertips down, foisting my butt cheeks apart, and then in an adorable little voice, churled something in an unimaginable Asian language.  I wanted to hit him, but then I heard the laughter.
A group of Asian adults struggled to restrain their laughter, embarrassed.  He pulled his hands out of my ass, and then scampered off with a devilish grin.
“So sorry,” one of the adults said with a heavy accent.  He repeated the apology several times, but none of them seemed too upset.
“They do that,” said a gentlemen next to me in the crowd.
“Who does!?” I asked, still seething from the unwanted anal intruder.
“Right, Koreans do that.”
“Is that racist or something?!” I asked exasperated.
He explained that he had just returned from Chicago from working in Korea, and what happened to me was a common gag on Korean streets.  What the little boy had said after the soft-core anal rape translated roughly to “anal hypodermic needle.”
“Koreans think its hilarious,” he explained. “Little Korean boys impress their friends by being bold and their parents laugh. Believe me, it’s happened to me about three times in my last year It’s not funny for people it happens to, I know that.”
I started to calm down, and I started to realize that this was a very good looking man, about my age, who was obviously some sort of body builder.  His cotton Cubs t-shirt did little to restrain his arm and chest muscles, and I was instantly curious about how his athletic shorts would look from behind.
We talked for a few minutes, and before I knew it, he laid out his proposition.  I should go to the game with him, he said, forcing two tickets into my hand.  His company had given him some corporate luxury box seats, and he was new to Chicago, so he didn’t yet have enough friends to fill it up.
“The food is just going to go to waste. You’d be doing me a big favor,” he said. “Bring a girlfriend.”
He went on to explain that if I wanted to come by his place tomorrow morning (or if I was still there, I’m sure he was thinking), he lived in a lakefront high-rise with a pool. “My sister left her swimsuit at my place, so you could borrow it.”
In my minds eye I could feel his muscled arms around me pulling me into that chest.
I was faced with a choice. Should I go to the Cubs game and spend the night with this handsome stranger, or should I go home and face Smallville, broken furniture, and a somewhat perverted boyfriend. I couldn’t put off Smallville forever, but I could avoid this unpleasant confrontation for at least one night.

Chapter 3: “Most Peculiar Mama … Roll!”

“Mr Smallville,” I sputtered.  “It’s me, Dreana.  I think we spoke on the telephone just a few hours ago.”

Smallville stopped mid-stride, like his body hiccuped. “Hey,” he said, as my name sank in.

“I … hum … was actually going to call you in the morning and cancel the appointment.”

“Why is that?” Smallville asked, stiffening a bit.

“Well, it looks like I’m getting a job here,” she said, pointing at the plain black door behind her.

He grinned.  Looked like you were already working this corner,” he said under her breath.

“No,” I corrected.  “I’m going to be working here?”

“Where is that?” he asked. “A working’ girl on Lower Michigan Avenue?” This time his challenge was a bit more direct.

“At … at … at the paper … the News.”  I stammered and stepped backward toward the door.  I knew it was locked.  I knew it offered no escape.

“Well, if you’re going to be a journalist, perhaps you’ll need to work a second job.  You journos don’t get paid that much.”

“True,” I said. “They haven’t told me the salary yet.”

“Hey, Dreana Kandinski,” he said, showing off his ability to recall my full name.  “Let’s not cancel that appointment. I may be able to help you in a lot of ways.  I got connections, you know?” he said with confidence.  “And it don’t sound like this job is a sure thing yet. You might need a job to get  you over, you know?”

“Right, that’s a good suggestion,” I said.  “I got a guy picking me up.  I don’t know what’s taking him so long.”

The pimp stood in the middle of the street, looking me up and down with a bemused grin.

“I’m sure you’d like to have a contact on the reporter staff of the paper,” I added. “I’m sure that a journo like me would be useful for a … like you.”

“Well, I already got people on the inside there.  I just got one of my girls a job on the paper recently, and …” he said, laughing, and then a thought hit him, stopping him in mid-sentence.  “So what are you doing out here strutting on a corner?”

“I’m getting picked up by a man … a particular man.”

“And what happened when you got into that car just a minute ago?”

“Nothing,” I said.  “Nothing at all.”

He smiled at me and looked me up and down again. “You got something stuck out of your bra.  Looks like money.”

I looked down, but in the time it took my eyes to reach the bills, his arm had moved across the dark night between us, grabbing the tip of the bill and tugging it out.  He had two twenties in his hand, and a third floated to the sidewalk in front of me.  “$60 … you suck a cock to make this money, Dreana Kandinski?”

The memory of Ray taking the money out of his wallet and offering it up to me, telling me to get down on my knees, the taste of his cum on my tongue.  I swallowed for that $60.

“What … uh … no,” I lied.  It sounded like I was lying event to me.

“No, huh?” he said, bending to pick up the money.

“No,” I said more convincingly.

“You know, right?”

“I know what?” I asked, starting to get nervous.

“You know I’m a pimp.”

“Yes,” I said.  “One of the reporters here told me.”

“The one who paid you to suck his cock, right?”

I took a step back and bumped into the black door.  It hit me like I’d been slapped.  He could smell the cum on me.  I’d done it and he knew it.

I took a deep breath, indignantly.  “That’s right.”

“I do know my business,” he said.  He shoved a twenty back into my bra, and then pocketed $40.  “I’ll take my cut,” he said.  “See, you’re working for me already.”

“I don’t need representation.”

“It would be a shame if nice people at the newspaper found out that you’re a whore.  That you sucked that pervert’s cock and all.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw headlights rounding the corner.

“Like I said, I do know people at the News, and they should know a little streetwalking’ whore is trying to suck dick to get on staff.”

Timing is everything and Dutch lacked it.  Arrive one minute earlier, and I wouldn’t be in this jackpot.  But here I was.  “Maybe you should take me somewhere so we can discuss this situation.”

Dutch rolled up and asked me if everything was alright. “Everything is fine,” I said.  “I’m going to go with Jimmy.  I’ll talk to you soon.”

“But …”

“Don’t worry, I know this guy.  Call me tomorrow,” I said, and then took Smallville by the arm, leading him back toward his Cadilack.


Lexi was the name of the black hooker that Smallville was running that night.  It was a purple, 1983 Eldorado convertible, Smallville told me as we headed south on I-90.  I sat in the middle of the front seat, and Lexi–who had round, wide hips–pushed me close to Smallville. He drove casually and talked nonstop.

“Be careful what you tell me,” I interrupted.  “I’m a reporter.”

“Be careful, Jimmie,” Lexi chimed in. “This one don’t play.”

We got off on 79th Street, and headed west.  He was telling my about a nightclub he owned.  Had one of the most exclusive VIP rooms in the city, he claimed.  This was just after telling me about the stooge he had fronting as owner for him for the only full-nudity strip club in the city.  He was setting himself up as a strong player.  “Where the heck are we going?”

“I thought I’d show you a bit of my empire–a piece of the pie,” he said.

“Mr. Smallville,” I began.

“You can call me Mr. Smallville when you start working for me,” he said.   He took his hand off the gear shift, and set it on my right knee. “Call me Jimie for now.”

He was a frightening pimp, but he was powerful, and evil, and I was finding it true that the devil is sexy.  I could feel my juices start to run as my panties began to dew.  My mind drifted to the idea of him sliding that hand up and discovering how wet I was. It frightened me.

It was a small bar, but for the neighborhood, it was extremely nice and well appointed.  The felts on the pool tables were blood red and obviously new.  A stained-glass light hung over the bar, and on the back wall there was a glowing fish tank.  “Cool place,” I said.

By the time we made it into the back room, I noticed that Lexi had flaked off.  It was just me and Jimmie.  I was starting to think that I was nuts.  I should have gotten into the car with Dutch.  But I wanted to handle this situation, and I wanted to get the story about Smallville.  And in truth, I was curious.  I wanted to see something funny, or sick, or scary.

His office in back was covered in hard wood, from the desk, to the wood paneling to the coffee table in front of the brown leather sofa.  He kept talking, complementing me, telling stories about people he knows, and generally keeping me occupied.  I can honestly say I was starting to feel comfortable with him, which was scary when I thought about it, and I enjoyed his conversation.

“So what do you want to say to me,” I asked.

“I think we can work together,” he said.

“I”m not …”

“You’re not Lexi,” he interrupted.  “I’m not saying your Lexi.  That would be ignorant, and I’m not ignorant!”

“No you’re not,” I said.  “Obviously.”

“If you’re going to be a reporter, you are going to need contacts.  You can’t be a restaurant reviewer for the rest of your life. I know people.  I can get you interviews.”

“And what would you want.”

“I get just a little bit of say of what goes into that newspaper, then don’t I.  So it don’t cost you nothing.  You don’t have to write what I tell you, but if you talk to the people I want you to talk to, then I get a lot, don’t I?”

“I guess so.”

“And if I get you interviews you couldn’t possibly get otherwise, you get a lot, right?”

“That’s correct, in theory.”

“So you don’t have to worry about working with me, right?”

“I see.  Something to think about.”

When Smallville saw that I was pulling away, he brought up the $60 he pulled from my bra.  “Maybe it would be better for you if you gave me a chance.  Maybe nobody has to know about your sorted things.  They don’t need to know you turned a trick.”

“Right,” I said.  “I … I can call you when I get on staff.  Just so you realize you have no proof I did anything.”

Then Smallville talked about how he works with rich men who want girlfriends, politicians who need somebody on the side, important and interesting men. “These men don’t want girls like Lexi.  They want you.”

“I don’t think that’s for me.”

“I just want you to know that a girl like you never needs to be poor,” he said.

And then we were talking about the history of the city, the history of the mob in the city, the weather, skiing in Colorado, and a half dozen other topics.  The sales pitch was over.  He told dirty jokes, and made me feel at ease.

It was halfway through my second drink and a story about an alderman, who he claimed I already knew, who escaped racketeering prosecution and an almost certain jail term with a $100 bribe, when he seduced me.

He was talking to me across the room one moment, and then he was extremely close to me, his body warmth mingling with mine, and them he was wrapped around me and he had me.  His body was liquid, his movements of a snake.  He had me in his arms, and I was laughing, and I was only just becoming concerned by his hand on the back of my skirt, turning to slide it down, when I became pleased by the sensation of his other hand on the front of my shirt.  It wasn’t so much that he squeezed my breast, but his fingers constricted it like a boa encircling bunny.

As my lips parted in response, he let my gasp escape, and slipped his tongue into my mouth like he knew it belonged there.  The wet, tawny muscle quivered on top of my lips and coaxed my tongue to press itself past his wide lips, which he then pressed to my own, much smaller, quivering, completely vulnerable lips.

What followed was simply the most prolonged, sexual, erotic kiss I have ever experienced. It wasn’t that I’ve never been kissed in that way, I’ve never kissed a man, any man, like that.  I was moaning and nipping, and eating, no … I was suckling on his mouth like babe. I was completely his.

I offer not excuses for what I was doing. It is not that I forgot that he was a pimp who used sex to exploit women, which I was completely, intellectually, emotionally against.  It was that I appreciated the raw seductive power of this pimp, who had made a good living off of seducing beautiful women exactly like me. He was seducing me in order to make me his hooker, his slut, his streetwalker, another Lexi. I knew this; I didn’t care.  I wanted him that bad at that moment that I didn’t care what debauchery, humiliation, life eating disaster lay ahead.  I wanted his cock, I realized, and nothing else.

I moved to undress and found that I was already naked.  Within a moment, he was inside me, and I was being consumed from within.


“Wake up, babe, this is our stop.”

I jolted awake. “What?” I mumbled.

“You were out late, weren’t you,” he said.

I looked up at Patrick, pulling my head off his shoulder.  The bus was rumbling toward Halsted Street.  “How long was I asleep,” I mumbled.

“10 to 15 minutes,” he said. “But you were really out.”

“Weird dreams,” I mumbled, staggering to my feet.  The bus was stopping, and Patrick was moving into position to push the rear exit doors open on the bus, holding a hand out to help guide me.  “Hey,” he said.  “Who the heck is Jimmie?”

My eyes showed him I knew who he was talking about. “I’ll tell you later,” I said.  “It’s a crazy story.”

It was drizzling out.  Patrick opened an oversized umbrella as we began walking up the sidewalk.  I was still so tired, I could barely focus my eyes. Patrick took me by the arm.

“Now do you want to tell me who this Jimmie is?  Did you meet him last night?”

“I did.  Jimmie Smallville.”

“You met Jimmie Smallville last night?” he said, surprised.


“Did you fuck him?!” Patrick said, unnerved.  “You didn’t tell me you would be out until 4 a.m. with Jimmie Smallville!”

“No! Why are you so upset. You wanted me to date around.”

“I wanted you to go out a date,” he said.

“So why were you upset?”

“You go out on a date and come home telling me you spent the night with a pimp.”

“How do you know …”

“Jimmie Smallville is famous.  They made a movie about him. He’s probably the most famous pimp in the country.  And I know it was a sex dream … everyone on the bus knew that. The old lady in the seat in front of us … she looked disturbed.”

“Sex dreams with a pimp,” I mumbled.  “What the hell is happening to me?” “And it’s only the first night. What will happen tonight.”

“I’m working here today,” I said to Patrick, and pointed at the business, Far East Salon.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Patrick said, and kissed me goodbye on the cheek.

As I walked in, Asia, the shop manager seemed angry with me. Her large, fake breasts were nearly falling out of her red silk gown.  “You twenty minute late!” she hissed. “Boss is going to be angry.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Mandy in with customer, he want two girls for happy ending.  She delay, and delay and delay too long.  Quick, change into lingerie and get into room two.”

I trotted into the changing room, quickly undressed, pulled on a matching black lace braw and thong, garters and stockings and finally five-inch stiletto heals, the uniform of my career at the salon.

Mandy had my first customer of the day, the first of likely a dozen men, on the massage table, naked and oiled.  His black skin glistened in the low lighting of the room. I walked to the edge of the table and greeted my coworker with a warm kiss across the table on the lips, and then looked down to see the effect it had on the customer.   His 13-inch cock was engorged and laying across his belly.  “I sure do love my job,” I moaned.

I looked up and noticed that my customer was Mo Ruckis, the rapper famous for singing “Slingin’ da ass.”  I secretly have always loved that video, despite all the jiggling ass.

“Mandy, tell that blonde bitch to get busy with my happy ending.  Now, get up on my face.”

Mandy straddled his mouth as I went down on him. I lapped and sucked his scrotum and glided my lips up the underside of his cock.  As I blew him, I watched his tongue repeatedly penetrate her.  It was so long and shaped that I realized it looked like a pink cock.  Suddenly I realized it was a cock. He was fucking her with his mouth.

There was a splash or wet sticky Ruckis across my face.


And it immediately woke me up.  I was on the train, wearing my suit, carrying my briefcase. “Fuck!” I mumbled out loud.

An older black woman, sitting in front of me, turned her head halfway around and grimaced in disapproval.

“Sorry,” I said, and then realized the train was rolling into the Chicago Avenue stop. “Excuse me,” I said, getting up and pushing through the packed train toward the door. Emerging from the stairwell, and the mid-morning sun, the memory of the bizarre, frightening dream began to fade.  “I’m going to have to talk to Patrick about our new arrangement,” I said to myself.  “I think it’s making me crazy.”

The Daily News Tower rose up from behind the Damon’s Department Store on the left.  I couldn’t believe I was heading into work at the News.  After years of struggling in obscurity, I was finally getting a chance at the big time, at a real audience, at money, at respectability, at credibility.  Maybe I could go to my ten-year high school reunion after all.

Dutch was at the front desk, and it was a great relief that he was professional.  “Who are you you here to see, Miss,” he asked, as if he hadn’t been fucking me two nights earlier.

“Mr. McDonald,” I said. “He’s expecting me.”

“Very good,” Dutch said.  “Please have a seat.”

After a couple minutes, Dutch called me up.  “Miss, you have a message.”

He handed me a note.  I opened it and read it.  He’d obviously just scribbled it down.  “Drinks tonight after work?  Let’s toast your new job.”

It made me nervous, and my face flushed. I didn’t want to start the first day on the job with rumors about how I was fucking the black security guard. He could tell I was nervous.  He quickly scrawled down another note.  “Our secret.  Some place VERY far from work.”

I read it and then nodded.  “Text me,” I mouthed to him.

Ray was also suitably professional.  He took me to my desk, and showed me where the coffee room was.  As we were walking back to my desk, I realized that my desk was directly in front of an office door.  It was so close to that doorway, it struck me that it couldn’t be an accident. “Oh,” I said involuntarily.

“I know, you’re an assistant reporter,” he said.  “You’ll be helping out another reporter.  It’s all I could get you on such short notice.  You’ll work your way up in no time.  Particularly with … friends in high places.” He smiled at me, and then walked off.

I realized that this lowly new position was his way of making sure I kept sucking his dick.  If he just gave me a great job on day one, then I wouldn’t need him anymore.  Making me an assistant kept me in sexual servitude.

I put my bag down on my desk, and I saw my new boss’s black pumps up on her desk.  She was sitting back, relaxing.  She was satisfied with the situation.  Perhaps I was her first assistant.  A good day for her.  She was wearing stockings and a nice business skirt.  There was something familiar about those shoes.  “Come on in Dreana,” she said.

I recognized the voice.  It was Julie Benz.

I walked into the office.  “I know,” she said, her armed behind her head.  “It’s a little awkward.  You were my boss, but now I’m your’s,” she said.  “Don’t worry, this is going to be great!”  She told me about some of the stories she’d have me researching for her.  I wouldn’t get a byline at first, but she’d be showing me the ropes.  Then she gave me a coffee cup with a bow on it.  “My little present I know you like coffee. Why you don’t get yourself a mug.”  Then she handed me her’s. “While your in there can you get me one with sweetener?  Thanks.”

I turned to leave, and I saw a strange picture on her wall.  It was a portrait of James Smallville up on her bookshelf, like he was her boyfriend.  Then the next picture on the shelf jumped out at me.  It was picture of Julie and James Smallville on a cruise together.  Then I looked to the next picture.  This one was different.  Julie was grease naked, on all fours, wearing a black leather studded dog collar.  standing behind her, holding her leash, was Smallville in a purple suit.  From the distressed look on her face, the collar was choking her.

I turned to look at her again, and I saw she wasn’t dressed professionally.  She wore a black leather, tight miniskirt, a fishnet shirt over red satin bra.  Smallville bent her over her desk and began fucking her.  She grimaced.  I realized he was having her anally.  As she moaned in distress, Smallville laughed.  “My bitch,” he said.

“Help me, Dreana.”


Finally, I woke up. Patrick was gone and all the sheets were off the bed.  I was covered in sweat.  My head hurt from cheep alcohol and a late night.  I looked at the clock radio.  It was 1:14 p.m.  I couldn’t remember exactly what I’d been dreaming.

I was horny.

“Dang,” I said.  “Patrick’s at work.”

I got up and put some coffee into the coffee maker.  I actually had to scrape the sides of the can to get enough grounds to make half a pot.  It reminded me of how broke I was.  From there, as I leaned against the kitchen table watching the coffee pot gurgle, I remembered that I really needed to get that job at the News.  Then images came into my mind of what I had done 15 hours earlier to get that job.  My clouded mind cleared as it locked on to the images of Ray McDonald’s hard cock cleaving the fly on his dark jeans, and then jutting toward my face, hitting the tip of my nose.  My mouth fell open, and tongue extended in anticipation, my mouth practically watering for this dirty meal. “Well,” Ray said, taking my head by the blond locks in back. I looked up at him with wide green eyes.  “Get to work down there,” he said, and then thrust the cock into my mouth. The head traveling smoothly past my lips and toward the back of my throat.

The smell of coffee started to fill the kitchen.  What bothered me the most wasn’t that I’d done it, it bothered me that it made me so horny. I was wearing a night shirt and panties. Me hand found its way to the front of my pink cotton panties, and felt the hot wet mess inside.  I was still sticky with Dutch’s cum, and the that of my … debasement … of my prostitution, made me wet again.

“Cum in my mouth,” I asked, and I meant it.  My hand was rubbing myself, vigorously.

Smallville looked at the $40 he’d just pulled from my bra, and asked. “What did you do to earn this?”

“I didn’t answer, but i know my eyes told the whole story.  He knew what I had done. He could see it on my face.

I decided I couldn’t get up yet.  I wasn’t ready to wake up. I thought about calling Patrick, but I didn’t for some reason.  I thought about masturbating, in the hope that it would help me sleep, but I couldn’t do that either.  So I just rested, trying to figure out why, when I was so tired, I couldn’t sleep. I laid in bed for about 45 minutes, unable to move but also unable to sleep.

Finally, almost rescuing me from my thoughts, the telephone mercifully rang.  I was surprised that it was Ray McDonald calling.

“I made some phone calls, and … well, finding a position for you at the News is going to take more time than I thought,” he said.

“So … you’re not going to get me a job there.”

“Hey, if I were blowing you off, I’d just blow you off,” he said, and spoke to me for awhile about how he was good for his commitment.  He told me he didn’t regret it t all, and he told me I would make a good reporter some day.  “Turns out that you’ve made a few enemies with that column that you write.”

“You’re kidding me?” I said, stunned.

“Don’t worry, it’s just going to take some time.  The upside is that I went over some of your old columns, and you can really write.  I’m going to get you on at the newspaper.  It’ll take some time, though.  You’re going to have to work with me.”

“Got it,” I tried to think of something to make him consider me more seriously.  “I followed your advice and met up with Smallville last night and we talked,” I volunteered.

“Really, that’s cool.”

“I took your advice and decided that I should try to develop Smallville into a source for crime reporting, that sort of thing.”

McDonald’s disposition lightened, and he was obviously impressed and interested.  He asked me about our meeting and then cautioned me about Smallville.  “He has a lot of connections.  Don’t make an enemy out of Mr. Smallville.  Be careful.  Let’s talk in a couple days,” he said.

The phone call reminded me of strange dreams I had been having the night before.  I couldn’t quite remember them, but they left me with a feeling: Julie Benz was in trouble with Smallville.  He’d mentioned that he had a girl that was new to the News, and that could be Julie.  Could he be blackmailing her?  Was she a prostitute?  I always assumed she was a rich kid, because I knew she wasn’t making much at the website where we worked.  I never knew what else she did for money.  Was she working with Smallville?  Or could it be simply that she’d gotten in bad with him through a bad loan.  If she was broke, she could have borrowed some money from him and … now he could use that to get her to break the law.

I simply didn’t know, but my subconscious seemed to want to convince me that she was in trouble … big trouble.  But now I needed to decide: should I help her?


Inside the Ivory Tower–Chapter 2

The first thing that I realized was that I was naked. Or at least almost naked.  I could feel the thong starting to itch a bit around my left hip.  But other than that, I was only wearing a soft fleece blanket and stuck to a leather couch.  The second thing I noticed was that I was wearing my favorite high heals.

I could feel the two, crossing straps of black leather stretched over the front of my foot and ankle; the round buckle on the side of each foot; the forced, extended arch of my feet over the four-inch heals, and the rounded toe.  These were familiar sensations, but they seemed almost unreal, so I had to see to believe.  I kicked the blanket off my foot and looked.  It was dark, but I could make out the glint of the rounded buckle on the side and the sharp stiletto heal.

I had no idea where I was, or what I was up to.

Thump, thump, thump.

What they heck was that?  It sounded like somebody was coming in.

“Hey, I’m coming in,” said a voice from the other side of the door.

This was intense.  Where the hell am I?! My mind became unstuck, and it reeled through my memories of that day, searching for answers.  Memories knocked loose from my grey matter hit me quick, and then disappeared, replaced by another memory:


“You must be the magazine’s cheerleader,” he said, leaning in.  He was drunk, as were the eight guys he was going to the ballgame with.  I think it was literally a frat house gang.  “How do you cheer on a magazine exactly.”

I took a step back, and took a deep breath.  There was a group of college guys watching me now, and perhaps thirty more behind them. I kind of wanted to make an impression, not just phone it in. And, I do like to dance, and pride myself on my mad abilities. I spun on my heals, fell into a hip-hop move, where I landed in a backbend on the heals of my palms, and then lunged forward.  “Common’ boys, edit!” I shouted.


His lips were fat, round and pink, almost opposite of the rest of his dark, angular face.  “I’m like you, I have a job I love and a job that I do for money.”

“What do you love?” I asked.

“I love the drums.”


            “You’re wearing your ‘fuck-me’ heals for this?” Patrick asked, standing in the bedroom door jam.

            “Got to look nice,” I said, irritated.  “I don’t give your clothing dirty names.”

            “So you don’t call these my ‘hot-ass’ jeans?”


            “Darn,” he said grabbing the back pocked of his jeans and yanking with mock disgust.
            “Sorry to disappoint.”

            Patrick laughed.  “All I’m saying is, you have other black pumps; those are the sexy ones.”

            “Yep. I like them, too, smart guy.”

            “What kind of businessman is this guy … a pimp?”


Pimp—why did that word alarm me suddenly?  I tried to sit up off the office couch.  Two things obstructed me.  First the natural friction between a nearly naked woman’s skin and a leather office couch after a couple hours of laying unconscious.  Secondly, I discovered I was wearing handcuffs.  What the fuck?!

My mind reeled back to a conversation with Ray McDonald, the journalist, at the networking event:


“Are you interested in a meeting tonight?” 

“Is this an interview?” I asked.

“No, but it would be an opportunity to talk and see where you may fit,” he said.  “To be honest, there isn’t really a job for you.  Julie took care of that, but maybe we could work something out.  Don’t wear your suit,” Ray said.  “Change into something a little more casual.  I don’t want to scare anyone around the office when a pretty girl in an interview suit walks into the office.”

We were speaking in circles.  I wanted more details about why he wanted to meet, and Ray continued to keep things vague.  Finally, almost mercifully, my cellphone rang.  I took the call.  It was about a job.  I made an appointment for the next day.

“Sorry, Ray,” I said, hanging up my cellphone and dropping it back into my purse.

“You just made an appointment with Jamie Smallville,” Ray asked.  “I couldn’t help overhearing.”

“Yes,” I said.

There was a curious look on his face of surprise and, perhaps, concern.

“What?” I asked.  “Do you know him?”

“He comes up in the news sometimes.”

“How so,” I asked.

“He’s a businessman,” Ray said.

  “I know,” I said.

He took my elbow and leaned into my ear, sweeping the blond hair from my ear. “And a pimp.”

The move made my knees knock.  I like a little physical contact. And the thought that Smallville was a pimp added a jolt to the experience.  It seemed so dangerous.

“Unless he’s a guy by the same name.  But Smallville is an unusual name.”

“It is rare,” I said.

“It’s got to be Smallville,” he said with an almost apologetic sound to his voice. “I mean the businessman … the pimp. That Smallville.”

“I don’t know,” I said, a bit embarrassed. “I answered an ad for a … dance instructor. I’m a good dancer; I love it. The ad seemed legitimate.”  I didn’t want to say the ad was really for female masseurs, so I lied.  I realized that perhaps answering an ad for a masseur was a sketchy thing to do, and I was embarrassed. “I think I’ll call him back and cancel.”

Ray smiled and changed his tone.  “Hey, don’t cancel the appointment you made. If something crazy happens you could write about it … or develop him as a source.  Just thinking ahead.  If you’re coming on at the paper knowing Smallville could be a plus.  Something goes down and you have his cell number, you know?”  He shrugged.  “You should start thinking like a reporter.”


“Smalleville is well connected. He supplies girls to Alderman Rivers, or at least we think he does.”  Ray gave me his card, and then flipped it over, writing down another number.  “This is my cell.  If anything bad happens when you meet with Jamie, call me and I’ll send somebody in to the rescue, okay. Just let me know where you are supposed to meet him.  That way I’ll know where to send the cavalry.  I’ll protect you. This is interesting.”


Knock, knock, knock.  “Adreina I’m coming in.”

Before this guy could open the door and come into the office … okay, I remembered I was in an office … I sat up, throwing my heals over the side of the leather couch. I stood up on the narrow shafts of wood, not an easy thing to do with my hands locked behind my back, and felt the cool evening air through the window hit me as the fleece blanket rolled off me, leaving me completely naked from the waste up, and almost naked from the waste down.

A large man, silhouetted by the light from the hallway, quickly walked in and closed the door behind himself.  “You’re up,” he said with the booming baritone of a of a large back man.  The first thing my eyes could focus on in the dim light was a bright red blazer he was wearing.  The sight of it, that garish red, almost knocked me off my heals. I fought to get my footing.

“Holy shit!” I said. It looked like … like a pimp’s jacket.  Who else wears a bright red blazer?

“What’s that, babe?” he asked.

He had a weightlifters form.  In addition to the jacket, he wore a white shirt and dark tie and trousers that fell hard with broken cuffs on his shiny black leather shoes.

“Mr. Smallville?” I asked, standing naked, my wrists locked behind my back.  I felt like I was going to faint.


I was putting the small hoop earrings–my favorites–when Patrick returned to the bathroom door.  “You look really hot,” he said.  “You really do. Those heals, those earring,s that skirt, I’m a little jealous.”

“Are you going to be okay with this?” I asked, securing the second earring and then checking it in the mirror.  “Maybe I should cancel.”

“I … I just want to talk to you about it … set up some rules.”

We sat at the kitchen table.  He made a pot of coffee, and set out some milk.  “What rules?”

Patrick started talking, starting slowly at first, but then his lips picked up speed, and at once he was rambling a mile a minute.  The ground rules he hinted at sort of evolved out of his ramblings, recalling previous relationships and secret jealousies. He said that a lot of people have open relationships, and they sleep with other people with permission, but event though they have permission, it still often breaks up a relationship. He said that if a person sleeps with another person without their partner knowing about it, it’s cheating! Even if the partner knows, because the secrecy makes it cheating.  “Having a secret lover breaks them up, ultimately.” So he wanted to be completely open.  That said, he said that it might be weird if I came home from getting fucked and then we talked about it over dinner, “like porno small talk.”  

“How was your day dear?” he asked in a Ward Cleaver voice. “Great, the milk man and the mail man pulled a train on me,” he answered himself with a voice like June Cleaver.

“That would be awkward,” I agreed, sipping my coffee and checking my watch.  “I’m going to be late. Where are you going with this?”

So Patrick stopped beating around the bush.  He suggested we keep a private online journal of our sexual partners.  It would be password protected, but we could log onto it from anywhere, even with our phones.  “That way, I’ll always know what you’re doing, and so will you. Use pseudonyms just in case it gets hacked.”

I could tell the idea of the journal turned him on.  “Do you … do you like the idea of other men having sex with me?” I asked.

“Well,” he started, and then his voice dropped off.

“Is it that you want to read about men having me.” It became obvious to me that it did.  “Does that turn you on? Reading about men having their way with me?” 

Patrick opened his mouth, but no words came out.  His eyes fell to the floor.

“So all this time I was worried you had plans to sleep with other women, when really all you wanted was for me to sleep with other men.”

He looked me in the eye again, but remained mute.

“So you’re not nervous at all about me fucking this guy tonight.  You’re excited.”

There was a long pause.  I crossed my arms and waited for his answer.  

“What, I’m cool with it!?” His voice cracked like a teenagers.

“You liar,” I said coyly.  “You’re not cool with it, you’re hot for it!”

He sighed and looked away, embarrassed.  

“Okay, I’ll fuck this guy, and then on the way home I’ll stop by a bar and pick up a couple big black guys to bring home so you can watch!?”  I was a bit irate, but I couldn’t tell why.  I couldn’t decide if his suggestion hurt my feelings … or deeply sexually excited me … or both.

I waited sternly for his answer, letting him know with my eyes that I expected an answer.  When he spoke, his voice cracked. “That would be sexy.”

“Okay … now I understand,” I said, a bit bemused.  How could I have never seen this in him before.  We’ve been together for 18 months, and he’s finally gotten up the nerve to admit it. I felt I was in a power position, so I let him know that I was not similarly attracted to the idea of him fucking other people. “I think only I should sleep with other people, and I’ll let you read all about it.”

“Spare no details,” he said.  “I’ll set up a Word Press blog page, and I’ll leave the address and password on a slip of paper in your jewelry box.”


I took a deep breath. I was legitimately torn.  It wasn’t like I found Ray McDonald offensive. He looked legitimate, but the idea of offering sex in exchange for a job, or giving the appearance that I was doing so, wasn’t something I was interested in pursuing.  Although, in truth, when the idea of it passed through my head, involving Ray, it made me a little … well … let’s just say it felt dirty … and sometimes being a dirty girl felt … well … hot.

The image of going down on him in a cluttered newspaperman’s office on a brown leather sofa got a reaction down below.   My panties got a little moist.  

Mercifully, before I had a chance to give a solid answer, a second older newspaperman walked up and engaged me and Ray in a conversation. I acted like my phone was vibrating and pulled it from my purse. I needed the help of a girlfriend, and I knew one who owed me–Julie Benz.

“I got to respond to this one,” I said as an excuse and then I texted Julie: “Ray McDonald.  I need info.  Please google and send data, plx!  XO”

Then I stood listening to Ray and his colleague and waited for a response.

My phone vibrated. “OK!  Hearts, JB”

It took a few minutes, but she was fast. I knew I liked Julie for a reason.

“He’s a journalist, famous.  Did 6 months prison for protecting sources in the Congress v PMD Ent. scandal of eight years ago. Mick Conko was his mentor.”

Shit, I thought, I remember that.  It happened when I was in college.  McDonald was jailed, beaten up by prisoners, lost two teeth, but never gave up his notes.  And Mick Conko was one of the most famous columnist ever to come out of Chicago.  In the Midwest, Conko was the reason more students went to journalism school than any other person.

Ray was still distracted, so I texted Julie back.  “Personal info, plz.”

“Everyone likes Ray … women particularly. :)”

“Huh??? Explain.”

“Has more power than just in the pen. 🙂  Model, local cheerleaders, famous actresses, a state senator, you name it.”

Returning my attention to Ray, I found his eyes on me.  “I got to run, kid,” he said grabbing my elbow gently.  “So we on for 7 o’clock?”

“Of course,” I snapped.  “I already said that, right?  I’ll see you at 7 and I’ll dress … covertly.  Nobody will suspect.”


I had Patrick drop me off in front of the building.  We’d spent so much time talking about his kink that I couldn’t take the train.  I hopped out on the sidewalk and looked over my shoulder at Patrick.  He looked nervous.”

“You’re sure about this?” I said, leaning on the door and sticking my head into the car.

“I think so,” he said.

“I … I think you should sleep with women, too,” I said.  

“Really?  Are you sure?” he asked.

“Just seems fair.”  I couldn’t tell him that I was actually worried that I was going to lose respect for him.  I didn’t really know about him being my cuckold.

“You’re sure,” he asked.

“Well … let’s talk about it later  …. I guess I’m not sure.”

Well, just have fun tonight,” he said.  “Do what you want … with him.”  

I leaned in and kissed him. I slammed the door and strolled up through the granite plaza toward the front doorway into the building.  I discovered that I was strutting.  As I did, I caught sight of a red convertible Cadillac on a side alley of the building.  There was a black woman, with a rather skimpy and short dress, leaning against the car and a black man behind the wheel. They watched me closely. The woman looked angry, or perhaps jealous. I tossed my hair and strut into the building.

“I’m here to see Mr. McDonald,” I said to the security guard, who wore a bright red blazer.

“You must be Ms. Kandinski,” he asked. “Mr. McDonald isn’t here yet.”

Shit, I thought.  I spun on my heals and saw that Patrick had already left.  The man and woman in the car were still watching.  

Now I looked irritated.  All that worrying, and Ray wasn’t even going to show up.  The security guard told me that Ray had just called him.

I felt like a girl jilted for the prom.  I was all dressed up, standing at the front door looking out, no date in sight.  

“Ray wanted me to let him know that he’d be a bit late, but he will meet with you tonight.”  This black giant of a man introduced himself as Dutch Washington.  “Hey Gerald, I’m going to escort Ms. Kandinski up to Mr. McDonald’s office.

Dutch had a wide, spare jaw, and close cropped hair.  His black skin shined in the light of the marble lobby, and as he stood up, his eyes swept up and down my body, inspecting the black skirt, white silk blouse, gold chain and earrings.  “You look very nice,” he said.

He walked me toward a service elevator behind the security desk–not to the main elevator banks.  Security, he explained, had their own elevator.  He offered to give a special tour, all access, to kill some time before my meeting.

Before I could decline, he explained that security was just his day job.  He played bass in a couple bands, a blues band for love and a hip-hop band that he said he had real hope would make it big someday. “I love music,” he said.  “I’d love for you to come to one of my shows.  His voice was low and rustic, and it cracked when he laughed.  He had broad shoulders that were obviously, even through the jacket, muscular and strong.  He looked like a body builder.  I imagined what he’d look like naked, and I liked it.  I imagined what i’d look like naked with him, and I liked it more.

Dutch proceeded to give me an all access tour of the building.  He showed me the old printing room, including some 1920 Rockweld presses that were gathering dust, and then showed me where, in 1952, a journalist named Thomas Sullivan, known as the Irish vandal, was shot dead by a mob hit man.  “It’s one of the few times that a reporter was murdered anywhere in America for reporting the news.”

He showed me Mick Coniko’s old office, and he showed me the floors where the reporters worked.  He took me up to the top floor, where there was nothing but towers and mechanicals for the elevators, deep storage, and some of the best views of the Chicago River.  It was incredible, and I was incredibly turned on by him.  I was disappointed when his phone vibrated.  I was standing close enough to him that I actually felt it vibrate.  “Mr. McDonald is here.  I’ll take you to his office.”

“Thanks,” I said.  “And about that show, that sounds great.  I’d really enjoy seeing you play … how about your hip-hop band?  I”m actually a really good hip-hop dancer.”

“Then you’ll love it,” he promised.

We exchanged cell phone numbers.  As we got to near McDonald’s office he leaned in close and said, “Call me when you’re done with your meeting.  I get off later tonight, and Jerald will cover for me.  We can continue our … private tour.”


“Smallville,” Dutch said, walking into Ray McDonald’s office.  “Who the hell is Smallville.”

“It’s a long story,” I said.  I felt less naked.  This was my lover, Dutch, not some dirty pimp.  “Sorry, baby, I must have fallen asleep.”

“That’s okay, baby,” he said, taking me by the back of the head and lowering his fat, soft lips to mine.  Our tongues fluttered and gyrated like two oiled virgins on a blasphemers pire.


Ray McDonald was cordial when I entered.  He thanked Dutch for keeping me company while he was late and apologized.  “Let’s take that tour.”

“Dutch showed me around,” I said. “But I could always see more.”

Ray listened to what I’d seen already and shaped his tour accordingly.  He walked me through the reporter pits–that’s really what they called them–took me past the radio and television studios, and also showed me the library.  “Maybe you’ll have some stories in here someday soon,” he said.  The library had a balcony, and we walked out onto it.  It was a beautiful summer evening, and the granite of this high-walled balcony felt cool under my palms.  As McDonald closed the doorway behind himself, I realized that this was our destination.  This was where he wanted me alone.

I am attracted to McDonald, but I don’t trust him. It’s a gorgeous night.  He is paying me some nice attention. He is a sexy man, and I want to fuck him. Patrick wants me to fuck him. I came here this night to fuck him, for god sakes. But I can’t do it. 

I didn’t want to sell myself short. I didn’t want him to take advantage of a desperate young woman–what a cliche. I didn’t want to have him take advantage of me. Something Dutch had said about him let me know that McDonald did this a lot, and he couldn’t possibly hire all these young girls he brought up onto this balcony. He’d said, “Mr. McDonald does like to show off the building. He must be very proud of it.” Plus, McDonald seemed to have this so well choreographed. He told me about my future as a journalist in one room, and then walked me out onto this romantic balcony to undress and defile me.  That, I decided, wouldn’t be happening.

So I took control of the situation. I wanted to sleep with him.  I had the go-ahead from my boyfriend. In fact, I think Patrick would be a little pissed I didn’t.  But I had to get a job.  As cheap as it sounds, I wasn’t there to fuck. I was there to prostitute myself. And prostitutes get paid. It occurred to me that the woman in the alley in the short black skirt, she was a hooker. She didn’t do it for free. Neither should I.

I looked out at the city skyline with my hair blowing in the breeze and Ray came up behind me, placing his hands on my hips.  “Jesus, you’re so beautiful,” he said. “I can’t believe I’m so lucky to be here with you tonight.”

“I have an open relationship with my boyfriend,” I said. “He’s my cuckold.  That means it turns him on when I sleep with other men. Isn’t that something?”

“That sounds fantastic.” He pulled himself closer.

“He just wants me to tell him all about it,” I continued to explain.  I wanted to tell somebody about my odd new, kinky relationship, and I couldn’t tell my mom, or Julie, so I told Ray.  “I think he wants me to have sex with you out on this balcony even more than I do. I think he’d be disappointed if I didn’t. And I do want to have sex with you tonight. I really enjoy sex, and I’m really good at it.”

In response, his hands slid up the front of my blouse and cupped my breasts, pulling me into his body.  “You’re so sexy,” he moaned into my ear, his lips grazing my neck.

“You’re sexy,” I said.  “But I need a job.”  I turned to face him, and his hands responded by falling to my ass.  I could feel his excitement rising.  “You want me to fuck you for a job here.  If you want to make me your prostitute, that’s fine with me.  In fact, it turns me on a little bit. I’m very curious about this.”

“You ever done anything like this before … with Smallville?” he asked.  His hands cupped and massaged my bottom, tugging up my skirt a bit, and he kissed my neck.  His cock, I could feel, was now fully erect and throbbing.  “I bet you make a lot of money as a whore. You’re so beautiful and sexy. Smallville probably has you fucking all the high rollers. You’re probably his top whore, already.”

The word whore hit me hard, and mostly in in a bad way.  But not entirely … it felt dirty, and dirty felt good.  I was incredibly turned on by then, and the word whore brought it to a new height.  I had to stay in control, so I pushed him off, and against the balcony wall.  I spun on my heals and flipped my hair into his face, and then strut in my tight, now hiked up skirt, slowly unbuttoning my white silk blouse. I was showing off a lacy bra that Patrick had bought me for Christmas. I showed him I really know how to dance, spinning, dropping to a squat, launching myself onto my heals, kicking my legs and then gyrating around him.  

“I bet your boyfriend would love to see this performance,” he said.

“He has,” I said.  “Many, many times.”

“I bet your mother back in Nebraska would be embarrassed to see what a sexy, hot, juicy little whore you are. Does she know your so fucking hot, that you’re a whore.” He kept talking, and he weaved the word “whore” with complements about my lips “I can’t wait to see how those lips can dance,” and my body “your breasts are two epiphanies and they’re completely blowing my mind” and my movement “I almost can’t look at you dancing, your ass is physically hurting me.” As he did, I strut and danced and let him know I could take it and it turned me on. He called me “little whore,” “hot lil’ whore,” “sexy whore” and “beautiful whore.”  Sixteen times he said the word. I counted them. 

  I brought my dance to a crescendo, and then launched myself toward him. I stood before him, my heals three feet apart, hands on hips, and told him how it would be. “We’re going to have the best sex you’ve ever had,” I said.  “AFTER I have the job.  You want me to be your whore … whores get paid. I want to be a good whore for you. Get me a job, and you’ll have this body. I’ll do whatever you want me to do with this body. After I file my first story for this newspaper as a staff reporter.”

He was disappointed.  “How do I know you’ll make good on that promise? You could just tease me now and then reject me after you have the job. How do I know you’re the calculating whore you’re pretending to be?”

I unbuttoned my blouse to my navel, giving myself time to think.  “I’ll give you a blow job tonight.  I’ve got to … my boyfriend would be disappointed if I didn’t get a little cum in my mouth.”

“Thank god,” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders, pressing me down.

“Not so fast,” I said.  “Remember, whores get paid. I’ve never done this before. You’ll pop my cherry tonight. A BJ will cost you $100.”

“Fair enough, you greedy lil’ whore,” he smiled, playfully.  He was willing to play by my rules. He pulled out his wallet and took out a stack of bills, showing them to me. I was so excited, I couldn’t read them, but I nodded.  He put his hand on my ass and pulled me close, and then slid the bills down the front of my skirt, planting them deep into my thong panty.  He took  moment and rubbed them into my crotch. “You’re awfully wet, he said.  “Are you sure …”

“I’ll have to wait,” I said, pulling his hand out. “Tonight, this is business, and that’s the closest you’ll get to that.”

He told me to take off my bra and then he put it on the doorknob of the balcony door and shut it.  Obviously, this is what people did to keep this romantic hideaway private.  

I have to admit, standing topless on a moonless Chicago evening with $100 in my panties, it turned me on.  He was waiting for me now.  I wasn’t sure what to do, for a moment. I needed a job desperately, so I got down on my knees to proved myself to Ray.

I kissed throbbing bulge on the front of his jeans.  It was sexy, so I licked it, rubbed my mouth on it.  “You’ll get lipstick on my fly,” he said, grabbing me roughly by my hair.  “Take it out and suck it, whore.”

He was impatient, unbuttoning his fly, and pulling it out in a red fist. He rubbed the head against my painted red lips.  He was whispering now, words from pornography, “deep throat,” “swallow,” “cum in your face.” My head was spinning. I couldn’t believe what I was about to do.  I couldn’t believe how excited I was to do it!


I found Dutch at his post.  It was my suggestion.  I thought, after the way Ray had treated me, that perhaps it would be fair play to fuck a Dutch on his office couch. I was so horny.

And, of course, I would fuck Dutch for nothing, just for fun.

He undressed me like my clothing was on fire and he had to get it off me before it burned me to death. He lifted me by my ass with his large hands, and brought me lips to his mouth. I had to brace myself against a photograph of Fidel Castro on Ray’s wall above his couch and Dutch’s pink tongue quickly explored my vaccine.  He probed deep.  I wondered if he expected to find Ray’s cum in there.  I knew it was clean down there.

The handcuffs were his idea.  He had them on his belt, and at first he handcuffed me above my head.  He was so big, and it took several minutes of his gentle, pulsing hip thrusts, to work his cock all the way inside me. Then he started fucking.  That brown leather couch creaked.

After we did it on the couch, he moved me Ray’s desk.  He bent me over it, and locked my hands behind my back.  He took me by my blond mane, and slapped my ass a few times.  “You’ve been a bad girl here tonight.” He positioned Ray’s desk nameplate in front of my face, and then probed the dark depths of my nether regions until I squealed and collapsed in orgasm.

I guess I fell asleep on the desk. Dutch must have moved me to the couch, covered me up and let me sleep it off for awhile.


“What time is it Dutch?” I asked.

“2 a.m.”  he said.  “In fact, I just punched out.  I’m off the clock now.”

“That’s good work if you can get it!” I said.

“I got it.”

“I didn’t realize you were on the clock as we were …”

“Uh-huh,” he said.  “I love my job today more than usual.”

“Hey, take off these cuffs,” I said.

As we took the service elevator down, I realized that Dutch’s coworkers at the security desk would still be on duty.  “I can’t stroll out at 2 a.m. in front of your coworkers,” I sputtered suddenly.

“Okay,” he said.  “There is a backdoor off the basement.”  He pushed some buttons, and then the elevator continued down past the lobby.  We exited through a a steel cage door into a stark basement with just a few bare bulbs. “The backdoor is over there,” he said pointing.  “Just wait for me by on the sidewalk and I’ll swing around and pick you up.  I got to turn in my keys and walkie-talkie.”  He hopped into the elevator, and I watched him ascend.

The basement was a little frightening, so I was anxious to get out of it.  I hustled across the barren expanse of concrete flooring and opened the steel door.  Without a second thought I stepped out into an underworld and slammed the steel door behind me.  This sidewalk was part of a subterranean street view.  I could hear taxis and cars rumbling on the roadway over my head.  This was called Lower Michigan Avenue, which was a service road for the buildings in the downtown.  Delivery trucks and employees used it to escape the traffic and pedestrians of the world above.  I was standing on a sidewalk that was, basically, completely underground.  This was the underworld for which Chicago was famous.

It’s a weird worldview on the underside of a two-level road.  The cement ceiling 15 feet above roars with the sound of street traffic overhead.  It’s dim in the daytime and pitch at night.  The only light now was from lights mounted to the massive cement structure over my head.  I looked across the street and I saw a black woman in a long blond wig and a tiny, tight black dress.  I recognized her, and she recognized me.  Earlier that night she’d been standing with her pimp in an alley next to the newspaper tower.

Is god teasing me? I thought.  I’d just whored myself, and now I was face to face with a whore, who was giving me stink eye.  Shit, did she think I was in her territory?!

“This is my street corner, ho,” I heard her say.

I looked around.  What was taking Dutch so long to get here? Suddenly it hit me.  He told me that he was parked in a lot across the street! He wouldn’t be there to pick me up for five to ten minutes. I went back to the steel door the the scary basement and found it locked tight … no escape.

Mercifully, I saw a pair of headlights in the distance rolling toward me.  It was a nice car, a BMW.  It rolled up next to me, and I realized with relief that Dutch had arrived in time to save me. I opened the passenger doorway and hopped in. “Thank god you’re here,” I said.

“Good to see you as well.  You’re a gorgeous woman,” said the old man at the wheel.  “How much does a date cost?”

“I – I – I,” I stammered.

“You’re beautiful.  I want a blow job, and sex. Do you do anal?  How much is that?”

“What … I – I think … what did you …”  I couldn’t speak. I was mortified.

“Oh, I really want to fuck you in the ass, but if that’s not on the menu then that’s fine. Don’t get upset.  No need to be flustered.”

He was so old.  I couldn’t hide my disgust.  He looked like somebodies old grandpa.  “Please … I don’t … what are you …  You can’t …” My lips still failed me.

“Okay, okay, miss,” he said, getting irritated with me.  “Maybe I could have a talk with your pimp over there and he’d persuade you to offer up your ass for a nice price.” He pointed. I looked and saw the red Cadillac convertible that the black hooker was leaning up against in the alley.  A large man was sitting behind the wheel. “I bet you wouldn’t like it if I complained that you won’t sell me some anal services.  Girls down here all give anal.”  He turned and pointed to the mad, black hooker across the street.  “I fucked her in the ass two months ago.  Paid $150. Does that sound good?”

Now I couldn’t make any sounds. My mouth simply hung open, gaping impotently.

He put his car into drive and started rolling forward.  “Or should I drive up to your pimp, Mr. Smallville, and ask him what he thinks of that deal? Maybe he’ll persuade you to take it in the ass!  I’m a good customer. Smallville and I are friends, you slut!”

“Please!” I squealed.  An image developed in my head.  I was bent over in the backseat of this BMW, my skirt pulled up, and this ancient old man was pressing his erection up my ass.  I was squealing, and he was laughing with evil delight. I could feel his cock probing my ass as he picked up steam. I pictured myself falling out of his car, my ass in pain with his dirty wad of money pressed into my bra.  My face was spattered with his cum, and he laughed as he drove off, leaving me in the mud and city grime.  “I … I,” I still couldn’t talk. “Don’t do that. Don’t take me to the pimp.  I … I …”

“Oh, I’m going to enjoying having sex with you,” he said.  “I’ll pay $160 and you’ll do anal, okay sweetie.”  He patted my knee with resolve, and then reached up and cupped my left breast.  He squeezed it hard.  “You’ve got lovely breasts, honey.”  He was bald, and maybe 65 years old.  His face was etched with age, and the sparse hair above his ears was completely gray.  My nausea intensified until I couldn’t take it any longer.

I got out as fast as I could.  His car was still rolling forward at one mile per hour when I toppled ass over head into the gutter.  I rolled onto the sidewalk. He rolled down the window.  “You don’t want to date,” he asked again.  “Okay, no anal. Fine. I agree.  $160 and no anal. Get back into the car, please. I’m a nice old man.  The girls all like me.”

I leaned forward, and asked, in a whisper, “Can you just get me out of here?  I’m afraid. I’m afraid of the hooker and that pimp over there.  Please just take me somewhere else.”  I took the cash that Ray had paid me for a blow job and handed it to him.  “Please I’ll pay you for the ride!”

The old man looked forward and saw a red Cadillac convertible parked in the shadows ahead of us.  “I don’t want to get involved in a fight between you and your pimp,” he said.  “I’m sorry.”  He tossed the bills out the window at me, rolled up his window and drove on.

I looked across the street, and the black hooker was now visibly livid.  “Stupid bitch,” she swore.  “That was my customer.”  I wadded the bills up in my fist and did the first thing that came to mind, I put them into my bra.

“Steel my customer,” she said. Then I heard her call out to a black man in the red convertible Cadillac, parked down the road.  “Smallville!” she yelled.

Her pimp, Mr. Smallville, rolled up slowly, and then then she leaned into the window, and they spoke.  Several times, he looked over at me.  He got a telephone call.  The call seemed to piss him off even more.  I could hear his voice rising to an angry shout.  Did the old man call him? Then he looked another time, and this time he was frowning, too.

He turned off his car and opened his door.  He was going to come over to speak to me.

“Put this whore in her place!” he shouted to himself.  “Fuck, got to know they place!”  I checked the steel door I’d just come out of, and it was locked.  No sign of Dutch–where the fuck was Dutch?  Holy shit!.  What should I do!?


What should Adreina Kandinski do? A known pimp, Jamie Smallville was coming over to confront her, looking angry.  Should she:


*Call out, “Hi, Mr. Smallville.  It’s me, Ms. Kandinski.  We have an appointment tomorrow. So strange to meet you this way.”–

*Run away and look for help!-

Chapter 1 — “Opportunity”


There is nothing sexy about that.  And it’s going on three months.  I have to say, my mother warned me.  I left a secure job at a boring company to work in media–even worse, my mother said, social media–writing restaurant reviews and running the Midwest virtual office of a national web publication.  Lots of fun but, unfortunately, the company decided to centralize management.  My job moved to Houston one day, and left me behind to figure it all out in the worst recession in America

n history.

“You okay, Adreina?” Patrick, my boyfriend, asked.

“I have somewhere to go today, so that’s a big improvement over the usual,” I said with a wry smile.

“That’s right, you’re giving a lecture on social media today, right?” he said, walking past and bending to kiss me on the top of the head.  I was sitting on the floor of my living room tinkering with my speech on my laptop.  “Break a leg.”

“That would be good.  I could collect disability and sue the hotel!”

“Don’t worry,” he said.  “You’ll find work.  And if you don’t, you could always wait tables for awhile until the economy turns around.”  There was a rush of cold morning air as he walked out the front door, and then he was gone.

He was right, of course.  I stood a good chance of waiting tables.  How humiliating would that be?  For two years, I was the feared web restaurant reviewer in town.  Now I’d be, hat in hand, looking for a job waiting tables.  Some of the top restaurant owners would only hire me on my hands and knees.  I could be a bit abrasive in my reviews, but I was always fair. I told the truth. If there was gristle in the steak, that’s what I wrote. That’s why readers liked, and that’s ultimately how I got noticed by the owners in Houston who quickly promoted me. Too bad I had to go and get laid off.

Lately, I’ve been writing occasional restaurant reviews, for $50 a story, but I can’t do that as often as I like, because it would screw up my unemployment checks, and being a restaurant reviewer, no matter what you’ve seen in the movies, does not pay enough to rent a fancy apartment in a major city.  You have to be a restaurant reviewer and do something else as well, like run the Midwest office … or wait tables.

I laid in the middle of my small living-room’s floor, eyes closed and wiped a couple errant tears from my eyes. “My luck has got to turn around soon.”

On days like this one, I could spend hours on Twitter, tweeting about nothing.  Then I’d hit Facebook and bug my friends with jobs with my repetitive posts, whining about the economy, or making stupid jokes to let everyone know I’m feeling fine about my current lot in life.  It was a thin facade.  This day was no different.  I decided to count my tweets.  I posted 61 times by noon.  I think that qualifies me as an addict.

By 12:30 p.m., I was thoroughly disgusted with myself.  I got up off the floor to eat my first meal of the day.

The telephone rang.

“Adreina Kandinski please,” said the man.

“This is she,” I responded.

“This is Ray McDonald with the Daily News,” he said.

My heart jumped into my throat.  “Is this about the resume …”

“Exactly,” Ray interrupted.

“Fantastic,” I said.  “I was starting to fear you’d never call.”

“So Julie let you know I’d be calling … I’m calling about Julie Benz, I understand she worked for you last year as a writer.  I’m calling to check her references.”

I think he could feel my humiliation over the telephone.  Despite the awkwardness of the situation, or perhaps because of it, I gave Julie a glowing reference, more than she deserved.  She was good writer, not great, and she rarely missed a deadline, but occasionally she did.

Ray thanked me for my time and hung up.  It was a short call, maybe three minutes, but it leveled me.

The telephone conversation was frightening, because it meant that the Daily News was not considering me at all.  I’d sent them my resume exactly 11 times in the past three months, applying for six openings, including one that was listed as distribution assistant, which sounded like a glorified paper boy.  I didn’t get a single telephone call, email, or letter in response.  Now I knew that they were hiring, and I didn’t even get an interview.  What’s worse, I knew that the Daily New was really the only game in town.  The smaller newspapers were out of business, and the second newspaper in town, the Times, was almost insolvent.  They hadn’t hired in over a decade.  So if the Daily News wasn’t considering me, that meant that my career in editing and writing was likely over.  I didn’t have a prayer, and what’s worse, I didn’t know what else I wanted to do.

I would do anything to get my foot in the door at the Daily News.  Seriously, I’d do anything.  My career is circling the drain.

But why am I such a pariah in the media industry.  I thought about it and remembered getting chased out of a The Chop Factory by Chef Paul Challet.  The Chop Factory had seen better days, and I said so in a review.  My mistake was giving him a second chance.  He wasn’t happy to see me, and kicked me and Patrick out.  Unfortunately, Challet, as owner of a local chain of restaurants, anchored by the Chop Factory, is a big man in town. And he’s a big advertiser in the Daily News.  Was he stepping on my career, using his sway at the newspaper to squeeze me out of restaurant reviews?  The thought of it was depressing, because if he was, it appeared it was working.

I called Patrick to cheer up.  “I got a call on an interview today,” I said, cheerily.


“Not mine,” I said.  “Julie’s.”

“Dang!  No surprise.  Pretty girls like her never have to work for anything ….” his voice trailed off.  “Sorry.  You’re beautiful and you’re going to get a job.  Let’s have a date tonight!”

“We can’t afford it,” I said.  “I’m out of work, remember?”

“I’ll grab something from the store on the way home, and we’ll stay in and cuddle by the virtual fireplace!”  It was sweet, and it picked me up. “The only thing I ask is that you apply for three jobs this afternoon.  Any kind of jobs.  I didn’t tell you this, but we fell behind on the rent this month.  If you don’t get a job soon, we may have to consider moving … to some place smaller, or perhaps in not such a hip neighborhood. Humboldt Park has some affordable places.”

It also has one of the highest murder rates in the city.

“Okay,” I said, my voice wavering.  It’s not what I wanted to hear.  I wanted to hear him say he’d take care of me no matter what happened.  But that wasn’t the truth. The rent was due, and I needed to get a job.

I couldn’t blame him.  He could see it as well as I could.  I was 27 years old, and I was through, washed up.  I’d hit my mid-life crisis early.  I needed to do what Patrick asked, because at this point, he was all I had anymore.

My relationship with Patrick wasn’t always easy, but he was a good boyfriend, for now.  The first year of our relationship, he demanded that we stay nonexclusive.  That’s since ended, but he’s still allergic to commitment.  Last month, he said he missed having an “open” relationship.  What guy says that to his girlfriend?  Not that I didn’t enjoy having a nonexclusive relationship, too.  I enjoy a first date, the thrill of a new person in your life … the excitement of something new, a new man.  But now I’m looking for a little bit more from life … like marriage, or perhaps just another step in that direction.

I’m really not a very traditional girl.  I’ve often said that marriage and family may not be for me.  So why does it worry me so much when Patrick says he feels the same way.  To be honest with myself, if I were still a manager at the website, tearing Chicago chefs a new one in my regular reviews, I’d probably agree to the open relationship.  But my confidence had taken a hit.

So that’s my life.  I have no job and a shaken commitment to my live-in boyfriend.

Perhaps Patrick had the right idea.  Maybe I could keep my career going as a restaurant reviewer, even if it were subsidized somehow.  I couldn’t be a waitress and a restaurant reviewer.  So I pulled up Jimslists, and started looking in the freelance gigs sections.  I’d get some work, write more restaurant reviews, and get off unemployment.  There wasn’t a lot, but there was a few interesting items:

“Growing publication looking for young, attractive women to work in publicity department. Job entails working with public to recruit readers to our publication. Flexible hours.  $50 an hour pay–plus extra earning opportunities. No experience necessary, but publishing or photography experience helpful.  Item #76wfs890”

This looked right up my alley.  I’d like to think of myself as an attractive young woman and I had publishing and photography experience.  But it also made me feel a little nervous. What kind of publication needs pretty young girls to draw readers … I speculated. I had no way of knowing–nothing ventured nothing earned–so I sent an email, including a resume, cover letter, a photograph of myself, and I waited.  “Call me anytime.  I’m available immediately,” I wrote.

In a few minutes, Jeremy called.  “Adreina,” he said.  “I know you’re work!”  He explained that he still looked forward to my restaurant reviews. “I don’t eat anywhere you tell me not to,” he laughed. “Just say no to the Chop House! Anyway, about a job for my publication, I think you have more than enough experience to do the job.” Then he complemented my picture.

I asked what sort of publication I’d be working for, acting like I was ready to start working. I was nervous that he hadn’t said yet what kind of publishing he did … porn, girlie magazines, fetish, what?

“Have you heard of CitySport?”

“I can’t say that I have,” I confessed.

“Right, that’s our problem,” he joked.  “CitySport is a startup sports website, which mixed serious sports journalism with humor and a bit of edgy tabloid reporting. We’re trying to start something new here, and you’d be getting in on the ground floor.”

Jeremy explained the job.  They needed young women to hang out outside sporting events in CitySport t-shirt and uniform. I asked what the uniform was, cringing.  The t-shirt was a mock jersey with “CitySport Booster” on the front, and the back was the representative’s first name and a twitter address. The rest of the uniform was just a piece of sportswear from the representative’s personal wardrobe. “Something sporty, like running shorts, or gymnastics tights, baseball pants or an ice scatting or tennis skirt.”  The pay was, in deed, $50 a hour, plus $5 for every new person that you can get to sign up for a free CitySport membership.

“And considering you’re skills, maybe down the line we can bring you in for some editorial work.”

“Could I write something … I don’t really know anything about sports.”

“You could write a column about being a CitySport booster.”

“How about, ‘CitySport in the City’?” I shouted. I was overwhelmed at my turn of luck

He agreed to pay me my going rate for the column.  Unfortunately I lied and told him it was $30, because he said they were cash strapped.

There was a Cubs game starting in about two hours, and Jeremy offered to meet me over at Wriggle Field with a CitySport jersey and some handouts to distribute. He told me that the hourly pay was good because you only work for about 1.5 hours–an hour before game time to just after the game starts.  After that, people stop showing up.  “And after the games sport fans are too drunk to be courteous.  You’d just get black and blue from being pinched by drunk old men, and that’s no good for anyone.”

I called Patrick, and he was genuinely happy for me.  But as an accountant, he was quick with the financial breakdown on the new job.  I’d earn some money today, $75.  We owed the landlord $300 more than that.  “It’s a great part-time job for you, and, hopefully, you can work your way into an editorial gig. But you’ll need another job to make ends meet.”  He was right.  Taking this, I would forfeit unemployment, and I’d actually bring home less money.

I had a few minutes before I had to get ready to go to the game, so I scanned for a couple more jobs.  One stated that it was looking for women who were experienced dancers or interested in dancing.  My heart jumped.  I’d been taking ballroom, ballet, tap, and modern dance since I was three years old, and was captain of my high school’s cheerleading squad back in Lincoln, Nebraska.  A third ad asked for women who were interested in massage.  Patrick and I had just finished a massage class, something we did for our relationship.  Both of these ads made me worried that they may be less than legitimate, but that’s what I thought about the CitySport gig, and it now didn’t sound too bad.  I needed the work.  I attached my photo to each email and wrote: “Call anytime.  Ready to work immediately.”

As soon as I sent the emails, my face flushed a bit, and my heart jumped. What if these gigs were not as  soft-core as being a magazine pusher? What’s the worse that could happen? I suppose that might be a pimp calling to recruit me as a street walking hooker. Well … at least my money troubles would clear up.

I was going to make the rent one way or the other, I joked to myself, and ran off to my closet to find something clean to wear.  I went jogging the night before, so my jogging shorts were, well, funky.  It was too hot that day to wear tights.  So I dug into the back of my closet, and pulled out a beaten old moving-company box marked, “MEMENTOS.”  My high school cheerleading uniform, that I returned to the school.  But I had a cheerleading skirt that I had to purchase for a summer cheer retreat I went on between junior and senior years.  The orange and blue, pleated cheer skirt was loud, a little bit tighter than it was ten years ago, but it fit.  Plus it could pass for Chicago sports colors.


“That’s perfect,” Jeremy said, finding me standing on the corner of Clark and Addison streets like an island. Throngs of Cubs fans poured around me like an exuberant river around a polished river stone.

The first thing that I realized was how young Jeremy was.  He was clearly college age. He was overdue for a haircut, and had a small scar on his forehead. We talked for just a few minutes. “I just hope that Chef Paul Challet isn’t a sports fan in this city,” Jeremy joked.  “Aw, screw him! We don’t need him anyway.”

I was flattered he knew Chef Challet hated me. After all, I was starting to feel like a real nobody in town.

The jersey was white, with black stripes on the sleeves, with a v-neck.  I was also pleasantly surprised to see it wasn’t just a girl thing.  I was one of three young women, but there was a young, aspiring model named Olin who filled his large jersey nicely.  “Girls like sports, too,” Jeremy joked.  “Well, at least they like Olin.” “Go Olin!” I said, in a mock cheer, and then instantly felt stupid.

Olin had skin the color of rich toffee, close cropped hair, and forearms the size of my calves. His eyes, when he looked at me, made me feel weak in the knees, and he was clearly experienced and confident enough with women to know it.

“It’s a simple job,” Olin said, putting his arm around my shoulders, and leading me away from Jeremy and toward the gates of Wrigley Field, where the masses awaited us.  “We stand out here and we try to strike up conversations. If people don’t want to talk, we hand out a flyer and invite them to tweet us for more info, and if they do, we talk up CitySport.”

“It’s a fun job if you’re single,” Jasmin, a slight, 21-year-old, added.  “I’ve met some cool guys.  One of them gave me a ticket to the game.”

“They don’t discourage getting to know the fans,” Olin said, with eyes that said: if you know what I mean. “Just have fun, and hopefully the fans will have fun with you.”

“Sounds fun,” I said, and the felt my eyes drift south to the front of Olin’s tennis shorts.  I looked up again quickly, and realized that Olin had seen it all.  Nice package, I thought.

There wasn’t a changing room, so I ducked behind a souvenir table, and tugged my orange t-shirt off.  I looked around and saw a sea of Cubs baseball hats swivel my way.  I was wearing a sport top underneath.  I jogged in it in July and August, but still, a girl removing her top attracts attention.  I quickly tugged the jersey over my head, and pulled the snug nylon top over my black bra.  It was a little tight.

“Good, I guessed right,” Jeremy said.  “It fits perfect.”  The v-neck was so generous that parts of my sport bra were still visible, and “CitySport Booster” was literally stretched across my breasts.  In fact, the big S in “CitySport” was rubbing my left nipple the right way. I could feel it begin to grow erect.

“You look fantastic,” he said reading the front of my jersey.

What a great rack, I said in my head, finishing his thought.

Jeremy snapped a quick photo of me in my uniform “for the website,” took my orange t-shirt, promising to return it, and then left me there with the booster crew.  Jasmin, a college sophomore and practicing sorority girl, was the team leader.

That day the boosters were supposed to promote a scathing editorial that called for the dismissal of the Cubs’ manager, she explained. “Just go out and press the flesh,” she told me. “A little flirtation goes a long way.”

I turned and walked toward the bleacher entrance, as Julie instructed. The bleachers were frat central, and young guys began to gather around me. The questions about CitySport came fast, as did the questions about me. A cute college guy in a cardigan asked for a photo with me, which I allowed. Julie was watching, and had me turn around, smiling over my shoulder.

“It’s way cuter,” she said afterward. “Plus, when he gets home he’ll have your twitter address.  He’ll contact you.”

It was an exhausting 90 minutes, to be honest.  I handed out my stack of 300 flyers, and about a dozen guys said that they’d tweet me.  And just like Julie promised, a thirty-something man and also a small group of college-aged guys, invited me to join them for the game.  I declined, but it was flattering. I also received one foam #1 hand, and a small set of pom-pons. Jasmin eyed me suspiciously.  “You were awfully popular.”  She was right. I was good at it, and I had had fun.

Standing out on Addison street, Olin came up from behind and picked me up by my waistband.  He launched me onto his shoulders.  “I was on the cheer squad at Duke,” he said, walking me toward the Addison train stop on his straddling his wide neck.

“All four years,” I asked.

“I only stayed for two,” he said.  “I decided to try modeling, instead.” We talked about being broke and college loans, and I discovered Olin and I had a lot in common.


On the train ride home, I called Patrick. “The job was good,” I said.  “I think I did well.  Hey,” I stammered a bit.  “I wanted to say … you were right.”

“I know, but you’re doing great.  You’ve already found one new job, you’ll pull it together.”

“No,” I said.  “About the other thing.  About the open relationship.”

There was a pause on the line. “Really!”

“I know.  It’s all of the sudden, but you’re right.  We’re both non-traditional people. We’re young.  We should have some fun.  Let’s open things up, or at least try it for a while.”

Patrick stammered with relief, and thanked me for being so cool. “You won’t regret this,” he said. “This is going to work great.” I slid my cellphone into my purse and looked up at Olin. “I’m giving a lecture in a couple hours,” I said. “So you can’t stay long.”

Olin was used to having his way with women.  He called me “cougar” as he propped me up on my kitchen table, putting my bare calves on his broad shoulders.  He kissed the soft fleshy area under my knee, and then began working his way up the inside of my legs, alternating to kiss each side, as he sat on a wooden kitchen chair like a blue-collar worker ready for a hot meal.

He pulled the white thong panty out of the way with a fat wide finger and greeted my clit and lips with the underside of this thumb. He had large lips, which I discovered, as he leaned forward, were quite soft. At once, my body went limp. He slurped and suckled my vagina like it were giving milk. “Oh god,” I moaned, as I felt his tongue split me and slip inside.

He waited until my panting was high, and my body quivering in anticipation, and then slid me off the table and down onto my knees. We were three feet from my back door and he was unzipping his tennis shorts and pulling a large bronze cock out. I was surprised to feel a sliver barbell through the underside of his penis as it fell against my mouth. I was there, looking up at his beautiful face, his jeweled cock resting on my tongue thinking, Olin is a man that gets what he wants. THANK GOD, he wants me.  All I wanted was to suck his beautiful cock. It was the same color of bronze as his smooth-skinned face, and it was a foot long at least. The barbell slid back toward the back of my throat, as I grabbed the phallus with two hands.  My finger tips didn’t touch my thumb, it was so fat. It was almost more than I could handle … almost.

After a while, he stood me up again and bent me over the kitchen table. He took it slowly, rhythmically injecting his enormous manhood into me. He was the largest I’d ever had, and he was the first man of color I’d ever had intercourse with. I was ready to burst. My body quickly seized, and, as easy as that, almost without trying I was orgasming.

I rolled off the couch, and bumped my head on the corner of the coffee table.  “Fuck!” I said.  “That’s going to leave a mark and a have a … speaking engagement.”  I’d been so busy with my new low paying job, and fantasy sex with a soft-spoken coworker, that I was dangerously close to being late for the only thing I actually had on the calendar that week.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I said hopping across the living room carpet, a blue and white cheer skirt around my ankles, whipping naughty sauce off my hand and onto my new black-and-white jersey.  “Olin, why do you have to be so good looking! Shit,” I stubbed my toe. “Why aren’t you a successful model yet, anyway? You shouldn’t be working anyplace with the likes of me.”

Olin, of course, didn’t answer. He was probably fucking Jasmin at that moment. He’d probably try to fuck me another day … if he’s not gay. He could be gay? I hope he’s not gay.

I hopped past the hallway mirror, and caught sight of a small reddish bump on my forehead. “Fuck,” I swore. “A masturbation injury!” I fumbled for foundation in the bathroom, and covered the small, pea-sized red spot.  It looked better.

So, I quickly put my best suit and took the No. 4 bus downtown.  Four blocks later, who should get on the buss, but Julie Benz.

“I heard you had an interview at the News,” I said. “Don’t worry I gave you a great reference.”

“Thanks,” she said hugging me.  “But are you okay?”

I told her I was fine, a little perplexed.

“Is everything okay with you and Pat,” she asked, now looking really concerned.

“Fine … why?”

She pointed to my forehead.  “Did somebody punch you?”

“Crap!” I yelled, digging for a mirror in my purse. The pea mark had grown to a nickel sized knot.  “I’m giving a speech in … 15 minutes!  I’m not going to make it.”

Julie tried to spread some foundation over the mark, and asked repeatedly what happened.  Finally, stressed out as the minutes passed, I blurted, “I fell off the couch masturbating.”

Julie was stunned, and then started laughing.  “You’re such a clown.”

I would make an exciting entrance, five minutes late. “I was getting worried,” the moderator said as I hustled into the room.

“I was on a bus that got stuck behind a truck,” I lied.

“What’s up with your forehead?  Are you okay?”



I was speaking at a networking event for people who were looking for work or marketing their company.  These events could alternately be fun or depressing.  Some of the people their could be impressive, intelligent, and motivated.  Sit by them, and these events could be inspiring.  Alternatively, sit by the underemployed … like me … and you could start to feel like another of the economy’s worthless victims.

The speech went fine, and there were a number of questions.  The last was the most honest, “Twitter … it doesn’t really make sense does it?”

“Not really,” I said. “But that’s besides the point.”

“So it’s just a bunch of people talking about their sandwich or workout or whatever?”

“Most of the time. Pick the people you follow carefully,” I said.  “Anybody can tweet.  That’s not always a good thing. There are interesting people out there. But then there are people who tweet for no other reason than they are unemployed or too lazy to blog.”

The crowd erupted into laughter.

My father always told me that the funniest thing you can say to a person is also the cruelest, the truth. Most people lie most of the time–nice lies that we call white lies. These include: you look great, or you’ll find a job real soon, or the economy is picking up for unemployed e-writers. People hear little white lies so often, that they find the truth fascinating, from anyone bold enough to tell it. Many stand-up comedians made a living doing only this. They stand up on the stage and point out an ugly man and say, “Wow, he’s ugly,” and then point out a fat woman and say, “Look at that blimp.”  People clap and laugh like he’s a genius. These aren’t jokes, simply the truth. I was walking out of the event with my head wrapped up in this thought when he approached.

“Ms. Kandinski,” I heard the voice from behind me.  “I didn’t know you were speaking today.”

I turned to see a stranger walking up to me.  I smiled nervously.

“It’s Ray.  I called you about Ms. Benz today.  I think we’re going to offer her a job, thanks in no small part to your glowing reference.”

I shrugged. Little white lies bite me in the ass again.

Ray was a middle-aged, wearing a grey sport coat and jeans–a journo, all the way.  He smiled as he walked up and shook my hand.  “You know, it occurred to me while you were speaking that we could use somebody like you at the paper.  Are you interested in a meeting tonight?” he asked.

He explained that the Daily News was working hard to expand it’s online presence.  As the biggest daily in the city, it had a jump on the competition, but like most newspapers, it was way behind the blogs and just about anything else on the Web. He said he had a dinner meeting, but if I could meet him at the News Tower downtown at about 7 p.m., that would be great.

“Is this an interview?” I asked.

“No, but it would be an opportunity to talk and see where you may fit,” he said.  “To be honest, there isn’t really a job for you.  Julie took care of that, but maybe we could work something out.”

“Sure,” I said, reflexively.

“Don’t wear your suit,” Ray said.  “Change into something a little more casual.  I don’t want to scare anyone around the office when a pretty girl in an interview suit walks into the office.”

“Won’t they be off work,” I asked.

“Newspapers run 24/7. There will be reporters filing stories, etc.,” he said.  “Just change into something a little more casual, like a skirt and dress shirt … pumps.  They’ll assume we’re on a date, and nobody will lose any sleep,” he said with an impish laugh. “Reporters are a very cranky when they get a good eight hours of sleep.  Take that away from them and they’re in your office screaming at 9 a.m.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been on a real date, so …” I joked back.

“We’ll then this will be a treat.  I’ll give you a tour of the tower. I know where all the bodies are hidden,” He laughed. “It’ll be fun, I promise.”

I felt funny about this proposition.  He wanted to meet me alone, after business hours, and it wasn’t an interview. And he specifically requested I dress like I were on a date. So I asked. “Should I feel weird about this?” “I don’t know,” he said, frowning slightly.  “Should you? I’m not your mother.”

“Of course not,” I said. “I – I – just meant to ask, what sort of jobs would you be considering me for?”

Ray launched into a corporate-speak monolog, sounding off about “outreach attainment strategies,” “benefits alignment networks,” and “e-business/business model technologies” before suggesting that the meeting tonight would be “win-win.”

I almost giggled at the nonsensical mess of words that toppled out of his mouth.  But, of course, I couldn’t.

“So I’ll see you at 7 p.m.”

I stood for a second with my mouth gaping. What did he expect me to do to “work things out” exactly?  Did he have a couch in his office … a casting couch?  He called me a “pretty girl” which wasn’t completely appropriate.

In addition, I had some insider information about this situation.  The Daily News had come under new management about 18 months earlier, bought out by man who made his millions as a real estate broker during boom years. For making money in real estate when everyone was making money in real estate, people called him a business genius. The News quickly went into bankruptcy. Somehow he kept it all together. He paid to get out of the red with the pensions of his new employees.

This man, Bernie Willis, was known as a player with the ladies. A friend of a friend of mine told me that Willis arrived at office parties stinking of marijuana and with more than one young woman on his arm. When he took over, he brought in many new managers.  Ray may have been one of these men.  One of the bosses he brought in was an old radio man.  It was said that at the stations he managed, the “girls” who put out were promoted.  I wouldn’t have known this, but I edited a gossip column for 18 months, and I got to know the author pretty well.  Rumors about the Daily News management team were pretty ripe, not that I believed all of them.

“Well, what do you say Dreina,” he said, shortening my name.  “Let’s get together tonight to discuss your future. I think it would be fun. Will I see you at seven tonight?”


What should Adreina Kandinski do?  Should she say yes and meet Ray McDonald at the News Tower or should she decline, and instead ask for an interview during business hours?  Please vote:

*”Yes, meet with Ray tonight to discuss a job at the News”–

*”No thanks Ray, I have a date with my boyfriend”–