Read The Blue Room Vol. 2: The Blue Room Series for Free Online

some pimp who existed only to loan out beautiful women
to the whims of men richer even than he. There is something else there –
something soft, sensitive, vulnerable. I remember how he looked when I kissed
him, how the tears stood in his eyes, how he let me run my fingers through his thick
tousled hair and stroke his chiseled cheeks. How he let me love him, even for a
moment. How that thing we shared, those kisses, that single heart-beating
moment, was almost like love.
                But
I can't think about that now. How can I think about it? Knowing that Terrence
might want me – not merely as a fuck-buddy or a toy or a plaything, but as a
person, a woman, a girlfriend ? How am I supposed to go through with all
that I'm supposed to do – knowing that? How am I supposed to sleep with someone
else, be so intimate with someone else, play the fantasy of love with someone
else – when Terrence and I share more than just a physical connection?
                I
tell myself it's nothing. I remember what my mother always used to say about
men, what they really wanted, what they really meant. Love was a distraction.
It was a distraction that cost her her career, her dreams, everything she
really and truly wanted out of life. It wasn't something to prize or cherish.
It was something to guard against.
                And
besides, I think to myself, why would I want someone like Terrence Blue anyway?
Someone who rolled around in sleaze and sex the way a pig rolls in the mud. If
I did want a relationship, if I did want to fall in love…
                Without
meaning to, I let my thoughts drift back to the gym, and to my encounter with
the man there. It strikes me all at once that I forgot to ask his name.
Whatever he is, he isn't a Mr. A, a Mr. B., a Mr. X. He was so nice – so
handsome, so calm, so normal. Mr. Nice and Normal, I think to myself, with a
little laugh. No, too insulting. Nice and Handsome. That's what I'll call him,
to myself at least. Mr. Nice and Handsome.
                Unfortunately,
there's another Mr. on the agenda. To my surprise, Mrs. Walters summons me to
her office the Thursday before my date with Mr. X.
                “You've
been requested for a dinner date,” she said. “For tonight.”
                My
mouth falls open.
                “But...”
I have so many questions. What about Mr. X? What about my much-prized
virginity?
                “Our
patron understands the situation,” says Mrs. Walters, sensing my discomfort.
“He expects nothing of you except dinner. Mr. S – that's what he's
called – is more curious about your mind than your body.” Her smirk is
palpable. “At least for now.”
                Somehow,
the thought of dinner with Mr. S. makes me feel queasier than sex with Mr. X.
One I was expecting – mentally readying myself for, knowing that it would have
to happen. But dinner with another client. Playing the whore mentally if not
physically – acting alluring, seductive, acting a part – that's not
something I feel ready for. That's not something I want. I feel like I'd almost
rather have just plain sex – casual and meaningless – than having to sit across
someone at a dinner table and impress them. Right now, I'm not feeling very
impressive.
                “Remember,”
Mrs. Walters says, “Mr. S. likes the femme fatale look. So don't hold
back. I'll send someone down to do your hair and makeup.”
                Great ,
I think to myself. Why couldn't I have found a client who just wanted the
girl-next-door. Or even the girl-who-just-got-out-of-the-shower-and-is-wearing-sweats?
                I
decide to go to the gym – work off a little more tension. At least, that's what
I tell myself. Get the heart pumping, get the adrenaline shooting through me –
that'll help me calm my nerves enough so that I can play a convincing femme
fatale over