Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

Oh, Henry!

The oldest living client I have, (not that I have any dead ones), is Henry Miller.
No not the author. Although I wish.
But if it were Henry Miller, the author, he would be my only dead client, so.

Henry is now ninety-eight.
We met when I first began working at Ellen’s agency when he was a spry eighty-three.
At eighty-three, he was a peculiar but wonderful client.
At ninety-eight, however, he is now just peculiar.
He seems to have lost the ‘wonderful’ along the way.
All the girls then and now, ‘working’ in Manhattan, know of or have seen Henry.
At least once.
And Henry, I would lay down my little life to say knows every working girl that has ever traded her weirs, now and before I was born.

I met Henry the first time, via the recommendation of another working girl named Eilene.
Eilene, in a round-about-way, owed me a favor.
By the time Eilene came to work for Ellen, I was now the top earner, and therefore Ellen’s ‘star’ at the agency.

As I walked in the door that night, passing through the living room to Ellen’s office, Eilene caught my eye.
Obviously she was a new girl, someone I hadn’t met yet, so I would have noticed her for that reason alone.
But it was the wild bird nesting on her head that stole my attention.

She was a tall, big boned girl, wearing no make-up, surrounded by a mass of long, black kinky hair that leapt around her face, her arms, finally coming to a stop at her waist.
Her chosen outfit, for this her first day working as a Prostitute, was a high-necked lacy cotton blouse, a flouncy Country Western skirt, no-heel brown boots turning beige at the soles from street salts, and a large, gold Star of David hanging by a delicate chain around her neck.
And of course the Bird.
On her head, taming her chaotic hair, sat a white hat with an over-size brim, decorated with the long bright, red and orange plumage of a wild Parrot.

There she sat quiet and terrified, hands folded resting on her lap,
reminding me of myself on my first day,
prim and utterly out-of-place, looking like a trapped statue, Parrot on her head, immobile amongst the half-naked cooing pigeons in the room.
My heart broke.

I handed Ellen my money from the night before, was informed it was a slow night and as I turned to go, Ellen raised her eyebrows.
"Who is she?" I asked silently by raising my eyebrows back at Ellen.
"She won’t last the week." Ellen takes a drag off her Newport.
"It’s too bad. She obviously needs the work."
"Who am I to say. If there’s one thing I learned in this business, babydoll, never ever try to guess Men’s tastes. Look at you. (Gee, thanks.) It’s the only thing that surprises me anymore."

Purposely, I settled myself on the sofa next to her.
Who knows why? I suppose I am cursed with a heart for the ‘under-dog’.
She was from New York. Single. Lived in Brooklyn.
Had been sitting on the sofa for three nights now but no calls.
Very worried. This was her last resort. (Well, yeah. Wasn’t it everyone’s?)
We chattered only a few minutes when Ellen shouted my name.
I retrieved my piece of paper with the info and as I passed through on my way out,
I leaned down, brushed an errant feather out of my left nostril and whispered in her ear,
"I’ll try to bring you in with me."
She nodded, smiling a grateful smile.
She became my Mission. My Good Deed.

I had seen this client before. Sometimes he would extend. (Book a second or third hour once the first hour has ended.)

Throughout the first hour, I teased him about the possibility of a two-girl encounter.
Wouldn’t it be fun? Wouldn’t it be sexy? Has he ever tried it before? Has he ever watched two girls together? Imagine two sets of breasts, two pussies, two sets of warm, wet lips kissing and caressing all over his body. Wouldn’t that be so naughty?
By the time the phone rang signaling the end of the hour, the deal was sealed.

"Tell her we want Eilene." I whispered as he spoke with Ellen.
Twenty minutes later, the clock still running on my time, Eilene and her hat arrived.

I wish I’d had a camera to capture the look frozen on my client’s face.

But once she took the hat off, Eilene turned out to be a pro.
The three of us lounged on the bed.
My client naked.
Myself clad in a La Perla g-string and thigh high stockings.
And Eilene, in a JCPenney’s bra, Mickey Mouse cotton full-back underwear covered by beige Pantyhose that rode to her waist leaving her skin with criss-crossed with elastic marks.
My client seemed unfazed.
He was titillated by the idea that she was like ‘the girl-next-door’.
"She’s so real." He kept repeating, as if she wasn’t in the room. "She’s so real."
(What? Like the rest of us aren’t?)

He had one hand buried under the huge bra cup as the other furiously rubbed Mickey’s head.
Eilene moaned and writhed on the bed as if she were truly enjoying it.
I admired her acting. I was annoyed at her acting.
But I had done a good thing.
She was off the sofa. The client would give a few good words about her to Ellen. The ball was in motion.

A few weeks later, Ellen sends me on a call.
Apparently another girl is there already and she’s requested me to come join them.
On the cab ride on the way there, I try to figure out who the girl is that’s there.
Most likely Cait. We bring each other in when we can.
Maybe Veronica. She and I have become pals of late.

A fancy but faded old New York hotel in mid-town.
A very older gentleman answers my knock.
Very very older.
No girl in sight.

‘Hi. I’m Natasha.’
Kiss hello as he up-and-downs me with his eyes.
I pass.
Drop my bag-o-goodies on the sofa and with a coy smile; dial in to the agency to start my time.
Scope out the room as we chatter about nothing.
Where’s the girl?

Ugly Male-perspective porno in mid-play on the TV.
Lots of fake moaning and slapping and ‘yeah, take it bitch’ kind of stuff.

‘What do you care to drink?’
‘Wine would be lovely if you have it.’
He does.
Settle on the sofa, bodies touching side-by-side, facing the TV.
Where’s the girl?

Just as I get comfortable, thinking he may be a gentleman, his hand dives into the top of my dress pulling out a breast full to the nipple and begins to yank and squeeze.
‘oh, nice titties.’
Superficial giggle from me.
‘Thank you. I’m so glad they please you.’

(Why do men act like this? How can it be that a man of this age still sees females as he did as a teenager? It is a constant source of confusion at this age, this time in my business. I have a lot to learn.)

His voice is scraggly. Could be from smoking but he doesn’t smoke. Scraggly just from age then, I resolve.
His diaphragm has lost power so he tends to harshly over-emphasis the endings of each word.

"Can you work a clicker?"
"A ‘clicker’?"
"Don’t be stupid. I hate stupid girls."
"I’m not stupid, but what do you mean by a ‘clicker’?"
"A clicker! A clicker!"

He hands me the remote that works the TV and VCR.

"Oh. The Remote?"
"I only like the cum shots."
"Ok.""Your job is to fast forward and rewind and then stop and let the cum shots run. Got it."
"I got it."
"Show me."

I do. I fast forward to the next cum shot, then press play and let the cum shot run in all it’s glory.

"Good. Good."

Okay. Not so hard. Especially for a hundred and fifty dollars an hour.
We sip our drinks.
He fondles my nipples.
I fast forward.
I rewind.
I give the cum shots their due.
Then I see it.
Perched on the side table by the foyer door. The Bird Hat.

"Where’s Eilene?"
She saunters out from the bathroom.
"He wanted me to hide in case you were suspicious."
She and I laugh.

"Do you take things personally?"
"Do I?"
"That’s what I asked."
"Eilene is a pro at the clicker. Let her work it."
I hand her the Remote.

We spend the evening snuggling, Henry’s hands roving back and forth between her breasts, her pussy, and my breasts, my pussy as we fast forward, rewind, absorbing in the cum shots, ‘oooohing and awwwing’ as if they are affecting us.

Time for the bedroom.

Henry lies naked on his back in the center of the bed;
Eilene and I flanked on either side of his body.
We begin.
Kisses on mouth. Nibbles on nipples. Share the sucking and licking of his cock.
It amazes me, his cock. He must be in his eightiesI guess, and yet his dick is steel.

I know the protocol. Since I am the 'newbie', it's my assignment to 'climb aboard'.
That’s the (unspoken) rule.
(Beside that, Eilene has whispered to me she has her period, which, in code translates to, I am the one who needs to do the actual fucking.)

I do.
It’s fantastic.
He is too old to move much, thus I am able to move the way that pleases me.
I close my eyes, shutting out Eilene and even Henry.
Within several minutes, I am having an intense orgasm.
I melt on top of his torso.
I am about to whisper ‘wow, that was amazing’, but before I can speak, he pushes his hands against my chest tossing me aside onto the mattress beside him.

"You know what you are?"
He leaps up from the bed to the dresser, removing an odd bunch of cardboard.
Cardboard that was once used as the base for women’s stockings to be wrapped around.
The cardboard used in the packaging of pantyhose and stockings.
"What am I?"
He sits next to us, cross-legged on the bed like an enthusiastic Boy Scout.
"Look at this."

I do.

I see lots of writing on these collected cardboard 'diaries'.
Girl’s names.
Then a code of some indistinguishable letters.
Stars—one to five.
And some more initials. Codes.
Then lines separating one group of names from another, lower down on the list.

"What does it mean?"
"What do you think it means?"

I look at the top entry.

Chelsea. CH. ***** ECA
"A girl’s name…"
"And CH stands for…ummm?"

Eilene smiles at me knowingly. She has done this before and is not allowed to help.

"Umm, CH is for, Came Hard?"
"RIGHT! Oh she is smart."
"Five stars means you gave her five stars, of course."
"And…ECA means…Executive Club Agency?"

He is as organized with his call girls as he must have been in his Investment Banking Firm.
"RIGHT! And you know where you go Natasha?"

He inches off the end of the bed to his dresser, pulling out a blank pantyhose cardboard.
"For you, I have to re-write the entire mess."
My eyes open wide. I’m not sure whether to feel good or apologize.
"Look. See?"

He writes my name, Chelsea’s name and Eilene’s name in blue ballpoint ink on the top of the new card.
We all receive a ‘CH’, five stars and an ECA at the end of our names.
I understand and lean over to kiss his mouth.
He lets me, then says sternly,
"Don’t blow it."

I see Henry as often as he calls. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with another girl.

We love seeing Henry because once we’re booked, we know it’s to be our entire evening—no running to pay phones and back to the office, on and off until six or seven in the morning.
With Henry, we arrive and stay the remainder of our shift.

He has a home in Long Island.
He has an ailing wife restrained to a wheelchair.
He is the semi-retired CEO of a major Investment Bank.
This hotel is his home in the city. He has a lease here.

I see him for years as ‘Natasha’,
I see him again for years as ‘Delilah’.
He resents the name change as it causes him to have to re-do his cards. By hand.
Then, I see him no more.
I wonder if he has passed away.

Now I am an Independent.
I receive a voice mail message on my work line.
He has obviously been searching the web and voila! Me.

"Uh, yeah, Geisha. You know me. I know you. Call me back." Click.

A few days later, another message:
"Geisha. Natasha. Delilah. Whatever your name is. Call me back." Click.

I suspect its Henry. The gravely voice and the strange hard emphasis on syllables seems to give him away, but he doesn’t leave a number and I don’t know how to return the call.

"So you think you’re too good for me now. Call back. It’s Henry. Henry Miller."
He leaves his number at the hotel.

We make a date.
I arrive on time.
I can’t wait to see him.
Like ole times.
I wonder how he’ll see me.
I’m grown up now. Prettier, more ‘put together’ than I was in my younger days.
A rush of warmth sails through my body as I knock.
I am so looking forward to our reunion.

"What happened to you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You look so, Professional."
"You mean Polished?"
"No. Professional."
"Sorry Henry. How are you? I missed you. I thought about you a lot."

No answer.

"Did you think of me?"
"Let me try and refresh your memory."

I kiss him full and wet.

"Let me try to refresh his memory."

I lower myself to my knees to unbuckle his pants.
He shoos me away.
"Sit down."

I do.
He hands me the Room Service menu.
I always get a secret delight ordering Room Service since I had worked so long in that department at the Ritz.

"How about the Scallops to start and the Filet well done?"
"Umm, Crème Brulee?"

He orders only that. For one person. One fork. One knife. One spoon. We are to split it.
He’s paranoid that the hotel staff will think he has company.
Doesn’t want to raise unnecessary suspicions.
Very silly.

Side-by-side we nestle on the sofa,
The porno plays.
I am in charge of the clicker.
He fondles my breasts, my pussy.
I get involved, moaning appropriately.
Then suddenly,
"Goddammit Geisha! You missed the cum shot! You missed the cum shot! Goddammit! Give me the clicker. Just give it to me."

I do.

"Obviously you can’t be trusted with it! Did you forget everything?"
"Oh Henry. No. I was just involved in what you were doing to me."
"Goddammit. Now we have to rewind. Rewind. Rewind!"
"Let me do it."
"No. NO. You failed. You missed it. You passed it."
"Henry. I’m sorry. Let me try again. I’ll pay more attention. I promise."

The doorbell to the room.

"Hide in the bathroom. Hide in the bathroom."

Gathering my purse and my hastily dispersed clothing, I speed off, locking myself in the Toilet Haven.
Sit on the potty, g-string at my knees, lit cigarette dangling from my lips as I listen to the Room Service fellow set up our dinner for one.
Spray the room with perfume.
Exit when I hear the coast is clear.

"I’m sorry Henry."
"You have to know when to hit the button."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"I don;t think you remember."
"I do."
"We had to rewind and rewind. It was a waste of time. Got me out of the mood."
"I know. I know. I'll pay better attention. I will."
"Don’t do it again or you don’t get charge of the clicker."
"I won’t. I promise. The food looks so good."
"I liked you better when you were Natasha. Or Delilah. Who are you now?""Geisha.""Eat."
"Let’s eat later. Come on. Let’s go in the other room."
I am desperate to change his point of view.

As in the past, he lays on his back, immobile.
His cock is hard, pointing to the ceiling.
His body is too old or too tired to thrust and therefore necessarily trusts I will move as I need to.

And I do.
Without the distraction of needing to satisfy his ego.
Without the distraction of his thrusts before they are needed.
Again, I cum. Complete, intense, and fully.
I fall upon his torso but attempt no whisper in his ear.
Almost immediately, he pushes me off to the side, bounding off the bed.
"I’ll tell you what, Natasha, Delilah, Geisha."
He hands me the pantyhose cards, decades old, written and re-written.
"Where are you?"

I scan. Find myself still at the top.
It reads:
Natasha—1989-? ***** ECA
Delilah---1996-1998 *****ECA
Geisha---2005-? ACH, SCR, ***** IWS (Always Cum Hard. She Cums Real. Independent Web Site.)
I smile with my eyes and kiss both his cheeks.
"Thank you Henry."

He just looks at the cards.

"Will you give me another chance with the clicker?"
"We’ll see. You’re replaceable you know."
"I can see that." Judging from the numerous names on the numerous cards, obviously.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready." I say.
I know what’s coming. It’s the way he’s always ended his sessions.

I stand bare but for my stockings squarely facing him.
Out of his ear, like a funny Uncle, he reveals two, one hundred-dollar bills.
One he slips into the top of my left stocking.
The second, he places in the strap of the garter belt of my right stocking.
His hand reaches to the top of the dresser, picking up an envelope of my evening’s wages, and slips it between my parted lips.
Unmoving, I smile.
Appreciation pouring from my eyes.

I dress as he is in the bathroom tidying up.
At the door, we hold hands.
Something inside informs me this is the last time I will see him.

"Henry. Take care. Be well. You have been such a joy to know."
"I’m not dying."
"I know! But I don’t know when I will see you again."
"Don’t be sentimental."
"No. I’m not. I just want you to know how much knowing you has meant to me."
"You’re on the top of the list."
"I know, and thank you for that."
"I’ll call you again."
"I know. I hope so. Just know—that you are special to me. Okay."
"Don’t try to drum up business."
"I’m not. I’m just saying—"
"Good night."
"Night Henry. I missed you."

And I will miss you.

Now, when I have clients over the tender age of sixty, I tell them the story of Henry and his hard, remarkable cock that never failed to please me immensely.
With the hope that it will quell the fears older gentlemen are prey to in regards to the future performance of their main member.

I have never heard from Henry again.
Perhaps my rating dropped on the list.
Perhaps he is still ordering from 'the menu'.
Perhaps he is no longer on this Planet.

I will never know.


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