Free Spent by Antonia Crane

halfway down the stairs when cold water soaked the back of my faded Pat Benatar shirt and mangled peonies splattered my platform boots. I turned around. Marya, the mellow, soft butch with deep dimples and bloodshot eyes—a lifeguard at an Elementary school—was shaking with rage. I slammed her front door shut, rattling the stained glass tulips, and vowed to do whatever the fuck I wanted with whomever the fuck I wanted—girlfriend be damned.
    In Private Pleasures, I pushed the silver button which signaled to clients “I’m here,” but no one was waiting for me. Might as well masturbate. Then again, I could be paid to masturbate. When men watched me do dildo shows in the cage, I felt like I had a purpose.
    Just as I pulled the oily cabbage rolls from their white takeout box, I heard the steady click of money being counted by the machine. The red digital display showed twenty-five bucks: my tip was five bucks on the twenty. The curtain lifted and a tall man with a wide forehead and noble nose stood in front of me. He waved delicately.
    â€œHi handsome. On your lunch break?” I said. The tall man wore a suit and a beige fedora. He stood in front of me but didn’t speak. He had a rolling black suitcase next to him. Must be staying at the Hilton , I thought. He removed his clothes with care like Mister Rogers. He hung his pressed shirt on a fancy wooden hanger and placed it on the door handle. He got naked except for the hat. I could see his busy fingertips moving in the dark. He held scissors and a couple of large black garbage bags that he lifted out of his suitcase, and he began to cut the bags until he had one big flat piece of plastic. He taped the flat pieces together with tape and attached the whole thing to the wall behind him, like a tarp.
    He bent over again then popped up holding an enema bag. He held it close to the window and dangled it like infomercial ladies do with porcelain kittens. I placed my hands on my cheeks with feigned surprise. The red digital clock buzzed, alerting the end of our time and the window slid down with its raspy crash. “Oh no,” I said. I heard an elbow smacking the door and the rustle of legs hit the wall. He put more money in and the window rose. Our eyes were glued together again.
    He showed me that his enema bag was filled with water and he held it up with chalky white gloves. He placed his water bottle down onto the floor. I smiled politely at him. He smiled back with the same smile he gave his five-year-old son on mornings when he’d slice a ripe banana and toss it on top of his Rice Krispies. The same smile he gave his wife after a kiss on the forehead—the same smile I gave Marya that morning.
    He inserted the enema bag into his behind and began pumping in the water. I could tell that he was getting full because his expression changed from thrilled to relieved to nirvana, then he cringed. “Oh my!” I said, trying to sound repulsed instead of delighted. I leaned back onto my elbows to watch him from my cramped glass box, cold and slim as a coffin. I opened my chilly legs and turned my rug-burned knees towards him. His eyes were closed. From the cage, my only requirement was to watch him—but I doubted my every gesture. I reached for the lube, wet my fingers with it, and moved them towards my pussy.
    â€œDo you want me to play with myself?”
    He shrugged his shoulders.
    His expression moved to bliss again, and his forehead bumped against the glass. He vibrated and jerked with peppy violence—as if he were a dancing vessel to be filled up and emptied. His hat tipped and fell off, and his left hand held his cock. He bit the trial size packet of lube with his teeth and set it down on the ledge in front of us. I placed my palm on the glass for a half second, but he kept pulling away from the window—stretching the membrane between us.
    Moments later, he came with his hand on his cock and his eyes to the ceiling,