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.

Friday, May 27, 2005

Tomorrow will be our fourth meeting.
This is surprising as this Client is a man of few words and specific expectations.
That coupled with my innate insecurity and neurotic desire to love and be loved
Disaster should have been imminent.
But for some inexplicable reason, it was not for as I mentioned,
Tomorrow will be our fourth meeting.

Although it is my rule never to mention names,
I feel impelled to give a proximally, not far from the real one
As it is too precious not to.
His last name is very close to: Hornywoodypecker.
Thus, when he first called to arrange an appointment, I was skeptical that he was a ‘real’ Client seeking a legitimate appointment.
But he was real, and indeed, showed at my door at the appointed hour.

He, being not one for words or conversation, the first fifteen minutes of our time was a supreme bust with no intimacy established leaving me in a state of disconnection and confusion as to how to proceed without the next step feeling forced and pre-meditated.

I did however determine, from the brief information I was able to extract, that he enjoyed erotic fantasies and stories and wrote many (published) himself.
Having little else to go on, I chose this as our springboard to the Horizontal.
We played out a short scenario or two, fairly innocuous, mainly involving mild Dominance—
He to me,
And spent the remainder of the time post-climax finally chatting.
I guessed him a Libra and he rolled his eyes dramatically signally he hated that ‘bullshit.’

Surprised to hear from him again, at the beginning of our second meeting, I asked if he had a story in mind.
In fact he did and produced, from his back pants pocket, rolled in a tube, a series of pages typed in script format complete with dialogue.

The fantasy itself was titilating but as we proceeded to play, he quickly became annoyed with me as I didn’t say the lines exactly as they appeared on the page.
I pleaded for time to memorize and we postponed the game for the following session giving me sufficient time to prepare.

For our third session, even though my time is severely limited,
I had memorized my lines and was ready for ‘Showtime’.
(I am, after all, lest you forget, a proud graduate of the RFDS.)
However, this time he was no longer interested in the same game.
Before he arrived, he left me instructions on my machine:
Dress casual. Little make-up.
My interpretation: A long sexy nightgown with nothing underneath and high heels.

As I open my front door to allow him entrance, I greet him with a hug his body stiffens against, and reach for his lips with mine.
He turns his face.
No words answer my vocal greeting.
Only his eyes speak, scanning my body’s length head to toe and back again with a stern look of anxious disaproval.


No answer. Eyes that say, ‘not happy.

"You said to wear something casual so I thought a nightgown was about as casual as one could get."

No answer. Eyes that say, ‘should I stay or go? This isn’t what I wanted at all.’

"You don’t like it?"

No answer. Eyes that say, ‘Just forget it. Now everything is ruined.

With a wry, teasing giggle, "Do you want me to change?"

No answer. Eyes that say, ‘what’s the use. My expectations are forever shattered.’

"Do you want me to wear a skirt and a blouse or jeans and a top or—‘

He nods his head once.

"Okay. No worries love. I can change fast. See?"
I begin to rummage through my closet.
"Why don’t you sit and relax? It’ll only take me a second."

He remains standing by the door.

"How ‘bout this skirt?"
I produce a black mini.

A nod.

"Aaaaand, hmmm, this blouse?"
A sheer white button down.

A nod.

"Okay. Relax. Sit. It’ll just take me one second."
I undress as I talk.

He remains stiff by the door giving me a ‘don’t change in front of me’ look.

"Want me to change in the bathroom?"

He nods.

"Better?" I model the new look.

He nods.

Something in the room has changed in the moments I was in the bathroom.
Where’s the music? Where are the flickering candles?

He has turned of the CD player leaving the room in uncomfortable silence.
He has blown out each and every candle I so pain-stakingly lit to create atmosphere and turned on the Halogen lamp to the highest wattage.

"You didn’t like the CD? Do you want me to put on something else?"

Head shakes ‘no’.

"Do you not like the candles?"

Head shakes ‘no’.

"Okay. Should we sit?"

No answer but we do.

I’m a bit peeved.
It’s a kin to going to the Theatre, taking away the costumes, the lights and the sound and still wanting Magic.
Magic can happen but what’s the point of disarming the Players?

"Would you like something to drink? I have water, flat and sparkling, wine and champagne."

Shakes his head.


Shakes his head.

"Well, I’ll pour you a little water just in case. I’m going to have Champagne."
(I need a shot of whiskey.)
"So how have you been? It’s so nice to see you again. Is work going well?"

He shrugs. His eyes shoot me a ‘who cares. Same old, same old.’

"Same old same old?!" I speak for him. "Now Mr. Horneywoodypecker my dear, how can that be? Do you know how many men would be envious of your job?"

He shrugs crinkling up one side of his mouth as in ‘who cares?’

(Mr. Horneywoodypecker has the enviable job of working for a very sexy Men’s magazine.)

"Would you want to play a fantasy today?"

"Not today."
(He speaks!)

"Okay then, do you just want to go into the other room and let me pamper you?"

"Not today."

Sharp but consciously silent exhale from me.
99.99 percent of the time I never have to ask this, and I hate having to utter the words but I feel I have no other option so I say it:
"What would you like to do?"

Unceremoniously and without me, he heads into the bedroom.
Scooping up the glasses, I follow.
Placing the flutes on the nightstand, wrapping my arms around his fragile shoulders, I begin the daunting task of trying to engage his immobile lips in a warm soft kiss.
His lips too are unresponsive.
Finally and without aplomb we fall clumsily onto the bed.
Somehow we manage to start stroking one another’s arms, legs, backs, torsos.
His touch is light and pleasing.
A sigh; a light moan escapes my mouth.
I guess.
I don’t hear myself.
But he does.

"Don’t do that." He orders.

"What? Don’t do what?"

"Make fake acting sounds like that. I don’t like fake stuff like that."

"I wasn’t. I didn’t. I was just enjoying."

"Just don’t be fake. I don’t like fake."

"Okay. Sorry. I won’t make a sound."

We resume touching but now I’ve lost my concentration into a vortex of self-consciousness and effort to control sounds that may or may not escape me.

Quickly bored with this non-direct sexual play, he rolls onto his back, pulls my hair up in one hand pushing my head forcefully down to his cock.
Closing my eyes, my mouth swiftly sucks his entire member inside, and I begin to imagine my tongue dancing along his shaft as if it were a flute in time to a jazz song playing in my head.

"Stop it. Just stop it."

Startled, his cock still in my mouth, eyes peeking up above his bouncy pubic hair, I ask with my eyebrows.

"What you’re doing."

"You don’t like it?"

"You’re making sounds again."

"I’m sorry."

"Just do it for real."

"I am."

"Don’t fake."

I sit up on my knees between his legs.
"Listen hear Hornywoodypecker," I say playfully, "Just because you don’t make sounds doesn’t mean when someone else does, they’re not genuine. I’m expressive. My body is used to expressing in all the ways it has available. That doesn’t mean it’s fake. It means I’m getting lost in the feeling."

"Don’t do it."

"Okay my dear."

(I’m getting frustrated. I hate that I’m getting frustrated. I try to imagine him as a vunerable little boy and wonder what horrors might have happened to him to make him so stiff, so unable to enjoy, so filled with unnecessary expectations.)

I close my eyes and try again picturing the child in him. Desperately trying to reach to soft center obviously so damaged.

"Forget it."

"What? He likes it. See? He’s getting harder."

"It’s not going to work today."

"It will. Just relax. Close your eyes. Stop your mind. Just feel."

"Don’t. Just get up. Sit here."

"Hornywoodypecker." I kiss him on his forehead.

Actually I kiss the wounded boy on the forehead.
"I want to make you happy. Tell me what I can do. Tell me. I can’t read your mind. I wish I could but I haven’t honed that skill yet. It’s okay. Whatever you want. I’m not judgemental. Just tell me."

"There’s nothing you can do."

"There is. We did it before. Last time."

"It’s not going to happen today. Forget it."

"I don’t want to forget it."

"I’ll tell you a story."


"A man and a boy."


"’The man says to the boy’," he says this with a Yiddish accent, "’You are not wise enough to be a man.’ The boy says, ‘But I want to be a man’.
The man says, ‘Answer this question and I will see if you are wise enough to be a man. What is Blue, Hangs on a Wall, and Whistles?’
The boy replies he doesn’t know.
The man says, ‘A Herring.’
The boy is speechless. When he recovers he says, ‘but a Herring isn’t Blue.’
The man says, ‘You can paint it Blue.’
The boy says, ‘A Herring doesn’t hang on a wall.’
The man says, ‘You can hang it on a wall.’
The boys says, ‘A Herring doesn’t whistle.’
The man shrugs and says, ‘So?’"

I laugh at the last line mainly because I get the Jewish humor but I’m confused.
"So what are you saying?"

"Life. It’s about Life. You can paint it Blue. You can hang it on a wall. But you can’t make it Whistle."

There is a long pause between us. Wetness burns my eyes. I attempt to wrap my arms around his neck. He shrugs me away.

"You’re wrong. Life whistles. It does."

"And the worst part is, even when things are going well and you think you’re happy?"


"The worst part is, even through all that, when it should whistle, it doesn’t."

"Oh god. Oh my god. Hornywoodypecker. You listen to me. I am going to make him whistle."

"You can’t."

"I can."

"You can’t make him whistle and you can’t make me whistle because no one can make Life whistle."

"I can."

"Just stop. That’s Life. No one has the power to make it whistle."

"Now you listen to me. Life whistles. The only reason why it’s not whistling for you is first of all you have to accept that we are all, and I’m sorry but its true, we are all disposible. We all die. And no matter how famous you were during your time, you die and soon so does your memory. Unless you’re like Martin Luther King or someone like that who changed History. But even people famous, or well-loved, we all die."

"I know we die."

"You know but once you accept that you’re disposible, no matter who you are, then you can start to live. And wait. Hear me out. The other thing is, you have to drop all your expectations and disappointments of Life—what it was supposed to be. What you were supposed to be. You can have them and you can grieve the loss of them, but then you have to let ‘em go. If you don’t, its not fair to you and it’s an unreasonable request to make of Life. It is."

"There’s nothing wrong with having expectations—"

"No. Of course not. And being sad and being wronged and being disappointed, but the trick is to let it go. It’s not personal. Learn and move on. Or as Judge Judy says, "Put a period and move on."

"You watch that ridiculous show?"

"I love it. But that’s not the point. I already wrote my tombstone."

"You’re morbid."

"I’m morbid? You’re the one who thinks Life is a hanging Blue Herring! It’s not morbid. I just figure Death is part of Life and once you let it be what it is, it starts to whistle."

"You can’t make it whistle for me."

"Oh yes I can.That's my whole purpose in Life!"

On a mission now, I devour his lips, his cock, his balls.
My nails pull electricity from his pores until his skin lifts with goosebumps.
My heart bangs and pleads and pulses begging the little child within him to trust me.
Finally, his lower head whistles.

Tomorrow I see him again.
My mission?
One head down, the upper head to go.

Keep your ears open for the sound of a Hornywoodypecker whistling,
somewhere in Manhattan around 3pm.

No make-up. Short black skirt. Blouse, not see-through. No stockings. High-heels.
(Meaning ‘ceiling-walkers.)


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