Surrogate Boyfriend

Even I, bail jumper, itinerant worker, tramp, male escort, couldn't help thinking: 'What fucking honor?' Kay had more to tell.

"After the school year was over, I transferred to another school, out of state. That's when I started wearing a sports bra just so my breasts wouldn't attract attention again. And in law school, I kept on wearing the sports bra."

"And you kept on hiding your luscious breasts at ABC?"

"Yes Randall. Sometimes I think maybe it wasn't such a good idea. I'm not so pretty. Maybe there'd be some guy who'd get so worked over my breasts, he'd overlook the other. Anyway, now it's not really an option. I can't just suddenly show up for work in a normal bra. Everybody would think I'd had a tit job."

Kay really had a problem. Here was a chance to make use of my military experience (such as it was) -- advise her to make a frontal feint and attack on the flank. "Kay, what you need to do is distract people's attention away from your tits while you gradually let them get bigger?"

She looked at me like I'd just announced that I'd been born on Mars.

In the few months of working for Jolene, I'd learned a few things about style, good taste and the importance of appearance. Right when I first saw Kay in the TGI Fridays, it was pretty apparent that she was definitely not into makeup and style -- almost like she was doing her utmost to be a plain Jane. It had crossed my mind then that with her facial type, given a good facial makeup and hair styling, she'd remind me of Charlie, aeronautical engineer and Maverick's girlfriend in Top Gun. In other words, Kay had potential.

"Kay, you need to work on your grooming. But start slow. Get your eyes done. Eyebrows and lashes first." I told her about the place where Jolene sent me. "Then try some facial makeup, very light at first. At that point, then switch to a softer sports bra so your tits look a little bigger, just a little so it's not too noticeable. People might notice that your tits look bigger but they'll just think that maybe they didn't see you so well before. Then you get your hair styled maybe even tinted. Switch to an even softer sports bra. After a few weeks, get some hair fillers for more volume. Don't do it all at once, do all this over maybe 6 months. Then switch to a regular bra but just don't pick one that makes little tits look like big tits." Taking a breast in my hand and hefting it, I continued, "you don't need to exaggerate these beauties in the least bit."

An appreciative smile replaced her amazed look, but I could see there was still lots of doubt. Maybe she really didn't want to look good. Lots of feminists think that way. Men are supposed to admire them for their deep intellect and the wise shit they say. Trouble is, in the male mentality, a man's most important organ is his dick. Hell, in German they even have an expression that says just that: 'Sein bestes Stueck.' Men think through their dicks, or at least they think through what they'd like to do with their dicks.

"Randall, I'm just not into ass kissing. If that's what it takes to make partner, then fuck them."

I couldn't believe my ears. Here was the woman who'd paid me 600 bucks so I'd pretend to be her lover and fuck her and who'd gone to a switcheroo party, all to enhance her chances of getting promoted! And she's not into ass kissing? I couldn't help thinking about Audrey, the businesswoman client from California. Her sexy good looks hadn't kept her from running a big company and de-balling male subordinates. And her hard-as-nails management style hadn't kept her from fucking like a mink either. It occurred to me that Audrey could teach Kay a thing or two so I got to thinking about how things worked for her.

"Randall, why are you so quiet? Did I upset you?"

"Look Kay, think how it goes down when you walk in to a negotiation with an adversary. You walk in looking like a plain Jane, the other side thinks that with your plain looks, you must be a real smart bitch to get where you are. Their minds sharpen up, they get real careful and you've got some tough dealing ahead of you. On the other hand, you walk in nicely made up: eyebrows, eyelashes, facial makeup; wearing a fashionable conservative business suit with nice protrusions on your chest; your male adversaries are going to be thinking you got your job because your boss likes having nice stuff around for after hours entertainment. They're going to get careless. You play your cards right, you can stick it in'em and break it off."

"Randall, really. You don't know some of the characters in my business."

In spite of the doubt in her words, from the look on her face, I knew I'd made an impression so I went on. "Kay, besides there's the physiological aspect. When you look like I think you could look like, men are gonna get hard-on's. You know what that means? Blood that they need in their brains is gonna be in their dicks."

For the first time since meeting her in the TGI Fridays, she actually laughed -- really laughed, even giggled. "Randall, and does holding my tit give you a hard-on?" Without waiting for an answer, she reached for my groin. "Oooh, it does, doesn't it?"

My answer was another surge of blood and a gasp as I felt her tug my foreskin back. Letting go, she started to caress the head, but since I wasn't completely hard, the foreskin came back and got in the way. "Kay, hold it back on the shaft with one hand and use the other to....." Kay, was an avid learner and I was rock hard in nothing flat. Like most inexperienced hand job givers, she started the hard pumping way too soon and I had to slow her down and teach her a few moves.

When she stopped and nuzzled up to kiss, I thought that maybe now she wanted to be fucked. But I was wrong. "Randall, what I did -- had to do with Robbie -- I don't know -- but. Would you.....?"

So she wanted to give head. I said 'yes' with a wag of my tongue in her mouth, knowing of course that she'd be needing some instructions with that too. As I'd expected, her concept of giving head was to take me in her mouth snugly and bob her head up and down. I taught her to surround me with mouth open wide, breath heavily and lick the head, letting her tongue linger on the hole and go round and round on the corona.

There's something extremely erotic about giving instructions and watching the student do the practical work and I knew pretty quickly that I wouldn't last long enough to give her a complete course in blow jobbing. With a "Kaaayy!" and some hard breathing, I let her know the lesson was coming to a climax.

"Randall, is it...., do you want...?"

I somehow gasped out that it was up to her. With her lips snugly on my dick, she not only bobbed up and down rapidly, she also sucked! I had a mini-flashback of one whore the Army construction engineers called '125cfm.' (For you white collar readers, 125cfm refers to performance of an air compressor used in construction and mining -- 'cfm' meaning cubic feet per minute.)

I wondered if Kay would also do what the troops said of Miss 125cfm. It turned out she did. After I came, Kay kept on sucking and completely milked me out. I never heard the troops say whether Miss 125cfm swallowed or not. Kay didn't, but she didn't spit out either, at least not right away. Instead she crept back up and hesitated with her mouth over my chest. It came close to grossing me out when she deposited the whole works, semen and spit, on my chest. But she more than made up for that by using her big tits to spread the sticky mess all over my chest. Then she collapsed on top of me.

The next morning I called a cab and on the way home the whole business went through my head. When Jolene recruited me, I'd imagined male escort work to be escorting some lonely older woman to a play, museum, restaurant, etc. and then getting her to ask for some extra service for which she'd pay me a 'tip' in an agreed-upon amount. Remembering Denise, the cardiologist's wife, that's how my career had started.

However, the character of the dates had somehow mutated to where I felt more and more like some kind of therapist. And real conscience conflicts had developed, like after the date with Wasim's wives. That got me to thinking about how I still hadn't decided what to do about that. After all, as far as I knew, Wasim was still traveling around the country carrying money to unsavory characters who might drive a truck into a street party, shoot up a disco or worse.

Last night had been something else, actually a whole new ballgame or more new ballgames. Acting out the part of a realtor boyfriend in a long term relationship, participating in a switcher party and at the end giving personality therapy -- not to mention sexual therapy. And giving Kay a pussy trim -- what was that in politically correct terminology? Female grooming?

Life would be a lot simpler if more clients were like Denise -- older, overweight and under-fucked.

You read about people who get bored with their jobs because of monotony and lack of opportunity for creativeness. I sure couldn't complain about monotony. Just the opposite actually, and the date with Audrey came to mind. What guy with a so called 'normal' job ever has to play the part of a stallion and canter around on all fours chasing a woman who's pretending to be a mare?

I wondered what would come my way next and when. Down deep, my wish was for Denise or at least a Denise type -- uncomplicated and appreciative, just needing nice friendly service.

Ever careful and not wanting anyone to see where I could be found, I had the cab drop me off a few blocks from the strip mall where I lived over Marvin's bike shop. Tired as I was, I knew it was better to go on a bike ride now and sleep later when the day got hotter.

I was really beat to shit. The day before it had been TGI Fridays (thank God it's Friday). After the exertions with Kay and Shelley, all the stress pretending to be a hot shot realtor and the personal counseling, today was surely 'thank God it's Saturday.'

Already tired after riding the half hour it took to get to Gwynns Falls Park, I wasn't in the park very long before I started looking for a picnic spot to lie down and doze. Finding one, I leaned the bike against the table and laid down on the bench. I woke up to see two no-nonsense guys wearing suits and sunglasses looking down at me. As soon as I sat up, suit 1 sat next to me while suit 2 kept standing as if on guard in case I ran.

Suit 1: "Mr. Chester, we'd like a word with you."

To my dumb look, he continued, "You are Arthur Chester, aren't you? Or'd you forget? We understand. You been sleeping. You get woken up. You forget the name you're going by now. We understand."

My asshole slammed shut with a crash. Then I knew -- the gray Suburban in front of the J&B office! I'd thought then that it might be mob types muscling in on Jolene's business. But these guys didn't have the mob look and besides, they were too polite.

"Oh, by the way, I'm Special Agent Fanton, FBI." He flashed his ID and badge and hand swinging towards the guy standing, "And this is Special Agent (SA) Wolmershouse."

I was thinking about giving these guys the slip and running off into the woods when the gray Suburban came creeping along. Fanton continued, "Don't even think about running Art. My partner is a trained athlete and so is the driver of the Suburban."

They must have heard my asshole slam shut because Wollmershouse went on, "Look Art, no need to be alarmed. We're not interested in your sleazy background. Step into the car please, it'll be more comfortable in there."

The side door opened and they motioned me to the middle seat row where another suit was waiting. "Good morning Art, I'm Supervising Special agent (SSA) Rickard. Have a seat and make yourself comfortable."

I sat next to him and didn't say a word.

Rickard opened with a bad cop line: "We're not interested in all the shit you been into. We're interested in, what shall I say, one of your Janes. Or do you call your customers Janets? Surely, you got your own vocabulary in that slimy escort business." Then with a cynical laugh, "J&B Associates! What a joke. Like it was some kind of respectable business that shows rich people and companies how to get outta paying taxes."

By then I knew the cat was out of the bag and I'd regained some composure. "Actually, we say clients." Rickard, playing the part of the bad cop, gave another cynical horse laugh. Remembering that lots of FBI agents are lawyers, I added, "Why not 'clients'? That's what lawyers call their customers and they fuck them too -- in more than one way."

SSA Rickard must have been a lawyer because his face got red and his arm tensed. I thought he might take swing at me but he got himself under control in time. Turning to SA Fanton, "Get this slimeball out of my sight!"

So outside we went, Fanton, Wollmershouse and I. Walking back towards the picnic table, Fanton took up the good cop routine. "Look, we know some guys get into a bind and have to do stuff they wouldn't otherwise do. So what's your story? Divorce? Lose your job? Fight with the boss? Debts?"

So it wasn't about my jumping bail. I should have known the FBI wouldn't send four people after a guy who jumped bail a couple decades earlier. And I doubted that they'd want to do the job of the Baltimore PD vice squad. What'd they want? Why the good cop, bad cop routine? Did Jolene have a human trafficking sideline and they wanted me to help nail her?

To Fanton's questions, I just shrugged my shoulders so he went on. "Look Art, we just wanna have a friendly talk. SSA Rickard's actually a nice guy. Can't you be a little more polite?"

I shrugged my shoulder's again. Back in the Suburban, SSA Rickard forced a smile. "Are you going to be seeing Fatim anytime soon?" Now I knew what this was all about. The FBI must have been watching Wasim even before my date with Fatim.

I put on a confused look. Rickard tilted his head sideways and gave me a condescending look before holding out his hand to Fanton, who pulled out a stack of photos and handed them over. Gloating, Rickard showed me the first. There I was with Fatim in the Wit & Wisdom bar at the Four Seasons. I wondered how far their photo collection would go. The next one showed Fatim with her middle finger of one hand going into the tube formed by the curled fingers of the other hand. Then the one of Fatim sliding a pile of bills over to me. Then Fatim and I, hand in hand, leaving the bar.

Rickard had been handing each successive photo back to Fanton. Showing one of Fatim and I entering the lift, he asked. "You want to see more?"

I shrugged my shoulders as noncommittally as I could.

The next photo showed Fatim unlocking the door to the 8th floor suite. Rickard still held a pretty good sized stack of photos. Could it be? Had they prepped the suite and recorded me in action with Fatim and Gul?

Then SSA Rickard made his threat. "Look Art, we don't need to give this stuff to Baltimore PD Vice. It's up to you though."

Of course, they wanted something from me and it had to have something to do with Wasim and his travels. I tried playing dumb by being a smart alec. "I didn't know I had that much influence with the FBI."

"You don't dickhead. We have influence over you. Your choice, Art. Cooperate with us or we throw you to the wolves. And your pimp boss, Jolene, she can't save your slimy skin. You see, she hasn't been greasing palms with the Baltimore PD. Even worse, she's somehow managed to not buy protection from the local Italian cultural association. So you see Art, we got you by your ass, by your cajones -- oops I mean caglioni."

I couldn't see any way out except to ask what the hell they wanted. Actually, having been shown the photos of me with Fatim, I knew it had something to do with Wasim. "So what is it you think I can do for you?"

"Look you immoral shithead, we're not talking about what we think you can do for us. This discussion is about what you are going to do for us. Am I getting through to you?"

I gave in. "So what is it you want me to do?"

In an instant, SSA Rickard's expression transformed from contempt to smug satisfaction. Then in a condescending tone, "Art you are going to help us nail Wasim Al Manwari. Now I want you to sit down over there on that picnic bench with SA Fanton and SA Wollmershouse. They'll fill you in on exactly what you're going to do. Okay?"

I nodded agreement, the side door opened and Rickard waved me off without a handshake.

On the picnic bench Fanton and Wollmershouse sat on either side of me. Fanton explained that they were sure Wasim was bringing money to various Islamic mischief makers around the country, but so far they hadn't been able to follow him and find out where. Tracking the finances hadn't worked because Wasim did everything with cash. Not only cash, but cash in the form of used bills with non-consecutive serial numbers. The FBI wanted to nail Wasim and they wanted to know where he sourced the used cash. The amounts they thought he was disbursing were way too large for a bank not to report.

Finally Fanton got to the point. "So look Al, here's the problem. When Wasim goes on one of his cash carrying missions, we never find out in time to get a tail on him. Under some front corporation name, he rents a suite at some big luxury hotel and parks his wives there. If we ask the embassy where he is, they say in a diplomatic sort of fashion that he's shacked up fucking one or all his wives. In reality he's out bringing money to Islamic assholes all over the country."

Something sounded funny to me. "So if you got trouble tracking numb nuts Wasim, how'd you get me on candid camera with his wife at the Four Seasons?"

"Luck. Somebody on another op thought you were somebody else and started taking pictures. We ran the photos through face recognition. Your face was a dead end but Fatim's was in the system connected to Wasim."

Finally some good news! My face wasn't in the facial recognition data base! Fearing I might show too much joy at not being in their system, I kept quiet and waited for them to go on.

Wollmershouse broke the silence. "We're not gonna give you anymore on our intel. You only gotta know what you gotta do -- period! Period, fucking period."

I just looked at him.

Fanton realized Wollmershouse had gotten out of line and in a phony friendly tone, "Okay look Art, next time as soon as you get a -- whatever you call it -- a date, a job, I don't know. As soon as you know you're gonna see Fatim, you call this number."

After showing me the number on a scrap of paper, Fanton told me to memorize it. I did and he went on with some does and don'ts.

Then the question hit me. If face recognition came up blank, how had they connected me to J&B and Jolene?

The two SSA's looked at each other. Wollmershouse was the one to answer. "Your hair. The frosting. It was on our photos. We knew you were an escort, all we had to do was look at photos on escort service websites. Hell it was easy. You were the only one with that frosting."

Under my breath, I swore at Jolene whose idea it was for me to get that Mitt Romney look. Then it hit me, why didn't they just get Jolene to call whenever Wasim made a booking? Fortunately the answer came to me before I could ask the two SA's. All Jolene had to do was grease some palms at the Baltimore PD and the FBI wouldn't have any way to pressure her. If I tried to duck out, they'd sic the Baltimore PD on me, or even worse do some digging into my background.

I knew Wollmershouse had something else on his mind and it had nothing to do with the little 007 job they wanted me to do. "So this raghead bitch Fatim picked you out of the J&B stable, because of your frosted hair? Or because of the LH734? I always heard those raghead men don't have much hanging. Did Fatim just wanna know how a big one feels?" He laughed like he thought he'd just created a joke for Saturday Night Live.