a posteriori: A Tail of Erotic Initiation

by A.W. Hill

It was at a bachelor’s party that I was first invited to plumb that nether region into which woman permits man, by and large, only when she is either deeply in love or generously plied with expensive liquor and good marijuana. A bachelor’s party, complete with the girl in the cake (although in this case, it was not a cake but an oversized “gift box” with sports car wrapping paper, its dented corners and frayed ribbon giving evidence of much use). The party was for my boss, a trim, soft-spoken fellow of 29, who had recently decided to hang up his track shoes and marry a professional woman who wore red power suits. I was his right-hand man, so the task of organizing the soiree fell to me, including procurement of the girl in the box.

My boss, as I’ve said, was quiet and reasonably cultivated, but I knew that he would approve because on Fridays after work, he and I and three or four of his top sales reps would quaff gin ‘n tonics at a strip club on 14th Street NW, not six blocks from the White House (the limos of foreign diplomats and occasional congressmen were sometimes to be seen idling at the curb). We never touched the girls, except to slip fivers into their g-strings, but we enjoyed them just the same, everything from their drugstore perfume to the cheezy disco songs they chose. It always seemed to me that they were trying, in their own way, to be artists. We’d leave after two or three drinks, in time for dinners out with wives or girlfriends, feeling a little dirty but already talking of next Friday. I myself was two years married to a girl who was working her way through George Washington U. by serving drinks at a Capitol Hill watering hole, but I never hid the Friday follies from her. We had been friends first, spouses second, and I had told her once -- only half in jest -- that if she could screw a senator and advance her station in life beyond the sorry likes of me, she could do so with my blessing. In fact, we hadn’t fucked in six months. We had grown bored with one another.

Notwithstanding my familiarity with strippers, I had never hired one, and was uncertain of the protocol. As it turned out, I did not need to look further than the Yellow Pages, where I discovered (to my genuine amazement) an entire page of listings under “Escort Services”, the true nature of service only thinly disguised.

As with any organizational task, I began by establishing some criteria. I’d stick to listings with addresses in the NW sector of the District, as this reflected the demographics of my peers, but I would avoid those with snooty typefaces, as I was not interested in having our girl show up in slacks and sweater, ready to serve canapes. I favored those services with boxed ads, just as I would have if I’d been looking for a good plumber, especially those that peppered their listings with phrases like “We Service All Your Needs” or “Sophisticated Ladies for Every Function”. Finally, because this was Washington and the Foggy Bottom mist is always laden with paranoia, I resolved to hang up immediately if 1) a man answered; 2) the dispatcher asked for too much information; or 3) if, when I began, “I’m organizing a bachelor party and we’d like to hire a dancer,” she did not instantly get my drift. I didn’t want to have to ask, “Does she...?”, “Will she...?” My fears were unwarranted. I had only to say a few words before each and every one of them launched into their prepared spiel: “Let’s see...for that date and time, we have Kiki -- who’s Asian, 36-22-34 -- and Lola, a honey blonde, just gorgeous and a good dancer...and Heather, a redhead with freckles and lots of BP (that’s Bachelor Party) experience...” Then there would be a pregnant pause. “...and if you require any additional services, she’ll inform you of the charge. We take Visa, Mastercard and Discover. No Amex and no gas credit cards.” I had not expected to be offered “additional services”. The entire enterprise took on the tone of drama once I realized what I was buying, and I broke a sweat more than once in the course of negotiations.

In the end, I hired Veronica from Capitol City Consorts because my wife concurred that the ad looked "disease free". I liked the names, both the service and the escort. She was described as a “shapely college girl” with raven black hair, just like Archie’s gal pal. What could be better than to see Veronica leap out of a cake and wrap her sinewy thighs around my boss’s waist? If I’d only known. I called from the office after hours and was allowed a few moments with her on the phone, so as to minimize the likelihood of buyer’s remorse. I gave my name as Randy, though it is not.

“Are you are Pisces, Randy?” Her voice was as dark as her advertised tresses, and as languorous as willows weeping in August. There was a trace of Carolina sauce in it, but no hint of a trailer park. Its vague familiarity suggested an actress, some studied combination of Kathleen Turner and Scarlett O’Hara.

“I’m a Gemini,” I replied.

“Oh, my,” she said. “Then I guess I don’t know which ‘Randy’ I’m gonna meet. You sound sweet, honey...but Gemini’s can have a nasty streak. Do you?”

Goddamn if she didn’t send the blood to my groin with that little lilt at the end. “Do yuh-oo?” It was like a snake charmer’s incantation, and the snake rose obediently.

“I s’pose I do,” I said. “But don’t worry... I’m not dangerous.”

“Oh,” she insisted, “I’m not worried, sugar. Not a bit.” She laughed in a way that was both disarming and faintly patronizing. “What kind of music does your boss like?”

“Rock ‘n roll. Springsteen. R.E.M. Not disco.”

“Fine by me,” she said. “How many guys are comin’?”

I counted the faces in my head. Kip, Charlie, Jack... “Six or seven,” I answered. “Prob’ly not more than that.”

“They’ll behave themselves? Treat me like a lady...?”

“I’ll make sure they do.”

“Well, well,” she purred. “Chivalry is not dead. I may have to give you a private dance.”

I shifted in my desk chair and felt the stickiness in my Calvin Klein briefs.

“See you at seven on Friday, then,” I said. “It’s a surprise, so don’t be late.”

“I’m never late, Randy. And if I am...you can paddle me.” An image flickered into my brain like a stray video signal from the Ecstasy Channel. “Just one condition,” she added.

“What’s that?”

“I’ll take everything off but my mask. My face is my own business.”

I hesitated a beat, thinking Phantom of the Opera and Elephant Man.

“But just so you know I’m not ugly, I’ll let you see it when you pay me.”

“Deal,” I said. The whole thing had just gotten more interesting.

After hanging up, I strolled as nonchalantly as I could to the men’s room, past the sales staff and the secretaries. I locked the stall, unzipped my khakis, and masturbated, the memory of her voice as dizzying as the smoke from freshly cured Virginia tobacco.

Veronica arrived in the lobby at 6:59 pm in a cocoa-colored dress that poured over her curves like the dipped chocolate shell on a soft-serve ice cream cone. She wore matching suede pumps with three-inch heels and a feathered Mardi Gras mask with a suggestively large opening at the mouth. The eyes behind the mask were large and green; her midnight black hair fell to mid-back. She was almost cartoon-like in slutty appeal, a self-styled fantasy object better than any blow-up doll could ever be. She offered me her right hand, and then with her left entrusted to me the oversized travel case which contained her props.

“You must be Randy,” she cooed, looking me over. “I’d have known you anywhere. Well...” She shrugged her shoulders. “Let’s party.”

She walked in front to the elevators, whether from an authority born of many such engagements or to let me ogle her rear end, I couldn’t say. Her breasts were small though nicely shaped, but she had a truly superior ass, the feature I find most tantalizing and perhaps the main reason I had married my best friend’s little sister despite a perfunctory courtship and few common interests. The high heels gave it an extra lift, parting the buttocks ever so slightly to allow the clingy dress to drape the crack. I followed her into the tiny elevator, struggling with the prop case, trying to look gallant but feeling like a bellboy. I think she sensed my nervousness.

“It’s gonna be just fine, honey,” she said, and winked behind her mask.

And, yes, it was “just fine”. My boss arrived at 7:30, already well-lubricated and flanked by the rest of the sales team, to find the office dimmed, quiet, and empty but for the four-foot square box which sat conspicuously in its midst. I had arranged the desk chairs in a semi-circle, with his high-backed leather chair dead center. He did a droll double-take and chuckled, turning to me.

“Aw,” he said. “You guys are the best. You pooled your poker money and bought me a washing machine. I hope it’s a Maytag.” The guys all laughed heartily.

“Nope,” I said, popping a bottle of Dom Perignon and filling his Dixie cup, “It’s not that low maintenance. You might need to service it from time to time. Have a seat and keep your eyes on the red bow.” I dispensed champagne all around, pouring an extra cup for our guest, and punched the boombox into play for Springsteen’s Rosalita, fully cranked. Then I took my seat with the others and knocked three times on the neighboring desk. “It’s showtime,” I called out.

Veronica emerged a fully-formed roadhouse Venus in pasties and g-string, and did the full seven minutes of Rosalita, with bumps, grinds and feral thrashing of her black mane. She covered every seat in the house, reserving the serious lap time for my boss, who was abashed at first but took it like a good sport. She invited him to peel off her pasties, and he did. She turned and bent deeply, her fingers on her toes, and allowed him to extract the g-string from her ass. I watched all this with rapt attention and periodic ripples of envy which began, after a while, to feel disturbingly like emotional attachment. I wanted her. I had a bad habit of falling instantly for waitresses, carhops and dance hall girls, particularly if they had smart mouths and were prone to brazen displays of nymphettish sexuality. When the song was over, she took a bow, motioned me over, and asked for my shirt.

“You want my shirt?” I asked dimly. It was a standard issue blue Van Heusen.

“Yeah, honey,” she replied. “I’m cold. And your my knight, remember?”

The mint julep accent was beginning to show a few Cincinnati potholes.

“Sure,” I said. “You got it.” It was all right. I had a t-shirt on beneath, and I liked the thought of Veronica wearing my cotton shirt over her double-dip breasts and round belly. She wore a strong musky perfume, and I worried fleetingly about what I would tell my wife. Fuck it, I decided. She probably won’t be home anyway. She's probably screwing a Bolivian diplomat.

“Well, boys,” Veronica announced, after she’d donned my shirt, leaving all buttons undone. “That’s what you get for a hundred dollars...”

There was a chorus of awwwws.

“But it doesn’t have to be over...”


“I can rock out a little more if ya like... or we can, um...go one-on-one.”

She put her hand on her hip and cocked a finger at my boss, who flushed and took a step back, demuring. Unfazed, she picked out junior sales rep Richie Mazzarini, the guy with the punk haircut and the most lascivious grin.

“H-how much?” he asked. She leaned into his ear and whispered something more than a number, because the next thing I knew they were in his cubicle, Richie in his desk chair and Veronica on her knees.

For the next forty minutes, I chain-smoked as Veronica gave blow jobs to every man on the sales team except for Kip and myself. She took them through the ample mouthhole in her mask, an exercise of no mean skill. Following Richie’s example, all of the guys wanted services performed in their cubicles, at the desk. The cubicles were barely large enough for a desk and a chair, and the cramped quarters dictated a geometry whereby the curve of Veronica’s rump, half-draped by my shirttail and resting on the backs of her suede pumps, protruded beyond the flimsy dividers. I did nothing but watch her ass bounce on her heels and, between sessions, offer encouragement to my more reticent colleagues. “C’mon,” I’d say. “You only live once.” I enjoyed being her pimp. When she was done, she came to me, as I knew (and feared and hoped) she would.

“Your turn. I saved the best for last.” I smiled drunkenly and shook my head.

“Not tonight, Veronica. I’m too wasted.”

She made a clicking sound behind her mask. “Your loss, Randy ... o.k., let’s settle up. I gotta pee and change. You come with me?” She cocked her head.

“To the, uh...ladies room?”

“Nothin’ you haven’t seen,” she sassed, and I felt myself getting hard again.

She peed with the stall open and then pulled on a pair of skin tight bell-bottom jeans, leaving the zipper open. The mask was still on her, and so was my shirt. I took a roll of bills from my pocket, including a generous tip, and gestured to the mask. “You promised to take that off for me,” I said.

“I changed my mind. Think I’ll leave things the way they are between you and me. A little mystery’s a good thing. Maybe next time.” She reached for the cash, but I held it away.

“No fair,” I said. “Deal’s a deal. No play, no pay.”

She came so close I could feel her breath, scented with semen and licorice drops. “Do you want to fuck me?” she asked. “Freebie. Fair trade for the face.”

“It’s not a question of wanting. It’s just...”

“Just what?” she demanded softly, her knee in my groin.

“I-I’m kind of married,” I said lamely, though I had indeed had a sudden attack of fidelity.

“Aww,” she said sweetly. “Kind of?” She turned round to face the mirror and seemed to smile behind the mask. “Do you wanna fuck me in the ass then?” She lifted her tailbone just a little in eloquent summons. This was an unexpected boon; a sort of kickback, I supposed, for having hired and then pimped for her. I had never had a woman this way. My wife wouldn’t even entertain the idea, not so much for fear of pain as for fear that doing it would open the floodgates to all kinds of perversion. It was her sexual orthodoxy, more than anything else, that had cooled my interest in her, though I hadn't had the guts to tell her so. I wanted it all, and here it was, inches from my groin. An ass not unlike my wife’s, free of entailment. “C’mon,” she whispered. “Do it, Randy.” I unzipped my trousers, peeled down her blue jeans, and took the plunge into perdition. She gripped the washbasin, locked her heels against the tiles, and offered me enough verbal encouragement to assuage any moral doubt.

"Is it good, Randy?" she asked, turning to flash the eyes behind the mask. "Is it a good ass?"

"Oh, God, yeah," I said, my fingers digging into her hips. "The best."

"You should've asked for it earlier, sugar. How's a girl to know what a boy wants?"

When it was over, she casually zipped her jeans up, took the money from my limp hand, and said, “Good job. By the way ... I’m keeping your shirt, too.” She slipped back into her Dixie drawl. “I love wearing men’s shirts around the house...‘specially those I’ve screwed.”

“Sure,” I said. “If it means that much, I want you to have it.” It was, after all, only a Van Heusen, and I liked it on her better than on me. Within a matter of seconds, she’d snapped up her prop case, asking no assistance this time, and was gone into the cherry blossom-scented night.

The seven of us repaired to a little, dark-paneled tavern around the corner, having no further need of flesh, only comraderie. We drank shots of Jack Daniels to burn away our sins, four rounds of them, and then went drunkenly and somewhat abashedly off on our separate ways. I don’t think that any of us had ever been with a prostitute, save possibly for Richie Mazzarini. I kept the nature of my own tryst to myself, leaving the guys to presume that I’d gotten a blow job, just like them.

I crept into the apartment at 3:30 am, feeling as culpable as a cat burglar. The lights were out, and that was good. I didn’t want my wife to wake and see my face, knowing full well what it would reveal. I went into the bathroom and scrubbed my loins with Irish Spring. En route to the bedroom through the dark kitchen, I staggered from the whiskey’s effects and grabbed hold of one of the kitchen chairs. Something had been draped loosely over the back and, losing my purchase, I stumbled to my knees, the fabric in my trembling hands. It’s texture was all too familiar, for it had been against my own skin only a few hours earlier.

My shirt: the marker that my slumbering wife could either call in or use to bargain for a different kind of marriage.

In hindsight, all the evidence had been there, but it struck me then, and has stayed with me since, how much we want to be deceived, and how easily the simple artifice of mask, wig and phony accent can transfigure the known into the unknown, and open portals which might otherwise remain forever sealed.


A.W. Hill lives in Los Angeles. His first novel, a supernatural thriller entitled Enoch's Portal (ISBN 1-891400-59-2) was published in June 2002 and acquired for motion picture development by Paramount. A screenplay, Little Black Book, a comedy about a modern-day courtesan, is currently being shopped to studios and actresses unafraid to soil their reputations. More info about Hill and his alter-ego, P.I. Stephan Raszer, can be found at www.raszer.com.

Visit A.W. Hill online at: www.awhill.net

a posteriori © 2002 by A.W. Hill






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