by JC (zs12@hotmail.com)

I wasn't expecting a reply to lie there. Not really. I hadn't even intended to post an ad there. It was a narrow one uncomfortably inserted with its thin body text in between two `professional escort' (and certainly commercial) ones on a website decorated by tons of X-rated pictures. Yet it was the third time he posted something on this site. It almost became a habit when he `broke up' with some one, but not quite forever.

So there it lay, in a mailbox for which the username had been randomly picked. Without even a spam e-mail to be its companion, it did look prominent. It started with a 'hey' plus several exclamatory points, sounding all excited. 40 years old, `serious looking but romantic at heart'. It was not too bad; at least it wasn't some graphic self-description of an old polar bear fevering for `a young smooth son'. I replied and convinced him that I would be quite busy for several days, postponing the next reply day in advance. It was a week or so later that I recalled that e-mail address. So I logged in and found there was another from him. The date was just next to the first one. He was glad that I had replied, which made me wonder whether I had written something more than two lines. He said he was coming to my city for a convention in two weeks and wanted a meeting. And with a meticulous and tactical transition, he changed the topic to sexual preference, lasting as long as the well camouflaged preparation above it. Business people always like to book their hotel and some other things well in advance for their busy schedule. And I replied, with equal grace or maybe innocent manner. Who knows, it's trendy nowadays for people to seek one who is experienced for jobs with a four-letter prefix while still with a baby face. Maybe it did make them less guilty instead of cruising and searching among dimly lighted clubs.

And yes, I accepted his offer. Why not? Someone had told me that I need some sex, in real life not just cyber. Perhaps I did look somewhat miserable because I apparently lacked sexual encounters. Well, heck, this is not the medieval times, so who cares? Just remember ne sortez jamais sans capotes, in case of le virus infernal. French does look elegant and erotic here, doesn't it? So why bother with what it means, it's just sex. And it won't be hard to sublimate it in the way I want, for the sake of the weak part of my heart. You are always too impractical someone had always said it. O yes, it's true. Nowadays who will hang up someone's picture on the wall and only enjoy a daily encounter in dreams? Well, that looked like the typical life of a nun. It is indeed weird today not to have some sex every now and then. And sex, it's just sex--who will care whom I do it with? God? O boy, Lord won't mind. Or someone else? It is just another fantasy.

He replied promptly. Well it's something worth admiring. It was indeed much better than waiting for someone to write. Why keep waiting for something that will never come when there's an offer at hand? C'est plus que de raison. He was happy and gave me the address of the hotel he would be staying at. He wrote: `But I am sorry I can just stay there for a night.' Had I asked for more than that? But an `It's a pity' would be absolutely proper and necessary when replying. It was a four or five star hotel: Holiday Inn or something--a high building with a price of an equally respectable height. I had not been there for years. The luxury impression of looking down from the tower had almost faded with his somewhat rich childhood years. And now there's a chance to rescue it from drowning into the dismal dens crouching behind the hotel. Some good memories are worth carrying alone. Perhaps it will be good to get used to looking down from the sky. The rest of the reply had been a description of the conference he was going to attend--something about marine biology. Some mollusks, limpets, snails and octopuses. He must think it was some interesting thing. It was tolerable--he didn't clog it with a pile of Latin terms. It ended with a repeat of his plans for the night, which would restricted to the room and as good as the biology lecture to be tossed into the trash folder, though that makes it hard to contrive his name for this confession. But what's a name? Would that which we call Octopus by any other name not look as awful? Had I made a mistake?

I stood at the front of a mirror, wondering what had made that man so enthusiastic. There was only an old self-reflection which was tired after nineteen years. I am not blonde, nor are my eyes blue; I lack the features that could be named "perfection", or "beautiful", or even merely "cute". And I have already passed the legal age, tragically. No more school uniform, which I had hated but now missed so much. Someone did say I was cute. It could keep on working for a while. But see, it is already a past tense. It never goes along with rushing years. Now I am nineteen. Nineteen years can be as long as a century, especially when they are boring. The hotel was not bad and he looked like a generous customer. At least I would have something to do, better or worse than leaving a blank.

So all the things were arranged. Sunday at night, after 10 because of obvious security reasons. It seemed like an easy task. He gave me the date he would arrive and the room numbers so I could put it off my mind and wait.

I didn't plan to tell someone about it. But well it could not be avoided after the question: Did you have any sex these days? was raised by someone who sounded pretty concerned.

`Yes,' I replied honestly.

`O great, with whom?' It seemed exciting and wonderful I think.

I replied with the most I could remember from the deleted item.

`O no, don't go with that monster!' I am glad that he could find a name for Mr. Who. And the negative words and exclamation made me a little happy plus que de raison.

I don't quite remember the rest of the chat. But at last he offered quite good advice before going to bed. Do use a condom. It was as wise and correct as the other pieces of advice.

And that's all of it. It might as well creep away obscurely, like an octopus silently cruising across the sea bottom though it was not what I had expected. An encounter story should be dramatic but so far it's been too plain to be arousing.

I had expected him to discuss about it later so that I would not forget the appointment on Sunday. He did not. So it almost slid off my mind gradually through the week were it not for Mr. Who's call on Sunday afternoon. He lowered his voice as much as possible because there are other people around. He inquired about my availability and I assured him again, feeling guilty for forgetting such an event.

Sunday came more quickly than usual. I did not have time to prepare anything for it, except for a good bath and unnecessary shaving. I left home in the afternoon and phoned my parents from a bus telling them that I would spend a night somewhere else. I hung up with good timing just before they got mad over it and shut off the mobile phone. It was raining. It seems to always be rainy.

The hotel stood there, with many shining yellowish eyes scattered casually on its giant body. A young man dressed in uniform opened the door for me when I walked through its mouth. A pair of tight blue jeans and t-shirt on me looked sexy in the glass pane decorating the interior of the hall. I was about an hour early. He hadn't arrived yet. I found a replica of some Rococo furniture in the corner and sunk myself into its expensive and soft embrace, watching the people passing by to kill time. There was a bar at the back of the lobby. A singer murmured something about love. Some people had cast a look at me, some inquiring, some amused, most just plain. They quickly moved on when I stared back. What were they thinking about... me? Or the reason I was there which I was supposed to conceal well? Or something else intriguing? A girl sat opposite me, legs crossed. She was biting into a pencil while reading a book, seemingly waiting too. She was beautiful, but just a beautiful part of the boredom. Luckily I had brought along a portable CD player. There was only Nick Cave in it. I turned up the volume and distracted myself from studying the hotel fauna. Nick was singing desperately: God is in the house, God is in the house, Oh I wish He would come out, God is in the house. It was much better than the bar singer.

I had almost fallen asleep when the batteries ran out after some time and making a terrible worn sound so I guessed it was time to go. The receptionist eyed me suspiciously when I asked him to place a call to Mr. Who, whose room number I had forgotten. He found his name on the computer and dialed the number. But he still wasn't there.

I went back to the sofa and continued waiting. The girl had left and I felt a little lonely in the spacious lobby. After a while, a noisy group of people flooded in. I turned my eyes and examined them. But there was not anything unusual which could help me specify the man. They were all middle-aged, some even older. The women were apparently enthusiastic cosmetics users, telling their secret of age publicly without shame. The clothes made in Paris had the reverse effects to that of the models on the T lane. The men were all seriously looking, even when they were trying to prick a weary laugh with the ladies. They dressed in black or gray suits, well ironed but most had crinkled at the protruding stomach. And the rest looked more like scarecrows, with high quality and new cloth.

A man among them looked at me probably more than once before they stuffed the elevator and went up to the top two floors. I went to the receptionist and asked him to call again.

`Do you really know that Mr. Peter?' He inquired, reluctantly but with great interest in getting my answer and something beyond that which he seemed to have already acquired. He probably was a detective of the police or the security office. His nose was quite good at sniffing, as if there were crime nearby.

`Of course.' I should have thanked him for informing me that it was Mr. Peter. `Just call.'

`Okay, but I thought you would have an appointment or something?' he properly delayed dialing for more seconds, waiting for the prey to fall into his trap.

`I did and he's late.'

Finally he ended his part-time work as a secret agent and dialed. Mr. Peter answered so he handed to me the telephone, looking disappointed at his failure.

`I am terribly sorry for keeping you waiting. Those guys in the delegation wanted to stay in Karaoke much longer than I expected. So could you come up now?' He cut off to the main issue economically.

`Yes, of course,' I replied. `But what's your room number again?'

`Oh, it's Room 2110.'

`Okay I will go up.' I hung up the receiver before he finished some additional things: `Be careful don't' and found the receptionist smiling at me. I gave the phone back to him and went up.

The room was at the top so the elevator took a long time. It was quiet there and all the doors were closed. It didn't look like a human inhabited place at all. The door quietly opened ajar, a head appeared and whispered 'hey' to me.

He had an egg shaped head, wider horizontally than vertically.Big, serious-looking, thick, golden-frame glasses magnified his already-large eyes. The hair had become extinct around the center, exposing the oval curve. I made a smile and went through the passage. He opened the door wider to let me in and alertly looking sideways as if there were busy traffic in the passage. I found I had overestimated his volume by prediction based on the head size. He was shorter than me and bony. Perhaps he had copied the fashion of E.T. The only thing wrapping him was a white towel over his sagging skin so I could get a better view of his skeleton. I waited in the doorway until he finished the check up and turned to face me directly. He smiled and gently squeezed my arm while speaking. He was glad that I could make it and briefly repeated his apology for being late.

`I hope you are not surprised of my attire.' He smirked and added: `I am going to take a shower to get prepared.' Then he squeezed my arms again and moved his hands up and down a bit.

`Okay, go ahead.' I ignored his implication and put my bag on a table.

`Oh, okay,' he uttered and gave my arms some more attention, `Sit and please help yourself to the drinks in the refrigerator over there. I will be quick.

`Take your time.'

`Did you have a bath already?' he attempted again before closing the door of the bathroom. He must be a zealous reader of those tub encounters on those age-restricted sites like Nifty.

`O yes, I like to be all clean.' A counter-strike again.

`O okay,' he grumbled and disappeared behind the door.

He did not literally mean `sit' for his luggage and a briefcase had conquered the chairs. The only place available was the bed. But drinks were available; I chose a Cola and lay myself on the bed. The sumptuous suite was not bad. And the decoration was worth its salt to suggesting the cost here and there. I drew the curtain away and looked down. The sight was not clear with the rain and I thought Mr. Peter would prefer more privacy so I drew it up again. There was a satellite TV in the corner. I turned it on and found a movie channel. The movie tonight was an American comedy made in '60s or so--much more interesting than the anonymous painting on the wall and the sounds of streaming water.

He hadn't come out yet when I figured out what the movie was about. Perhaps he thought I had mysophobia or some such. I already had half of the cola down my throat and was wondering what to do after I finished it. Yet I knew. I was supposed to lie naked on the bed covers, with or without a thin piece of cloth practically covering nothing and thus give him a predicable surprise.

`You were watching TV?' Was it so unbelievable?

`Yeah, a stupid movie, but well... interesting.'

He was still wearing that white towel but less detached. He moved nearer, blocking my view of the television. `You are so beautiful,' he said, clutching his hands around my waist. The smell of shampoo swamped me. He adhered to my body then directly pressed his mouth against mine. His tongue forced in, like some leviathan stretching its tentacle into a wrecked vessel. I didn't return much of the mouth action, or rather couldn't: his tongue, along with a steady supply of saliva, had taken most of the space, and cornered mine, rubbing its moist self up and down. It tasted awful, even with the lavish remnant of some lemon toothpaste. I closed my eyes. Well after all I had to say goodbye to the movie in this situation.

`Do you still want to watch the movie?' He didn't wait for my answer and got the remote control to expel my only fun. I had to support myself with both of my hands behind my back on the bed when he rendered his full weight abruptly as if making a sudden attack.

He grunted in a satisfied manner without interrupting the movement of his tongue. Finally my hands gave in and he was on the top of me. His hands slid to my waist and pulled my t-shirt up. I shivered because of the coldness, not due solely because of the central air conditioning. He must have noticed my trembling, for he had not left any of my frontal body spare.

'Are you cold?' he asked and stopped, licking for a second.

`Yes, a little.' I nodded slightly, making use of the temporary freedom.

`Then embrace me tight.' He thought it romantic or something. And I felt like lost a knight to a hidden pawn.

So I stretched my hands and closed them around his back. It felt rough, and draped. I could almost felt it humming overjoyed when my hands fell onto it.

His tongue now had left my mouth and rested on my neck. It was slippery and wet, like something out of slimy seawater. He was making some bubbling noise and kept worming his way down. He suddenly halted as if something had disturbed his self-contented maneuvering.

`Are you a Christian?' he asked, not at all sounding culpable.

`O yes.' I noticed it was a silver cross I was wearing. `I had better take it down.'

'Yeah, it will be better,' he punned.

Indeed. I had better taken it off before he went further down like an octopus covering up its prey with poisonous and vicious fluid. I put it on a table besides the bed, ignoring it for a while. God's everywhere. It was annoying at that moment, for both of us.

However this trivial incident seemed to agitate him from enjoying it slowly. He jumped over the upper part of my chest, mercifully left it intact and went for my right nipple. He sucked, then chewed on it. I almost laughed out loud at the moment my nipple sent a tortured scream to the nerve centre. It was almost exactly the same as something I would have read from an erotic story anthology named "Badboy Fantasy" or whatever--cheap but entertaining. The only difference was that the handsome boys on the cover, who captured more attention than the content of 189 pages, had gone or been distorted, or deformed, or simply had been bound by a spell.

`Do you want to see me?' He was now straddled over me and said playfully (or at least he intending to sound playful). Luckily he wasn't as heavy as a walrus, which may well have been a blessing.

`Yeah, of course.' Doesn't it sound professional!

He got rid of the towel, maybe thinking he was in a grand opening, presenting some astonishing postmodernist statue. But nevertheless, it was hard, as the storywriter would naturally write. The length of it failed to register in my mind, but its smell did. The soap or shampoo could never overcome some smells such as those belonging to a bag of things I dump into a big barrel everyday for example.

I did know what to do at that moment. I lifted up my neck and took it in my mouth, trying to convince my sense organs to stop working for a while--tasted as good as it looked. Suddenly I began to wonder what would come out of a frog prince. I closed my eyes. He didn't mind it. I was good at doing that, judging from his moaning.

Someone had appeared on the stage. Tall and smooth. Mousy hair, green, perhaps blue eyes, nose a bit big but just the right size... sensuous lips. His fairy skin would be a delight to cruise on. Everything of his would just supply the criteria for "handsome" or "cute". Perhaps with one kiss of love, it would all change? I sucked on his cock harder, still keeping my eyes shut so as to maintain the image of someone.

`O you got a hard-on!' he said excitedly.

Yeah, I was at that point with someone who was doing a 69 with me, under the Mediterranean sun in some grand ancient Greek relic. He withdrew from my mouth. (`I don't want to cum too soon. I want to enjoy it as long as possible.' He made a superfluous explanation. My neck had hurt for a long time from keeping that lifted position nevertheless). Then my trousers were gone, followed by underpants.

I looked at my cock. It had come back to life a little, though not quite fully recovered and it still threatened to die when I opened my eyes. He lowered his head and sucked it deeply, teasing the head with his tongue; I held his head and shut off my eyelids again. Although his bald head could not be ignored, I managed to continue my romance with someone. We were now kissing and then rolled over, moaning, breathing hard. He suddenly entered me, gently and slowly working back and forth. The abruptness was because of Mr. Peter's finger.

We had a good time while Mr. Peter busied himself with sucking and touching. `You said you were quite passive,' Mr. Peter commented as I felt someone's shaft at my hand. After time passed the required length, I came. Suddenly a freezing current ran through my heart. My head ached and someone had gone. He put back on his clothes and left without a word. At the door he sneered at me but I was pinned there (crucified?)--I could not run to him. A hand pulled him away and laughs came from another room. Then all broke down like with a sound of ice cracking.

Mr. Peter seemed to have enjoyed my service a lot and asked for more... but it was impossible for me to get a hard-on again, however hard he tried. He finally gave up and shrugged. I sincerely hoped I hadn't violated our contract.

So it was two o'clock. And I lay there naked. `I like the way you look like that.' And he liked to occasionally flick the soft cock or balls or just pinch the nipples a little as well. Then with a regretful look, he told me that I had to 'go a little early because they have to leave at four' and he didn't want anyone to sense something. O yes Sir.

I put the clothes and the cross back on. He pulled out of a fat wallet and picked out five $100notes.

`It is yours,' he said.

All of sudden I had a feeling of zero gravity. Perhaps I am going to ascend like a balloon. And the things surrounding me lost their perceivable existence. The ears of Mr. Peter shrunk, as well as his nose. The glasses enhanced their ability of magnifying. The whole head expanded like it was infused hydrogen. His trunk disappeared and three extra legs grew from the middle. O yeah, that's the octopus I had spent the night with. I burst out in a controlled hysterical laugh and ran down into the elevator. He seemed to be frightened and nervous shutting his door at once, wisely avoiding a possible public appearance on the front page.

It was 3:10 when I got out. The receptionist had changed but it seemed this hotel tended to employ people with a good sense of detecting. Receptionist the Second watched me leave while writing something on a small notepad.

That was all. I had done it. O yes, I know most of you will say I was stupid not to take my reward. I was. Then what? Mr. Peter was happy. Someone would perhaps be happy, though maybe not because of this, but he would not be disappointed. Is that what I want? Isn't that? And I? Well I have done what I had been advised to do and now it is finished and I shall be leaving. O don't worry I didn't feel bad, really... should I? Goodnight, ladies and gentleman, tonight's show is over.