Page 5 of Billion Dollar Love: Manlove Edition

Mr. Ito stands. Zips his trousers. He walks around me again. Inspecting his toy for damaged parts? Does he still take pleasure in what he sees? Does it make him proud to see this broken little thing covered in scratches and bruises, this angel he’d bought to be his slut?

He walks toward the wall to put on that God-damned mask.

****

The summer camp’s success made us overconfident. We planned for a little Off-Broadway Burlesque, strictly adult, between Halloween and Christmas. Plenty of interest. Not enough donors. When it was clear we wouldn’t make our Kickstarter goals, when we knew we’d spend the season leasing our space to companies with better fundraisers, we headed out to the bar to drink off the humbling, if familiar, failure.

It hit Vanessa the hardest. In a few weeks every taxi, every bus, every subway would have a picture of women who looked exactly like her. So, in the bar, though she laughed, bright-eyed and smiling, there was too much force. She knew how to smile when her toes bled and her ankle was fractured, but her voice had no such training. The prospect of facing the holiday season without a project devastated her.

I wouldn’t have kept up the fight for myself, but I couldn’t sit across from my friend’s desolation and not try to do something for her.

So, I sent Mr. Ito an e-mail in the bar. Professional. Just reminding him who we were and explaining this project. By then, I’d lost the specifics of his face, but I still remembered the way his gaze wandered over my body. I mentioned the more adult nature of this project to pique his interest.

A moment later, while Mercy sang at the top of his voice some snatch of tragic and relevant opera, I got a text from Mr. Ito. Can we meet someplace private and discuss a 10k donation?

I nearly dropped my beer.

Van noticed. “Who the hell’s texting you, Harp? We’re all here.”

I stared at the message in a kind of terror. Ten-thousand-dollar donation. Someplace private. Sordid, obviously. I couldn’t tell Van, because … she’d make me do the sensible thing, the legal thing, and tell him no.

“Ah, it’s Mom.” I pocketed the phone. “The upstairs neighbor’s cat just kicked it and Mom’s being dramatic. You’d think the mangy piece-of-shit was the neighborhood’s mascot.”

Is that really how quickly I made the decision? Indecent, borderline illegal, but a ten-thousand-dollar donation. And Mr. Ito… He’d been hot … hadn’t he? Maybe I was reading into it. I couldn’t ask Joanna— her mind would go to the gutter. Scissors would tell Van. Mercy and Faizz were useless to me...

But Carlos could be objective. He could keep a secret.

I pushed out of the booth. “Sweetness, we’re out of beer and wings. Let’s get some.”

Scissors called. “Don’t make him pay, Harp. He’s gonna go broke feeding us.”

I shrugged at her gracefully, and Carlos waved off her concern, then insisted on paying for another pitcher and bowl of wings. While we waited, I showed him the text.

He’d been absolutely floored. Damned uncomfortable as I told him everything I remembered about Mr. Ito. Mostly that he was rich as hell, taller than any Japanese man had a right to be, and had made the summer camp happen. I didn’t want to piss off Mr. Ito by misinterpreting his text.

“I’m sure that’s what it is.” I’ve never met a Hispanic man who blushed like Carlos. “ELLs miswrite things all the time.”

“ELL?”

He looked away, curling his shoulders tight to his ears. “English Language Learners. He probably meant … why don’t you just ask him where he wants to meet? If it’s his house or something weird, say no.Or bring Van along and pretend you didn’t understand.”

I glanced over at Van, studying the bubbles in her beer, unguarded, ignoring her friends.

When Mr. Ito sent me back the address to the 5th Ave. condo tower, I didn’t bring Van.

And I didn’t say no.

****

I’ve been dozing when Mr. Ito crouches over me to gently unlace the hood.

Just fucked and lying on his floor like a used condom. I should not be relaxed. This is a performance. He’s an audience. He’s a patron. He’s—

He’s lingering.

Typically, it’s a quick, “Thank you, Mr. Brosh. Get home safe.”

Tonight was too short. He wants more. His lips graze my neck, and my entire body shudders with anticipation I should not be feeling.

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