An Inconvenient Evening

An Inconvenient Evening

It took me a while to realize that my iPhone had led me to the wrong O’Malley’s Bar in Manhattan and I was now 15 blocks east and forty minutes late to meet LeAnn. LeAnn was a Poly-Sci major turned Government Affairs Manager, whom I fooled around with junior year at Georgetown. She was in town from D.C. attending a speech at the U.N. headquarters and was staying at some Time Square tourist-trap hotel. Naturally, at first, I thought to offer LeAnn to stay with me but seeing as her hotel room was already booked by her company; I figured I’d stay with her and fuck on tax-payer money, kind of like the politicians do. I hadn’t seen LeAnn in nearly 7 years, but remembered fondly the nights I spent experimenting with her self-proclaimed no-gag reflexes and enduring deep back-scratches at the Phi Theta Kappa house—and of course her calling was her way of letting me know she wanted to revisit the experience too.

Flagging a cab down Friday nights on Broadway is the 2011 equivalence to entering Studio 54 in the seventies—virtually impossible. As soon as I was able to obtain one, I received the text:

“Hey, don’t know if you got sidetracked but I’m through waiting, going to a bar in Williamsburg with a friend, hit you up when I get back to my hotel room?”

I let out a sigh of relief, internally grateful for the sparing of the preliminary hookup banter. I thought of what to do with my time before having to meet up with LeAnn and decided I’d grab a drink at the wrong O’Malley’s I was just in.

I mentally blocked out the chatty blond from Hartford, Connecticut to check my phone. It’s 15 after midnight and still, no call from LeAnn. I contemplate bringing the chatty blond home—whose name may or may not be Rebecca—but decided against it when she begins to talk about how early she has to be up in the morning. Of course, this is all a ploy for Rebecca (?) to mentally insert that me taking her home is going to take a bit more then vodka tonics and empty compliments between glances of my iPhone, but I decide to not take the bait and respond with a “me too,” playing it safe with both the ‘not too interested’ vibe and ‘if-you-come-over-you’re-not-staying-the-night’ subtext.

The DJ turns on dry-humping hip-hop music and her and I follow accordingly. I grow increasingly interested in taking her back to my place as she proceeds to rub on my dick towards the back of the bar. With a direct disregard for her supposed “morals,” she whispers—though loud enough for me to hear her over the music—in my ear that she is wet and ready for me to take her. There wasn’t really a reason not to go home with her, but the idea of another random blond from another Manhattan bar on the same 300-count Egyptian cotton sheets from Bed, Bath and Beyond didn’t really sound appealing to me.

Did this blond have no-gag reflexes? Would she let me blow my load on her tits while she uses it as an impromptu moisturizing lotion?

I didn’t know if she would for sure, and had no intentions of devoting an entire evening on trying to find out. I decided to make up some excuse about having to leave. I take down her number on my phone but I don’t save it. Instead I end the contact list application as soon as I exit the bar and decide to walk the 30-some-odd blocks home instead of taking a cab.

I arrive home approximately 40 minutes after I left the bar. I quickly jump in the shower to clean up for LeAnn, when and if she called. The shower lasted about 30 minutes and when I checked my phone, still there was no call or text from LeAnn. I decide to send her an “Are we still on for tonight/this morning?” text but as time carries on, no response is received. I grow frustrated that I did not take the chatty blond home from the bar. Even more so, I’m pissed that I didn’t save her number. I pour myself a drink and begin browsing the internet. I surf multiple porn sites before realizing that this night cannot end in lotion and single person moans from a dark room, so I call up my colleague Jayson to get a website from him.

Jayson was another investment banker at the firm where I worked. He was single and had the potential to make enough money to retire before he was 45. Women loved him, but he couldn’t care less about the women he’d meet at restaurants and bars. Jayson was interested, exclusively, with escort services and classy hotel prostitutes. The money wasn’t an issue for him, so it was like paying for any other services he would get: dry cleaning, new ceiling fan installation, Arabian Mocha coffee beans, brought and grounded at Starbucks. Thankfully Jayson was awake and instantly he knew the website I wanted.

When successful NYC businessmen want to fly under the escort service radar, they go on BackPage.Com. BackPage was a website created entirely for prostitutes and their John’s. The cover-up is of course a date escort service for those from out-of-town that requires nothing more than cash money from their John’s. No name, no phone numbers, no credit cards—just cash.

The last time I was with a prostitute, it was senior year of college and the evening had been finely clouded with copious amounts of booze and coke. I had plenty of booze at my apartment, but no way of getting in contact with my coke-guy, so I figured I’d place my order for a lady, and then make a drink.

After deciding on a long-legged brunette with perky tits and a fine fit ass, I began admiring all things right with this moment. The ability to obtain any and everything, as long as the price is right, was never an option for any generation, except mines. That is not to say no generation has been wealthy; it’s to say that no generation has been programmed by the idea of instant-gratification quite like mine has. I guess one could find it endearing in the past to join the countless men and women in bars and clubs making obscene gestures to try and increase the likelihood of sex with one another. Today, it just isn’t logical anymore. If I want to have sex, I will have it, and there isn’t any college-loan indebted NYU-grad student that’s gonna tell me differently.

She arrived just as I finished my 4th drink. I was now superbly drunk and fantasizing about breast-banging Chelsea Handler from the E! Channel show Chelsea Lately when the intercom rang. It was Raul letting me know that there was a “beautiful young lady” waiting in the lobby. I told him to escort her up and began fixing myself up a bit.

A few minutes after getting off the phone with Raul, the elevator stopped on my floor. I could hear her share goodbyes with Raul and then her heels clacking towards my door. As each heel tapped the floor, my heart began to beat a bit faster.

Was I nervous or was it the 4 stiff vodka and red bulls I had in the last hour?

Before I could come up with a decision, the doorbell rang. I opened the door before she could ring again and was pleasantly surprised when I laid eyes on her. Though her breasts weren’t nearly as perky as they were in her photographs online, she was still gorgeous and looked like she would be an incredible fuck.

Back Page? She asked sheepishly, trying to be as discreet as possible.

I signal her to come in and she enters. I take her coat and hang it in the closet in the hallway alongside mine.

PRADA, the tag on the jacket read.

Escorting pay well? I ask her

Pretty well, I guess. Why do you ask?

The Prada jacket

Yeah, well I guess you can say it pays the bills.

I’d say

I opened the door to my bedroom and let her in.

Would you like a drink? I asked


Yes, any gin?

Sure, how do you like it?

Splash of tonic, on ice

Coming right up

By the time I had finished making the drink and had brought it back to the room, she was already naked with legs spread on the bed. I stood in the doorway admiring her figure as she stared back at me. She took the drink from me, shoved a pinkish pill in her mouth and washed it down with the entire gin & tonic.

$1200 for the entire night–well into the morning, $250 for a full hour and $100 for oral, she announced nonchalantly.

Let’s start off with an hour and we’ll see where we go from there

Before I could finish my sentence, she was off the bed and on her knees, working on my dick. Over and over again, she would insert the whole thing in her mouth with the same enthusiasm a starving doctor finally eating a $5 foot-long, rushing to get back to work. I caressed her hair as it bopped back and fourth

What do you do? She asked mid-suck

I’m an investment banker for the Leibowitz & Goldstein Investment Firm

Investing pay well?

Well enough for me to afford women like you

Apparently I’m only worth an hour

Take it as compliment babe; pretend like it means I can’t hold my load for any longer

We were about 15 minutes in and all I wanted to do was ravish her. Her sexiness was anything but subtle. She didn’t know what it was I wanted but was willing to listen and follow accordingly—something most random hook-ups lack. As soon as she removes my dick from her mouth to gasp for breath, I signal her to get up and move towards the bed. I open my nightstand and remove a condom. I go to open it, but she takes it from my hands and insists on doing it herself. I let her put it on as I stare deeply into her, curious as to the life-choices she made that led her to my Central Park West apartment at 4:30AM.

As soon as she was done covering me up, she laid back and led me to insertion. I begin with small pumps, trying very hard not to be quick on the trigger—an issue that embarrassingly does presents itself when I’ve had a few drinks. I proceed to go a bit faster when her moans get louder. While, I was the one who both invited and paid her to come over, there was still an internal goal at work. Her moans were verbal indications of whether what I was doing was right or wrong. If the moans were less pronounced and spaced further apart, I knew that I must go deeper. If the moans were loud and intense, I knew what I was doing was right. Yet, I still wondered:

Why all the motivation to make her climax? Wasn’t I the customer who required satisfaction?

As I lifted myself up to change positions, I realized she wasn’t making any noise, so I brushed off the hair strands from around her face. It was then that I realized that her eyes weren’t open either. I tried, calmly, to wake her up but she wasn’t budging. I checked her pulse and that’s when I realized that she was no longer alive.

I paced back and forth in my living room thinking of what to do.

There’s a dead prostitute in my house, with drugs and alcohol in her system. WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO?

I grab the intercom and call down to Raul in the lobby.

Yes, Mr. Aidan, may I help you?

Uh yes, Raul, do you think it’s possible you can come upstairs and help me with something?

It is only me here at the front desk and I cannot leave it unattended

I assure you Raul; it will only take a second

Do you mind if I just wait for Jose, he’ll be here in 30 minutes, Mr. Aidan

Raul, get your ass up here NOW!

Be right up Mr. Aidan

I knew yelling at Raul in the current position that I’m in, was not smartest thing to do but what else would have gotten him upstairs?

A few minutes later, the door bell rang and I closed the door to my bedroom and went to open the front door.

Thank you for coming Raul

Is there a problem with the plumbing Mr. Aidan?

No Raul, there isn’t a problem with the plumbing, it’s about the lady who just came upstairs

Oh the tall brunette? Oh Mr. Aidan, you bring beautiful women home every night, but no wife. Why not Mr. Aidan?

That is neither here, nor there Raul, now listen to me! The girl who just came upstairs was a little bit drunk and took a pill. Now, don’t overreact Raul but…

I led Raul down the hall to my bedroom and swung the door open to expose the naked brunette sprawled on my bed. Raul smiled and looked back at me. He entered the room a bit more and then, with an even more worrisome facial expression than when he saw the body, he asked

Is she dead?

She isn’t breathing, that’s for damn sure!

Oh Mr. Aidan, no, I don’t have any business here.

No Raul, you’re a part of this now

No Mr. Aidan, you tell me to come upstairs to look at your toilet; I fix it and leave, good night!

I stop Raul at my doorway and show him 10 crisp $100 bills.

This is all I have right now, but as soon as the bank opens in the morning, I can get you more. I just need your help Raul.

As an investment banker, I knew that nothing speaks louder than visual cash, and with the option of making a month’s pay in an hour, I knew it would be nearly impossible for Raul to turn down.

Oh Mr. Aidan, please, I have family

And couldn’t your family use a few extra thousand dollars?

Raul stared at the 10 crisp $100 bill in my hand, and then proceeded to ask me:

What can we do Mr. Aidan?

We need to dispose of the body, do you have trash bags?

Why don’t you call the police?

Because Raul, how would you explain a dead prostitute in your bed?

An error of judgment?

Yes Raul, I’m sure the jury would love to find me innocent due to an error of judgment. This is America Raul; men like me don’t survive in jail—men like me don’t go to jail.

Is that because men like you have men like me who are stupid enough to help?

That isn’t what I meant Raul

Mr. Aidan, I’m very sorry but I cannot help

Raul, you know just as well as I know that you’re not leaving this apartment and going back downstairs to sit at a desk; whether you like it or not, you’re a part of this. Now you can leave and act like you didn’t see anything but you know what happened.

I played no part in this Mr. Aidan

Doesn’t matter Raul, you’re the doorman, how do you explain letting a woman up who never came back down and is now missing? What will you tell the cops?

What will YOU tell the cops?

Well if we clean this shit up, none of us will have to say anything.

Raul paused for a second, looked at the body, rubbed his already balding head and said:

But I need $3000 Mr. Aidan…

Everybody has a price Raul…

Raul and I placed the body in trash bags after trash bags and tried to place in the trash shoot. Her entire body couldn’t fit, but luckily Raul had the key to the incinerator room.

The sun began coming up as soon as Raul and I finished mopping and wiping down all surfaces. Every few minutes or so, Raul would stare at the clock on the wall, possibly counting down the hours until the bank opened. Though he had the first $1000 in his pocket, I still owed him another $2000 and I was sure that he wanted it as soon as possible. Suddenly my text message alerts sounded. I picked up my phone and right in my inbox was a message from LeAnn:

“Just got back to my room, horny and drunk, cum over? (Pun intended)”

Normally the first thing that would cross my mind at that moment would be LeAnn’s no-gag reflexes but all I could think about was her as a potential alibi. Somewhere this dead prostitute had a pimp who will soon be looking for her once 8am hits. I had to get out of my apartment. I texted her back: “on my way.” Raul was growing impatient and finally I decided to write him a check. He was skeptical about taking the check, but I assured him the money was in the account and would clear on whatever day he decided to cash it.

Today Mr. Aidan!

Yes Raul, you can cash it today

Are you sure it will clear?

Yes Raul, it will clear

Raul stared back at me with the first genuine look of compassion I’ve seen all night. I walked over to my closet to get my coat. As soon as I opened the closet door, I saw it hanging: the long black Prada trench coat with the military shoulder pads and buttons—the final remains of the prostitute whose name I wasn’t sure was real—Jane.

Raul, here; give this to your wife

No Mr. Aidan, I can’t

Raul this is a $3000 jacket, there’s no reason it should just be thrown away.

Mr. Aidan, with all due respect, we just disposed of a human body, a jacket you’re worried about?

I stared back at Raul, absorbing what he just said.

Okay Raul, if you don’t want to take it then don’t, just please do not leave it in my apartment. I’m leaving now so if you can lock up behind you, that will be great.”

Raul stood in my hallway looking at the jacket draped over the side of my mail table, then back at me as I walked out the door. I knew Raul would take the jacket…there wasn’t a doubt in my mind.

When I exited the cab in Time Square, right in front of the Marriot Marquis hotel, I felt somewhat happy to be surrounded by so many people. There were a few visible actual New Yorkers, but the streets were comprised mostly of early bird tourist in town for a weekend, maybe a week, soaking in the city, spending hard worked for yearly savings, eating overpriced meals of sub-par quality. What I had just done was irrelevant in Time Square. The lights and tall buildings left visitors mesmerized, unaware of the monster walking about them—under bright lights, we all looked the same.

I didn’t bother waiting for the elevator up to LeAnn’s floor; instead I climbed the 13 flights to her hotel room. I arrived at her front door which was already opened.

I’m jumping in the shower, be right out, make yourself at home, make a drink! She yelled from the bathroom with the same voice I remembered from the days back in Georgetown.

Alright , I yelled out

I fixed myself a drink but didn’t take a sip—climbing 13 flights of stairs takes a lot out of you. I took off my shoes and laid down on the king size bed. My eye lids begin to grow a tad bit heavier as I listen to the shower run in the bathroom. I let my mind drift away from this room and this entire city and think about home—wherever that is.


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