She held it in her hand, stroking the tip with her thumb.
Soft and warm, she thought. Just like a baby bird.
Above her, the old man with the faded tattoo of an anchor on his chest moaned.
Sticking out her tongue, she gave it a slow, long lick.
Though his eyes fluttered, his penis remained flaccid.
Sucking a soft penis was different, but not altogether unpleasant. There was no rush or force. Taking it at her own pace, she sucked in her cheeks, drawing him in. As minutes passed, her mind quieted and wandered. In between sucks, she swirled her tongue as if she were giving a French kiss. Though still limp, she fixated on the man’s serene face, ready to take direction.
With gritty longing, he sighed. “My balls, Song . . . lick ‘em, Baby . . . please.”
Strangely, a spasm of pleasure shot between her legs. Sure, he was old and had gotten her name wrong, but that wasn’t uncommon. She’d been called many names throughout the course of her career.
“Oooooh,” he groaned with emotion. “I missed you, Song. For so long. I never stopped missing you.”
Crouching between the old man’s legs, crisscrossed in pale blue veins, she lapped and flicked one sack and then the other. When she was rewarded with a thick groan, she slurped loudly, letting a thread of spit hang from her bottom lip.
Johns tended to prefer sloppy.
Though this one didn’t appear to be watching. His eyes had remained closed from the moment she’d dropped to her knees, and he’d wrapped her long hair into his liver-spotted fist. Stopping, she ran her tongue up the sour seam of his perineum.
Above, she heard him gasp; the hand in her hair reflexively tightening then relaxing almost as if in apology.
“No-no-no.” It was half grumble, half laughter. “My girl isn’t the sort who does those sort of things.”
Withholding the impulse to giggle at the unexpected chivalry, ever mindful, she glanced at the red numbers on the clock.
“Mister,” she politely interrupted. “We only have a few more minutes. Is there something else you’d like to do?”
He had, after all, paid for more than a blowjob.
Eyelids fluttering open, his gaze sharpened on her upturned face.
Disoriented, the rheumy eyes flit across the room, so lost he was in another time, another place.
Sounding afraid, he asked, “Where is my Song?”
“I’m sorry,” she started. “I’m not . . . Song. Don’t you remember? I’m a—“
She stopped, seeing tears begin to well in his eyes.
Sinking slowly, he sat on the bed, put his head in his hands, and began to weep.
Not knowing what to do, she placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Are you OK, Mister? Is there someone I can call for you?”
The No was so faint and muffled, she almost didn’t hear it.
Hesitantly, she got dressed. Still uncertain whether to stay or go, she reached for her bag and walked to the door. When she opened it, streams of sunlight illuminated the dank, dark motel room.
Though she was about to leave, something made her stop and turn.
When he looked up, the sun caught his eyes, turning them a clear, brilliant blue. And the only person she could see sitting on the bed was a handsome young man in a crisp white sailor’s uniform.
Though she blinked, he was still there.
“I . . . I’m sorry you lost your Song.”
Straightening, the young man flashed a sad smile and gave her a curt salute.
Shaking her head, she shut the door behind. With the LA sun—blinding and hot—on her face, she popped a stale breath mint into her mouth and went back to work.
She’d return in two hours though, unable to shake thoughts of the old man.
Blue lights flashed.
“I didn’t know he was that sick,” she cried to the paramedic lifting the gurney. “I swear if I had known, I would have called 911 this afternoon.”
The paramedic lifted an eyebrow, fixing her with an odd stare.
“Wouldn’t have helped much, Ma’am.” He wrinkled his nose. “Old dude’s been dead for at least a week.”