=12=

There is a kind of lobby downstairs, or what's left of a lobby, and a woman behind a desk. She’s a Puerto Rican; no, a Mexican, an illegal, a short dark woman, hirsute, slightly hunchbacked, with large arms, and heavy, canine features. She speaks a highly-personalized mix of English and Spanish, this all-but-incomprehensible polyglot orchestrated unhelpfully with emphatic gestures. She squeezes a stubby cigarette between dirty fingers with broken, chewed-up nails painted forest green and decorated with golden dots representing the constellation of Orion, the Hunter.

This woman always seems to be talking to someone else, someone off-stage, as it were, presumably in a backroom behind the desk, and she is doing so now, as Neena asks for the number and key to the room that has been reserved for her as planned. Somewhere above her in this dilapidated establishment, the man who reserved her room is waiting in this room, sitting in the dark, also as planned.

Upon hearing (intuiting, perhaps? Anticipating? We do not actually hear Neena’s voice) Neena’s inquiry, the woman behind the desk doesn't turn completely around, doesn’t look at Neena directly, but keeps her eyes deflected, her gaze oblique, straying off to the side, as if she had been and were still looking at something else that has caught her eye instead. In fact, there is nothing to see in the direction in which she pretends to be looking, a wall, a few nail holes, a bit of damaged wood from something that used to hang there, maybe a shelf, or some kind of box in which to put a phone, although such a box for such a purpose has been our of fashion for half-a-century or more.

There is a general sense about the matron’s demeanor that suggests an attitude of purposeful inattention, as if, from long experience, she understands that it is better if she genuinely misses a lot of what is happening right under her very nose in the event that she is later questioned by the authorities, whatever their authority, which has happened often enough before, and will undoubtedly happen often enough again.

She is dressed, exactly as one might imagine, in an oversized man's shirt, perhaps her husband’s, flannel and unbuttoned down the front, under which she wears a t-shirt, depicting a cute fluffy kitten suspended by its little claws from a wire accompanied by the slogan “Hang in there!” She is not wearing a bra, her breasts are disproportionately enormous, but this is only a side observation (“only a side observation,” eh, Pinker, you horndog, you…), and her lower half is clad in a pair of cheap department store stretch pants. Their color: burnt orange.

It might be wondered why we felt the need to describe in such detail this seemingly inconsequential character, whose sole function in the present narrative is to slide a key across a plank of wood; to that, we have no satisfactory answer. Indeed, there is no reason to describe this woman any further, at least not at present, except to say that her black hair (pulled severely back from her bulbous forehead), which, in spite of her relatively advanced middle-age, has only a few long oily threads of silver wired through it, is thinning along the hairline in a slightly inverted u-shape. 

Yet, in spite of this incipient balding, her lack of hygiene, culture, general intelligence, and more besides that goes unmentioned, she is still not altogether an unattractive woman (for godsakes, Pinker, how on earth can this possibly be?! Are you even paying attention to what you’re writing?) In fact, this woman radiates the overall impression to those attracted to her type, a feeling which is best summed up in these words: "if not for certain unfortunate circumstances and some extremely poor life choices this might have been one fine piece of hoochie-coochie…" (Un-freaking-believable.)

One is aware, or, perhaps, naturally led to the idea, by this woman’s general manner, the “vibe” she gives off—an attitude of sublimated aggression, a mocking-lax-appraising-predatory something or other encoded into her very mannerisms and gestures, and that informs her overall attitude towards Neena, in whatever way it is these subtle impressions are communicated, as they doubtlessly are—that this woman, let's call her Juanita (please consult a Spanish name dictionary, Pinker. This just won’t do), would consent, if not eagerly, then matter-of-factly, to a sadomasochistic lesbian encounter with Neena, either alone or as part of a threesome, if invited (and paid handsomely to do so) by whoever it is that has already paid for the room, in this case a man, older, handsome, and obviously well-to-do, (although she could not describe him any better, later, to the authorities, having kept her eyes pointedly averted from him, as is her custom, as was noted), who arrived earlier, went up the stairs, and is now apparently awaiting Neena, all as previously planned, or so that is how it is meant to appear to one not paying close enough attention.

This invitation, by the way, if it had been proffered, would have surely been extended in the usual roundabout way, with a discrete indirection, all very English, mind you, and involving an elegantly executed exchange of money at some point, a few cash bills, in the larger denominations, but nothing too out of the ordinary, fifties probably, a sum large enough to make at least an effort towards a pretense of respect; in short, the idea would be to avoid any implication that either woman is a prostitute.

For this sum, Juanita (I can’t abide it, Pinker) would follow Neena up to the room after the appropriate amount of time had elapsed, all previously agreed upon, during which time the man would supposedly have finished preparing Neena for whatever role in the proceedings the matron was to play.

The plan was this: entering the room with her pass-key, the matron would, without a word, proceed to lay into a bound and supine Neena with a crop or whip provided for the purpose, thrust handle-first and spooling out from Neena’s anus. She might then fuck Neena with a large strap-on dildo, lying near to hand in its harness, after which she would force Neena to perform an extended session of cunninlungus. All of this would take place while the unknown man sits quietly in a corner, legs elegantly crossed, hands folded in his lap, as if he were watching a dress-rehearsal. But a dress-rehearsal for what, that is the question.

Anyway to Jaunita’s vague disappointment, the invitation is not extended this time. For whatever reason, her services in this regard are not required. Too bad, she thinks, she wouldn’t have minded giving it to that stuck-up looking gringa, gratis, that’s Spanish for free, shithead….(yikes, where did all this come from? So hostile! Perhaps we should have her go up to the room, after all! It might have been interesting…) this is what she’s thinking, this dark, dwarfish matron, who merely looks askance at Neena as she informs her of the location of the room in which the faceless partner of her liaison, for want of a better description, awaits her to do god-only-knows-what (God and us, eh Pink? Pretty select company, I’d say heh-heh).

Neena doesn’t catch the mumbled number, the matron having muttered it quickly, distractedly, sotte voce, in her deliberately strange polyglot patois, forcing Neena to ask her to repeat it three or four times, which the woman does, purposely thickening her diction, exaggerating her already exaggerated and faux accent that much more with each repetition, feigning at the same time impatience and incredulity that Neena still fails to understand. In addition, the matron doesn’t repeat herself immediately, but makes Neena wait a little longer each time, delaying her answer with an uncomfortably long interval, interrupting herself, as she pretends to be carrying on a simultaneous conversation with the unseen companion in the next room (her husband?), who, from the sound of it, is watching a television game show, which sounds familiar to Neena, even in the Spanish language in which it is being broadcast (cf. in this regard the once inexplicably popular game show hosts, Wink Martindale, Chuck Woolery, Jack Barry, etc).

And, as if that were not enough (oh Lord, Pinker, isn’t it though?), the matron purposely gives Neena the wrong room number, the number of a room three doors down the hall and one floor above the one which she actually seeks (or thinks she’s seeking), if, for no other reason, than to spitefully imagine Neena knocking on one wrong door after another and having to explain herself, red-faced and with the usual inadequate apologies and lame excuses for her unwelcome interruption—“this overdressed puta looking down her gringa nose at me,” etc. (Jeez, Pinker, this is one angry wetback you’ve got there!)—to the swarthy, malevolent characters who invariably answer, rough trade every inch of them, hostile and suspicious, openly appraising Neena as a potential victim who has fallen so propitiously into their lap, so to speak. The sparrow God didn’t see…

Ha!