The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. Volume 3

Cat by Anya Wassenberg

The cell always rings when it’s hardest to get at, not just driving, but turning some tight corner or in the middle of an intersection. Here I’m trying to get into this goddamn parking spot at the golf course and it shrieks from inside my bag.

“Hello?”

“Cat? It’s Jimmy.”

“Jimmy? So what’s the good word?”

“Not just a word, Cat. I’ve got a special proposal for you today.”

“Just hang on a sec.” I steer with my left hand into an empty parking spot by the exit, setting the phone on the passenger seat while I manoeuvre the car into place. “OK, shoot.”

“This one’s video.”

“Video?”

“Cat, honey, I know what you think, and you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t something special.” Jimmy hesitates. Fucking videos, it’s no better than when I was working for the Agency, for Christ’s sake – I told him I was sick of giving blow jobs to ugly jerks. “This one’s a threesome, Cat, you and an older guy and some young chick. It’s $750 US for about three hours’ work, and the guy blows his load nowhere near you.”

“OK, so I’m listening.”

“You play the school principal, they wanted an attractive older woman and my first thought was you,” he says.

“I’m touched,” I reply with a short laugh, and Jimmy’s encouraged.

“It starts out with you on the phone, the guy’s supposed to be calling you about his daughter. Then he meets you at your place, it looks like you guys are going to get into it. There’s some penetration, but only a couple of minutes. Then the young chick comes in, his ‘daughter’, and the two of you start doing her.”

I laugh out loud.

“Great story. Somebody’s getting paid to write this shit?” I ask between chuckles.

“Hell, I guess they are, honey. I sure didn’t make it up. And like I said, he cums all over her face, nowhere near you. You’re at the other end. She’s a real sweetheart, this girl. Nineteen years old, very pretty.”

“When’s this supposed to happen?”

“Next month, either Buffalo or TO.”

“Well, OK, do some more talking with these people. I’ll call you when I get home and let you know what my schedule looks like.”

“Great, Cat,” Jimmy gushes. “I told you it was something special.”

“OK, Jimmy. I guess you can call it special if you want,” and I laugh again. “I’ll get back to you later.”

“Right. Talk soon.” And he hangs up.

I set the phone down on the seat and finally get the car straightened out, looking around as I do. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Niagara-on-the-Lake. Niagara-on-the-Take, as some of the locals call it. Kindve an upscale party town, with some nice hotels and fine dining along with stores full of expensive clothes and curiosities. Its where I used to come to hide out, back in the days when I was working for the Agency over in Niagara Falls. Because where the Falls is neon and new hotels, Niagara-on-the-Lake is all small town Victorian quaintness, even with all the tourists. To get to the golf course you leave the main drag, the press of cars and humanity, turn off to a side street and follow the river to the club house. The oldest golf course in North America, so they say. So Randy used to tell me, at any rate. Randy the travelling salesman – lab equipment or something like that, he used to try and describe it to me sometimes. A regular from back in the days. Sold lab equipment all over the place but somehow he knew about every golf course from Niagara Falls to Windsor to Ottawa.

There’s a foursome heading by me as I get out of the car and lock up, they pass me on their way to the club house.

“She still looks good,” the youngest at mid forty or so says appreciatively.

He’s looking at my car, a 97 Cutlass Supreme SL, fully loaded and still gleaming white. Flawless in the bright sunshine.

“She’s holding up pretty well,” I agree with a smile at all four of them.

This time, he’s looking at me.

“I’ll say!”

It elicits a laugh from me and his three compadres too. I hesitate, fiddling with keys while I let them get to the clubhouse before me, get settled at a table to order drinks and forget about me and my car. That’s all I need when I’m trying to do a job, for Christ’s sake, is a bunch of holidaying yuppies trying to get naughty while the wives are maxing out credit cards on imported linens and china. After a few minutes, I make my way in quietly, pulling up a seat at the end of the bar.

God, and it does take me back. Waiting for Randy at this very same bar, then a drink before heading to the hotel room. At least a dozen times over about a year and a half. He’d introduce me to local businessmen. They must have been used to Randy’s ways, they never batted an eyelash as his arm snaked around my waist or a hand would drop nonchalantly on my thigh. Maybe they didn’t even know he was married, though. Randy was like a lot of guys. He lived his life in little compartments and nobody really had a look at what was in all of them at once. The last while, just before I quit the biz, he used to hire me for whole weekends and we’d do it all – five star restaurants, plays at the Shaw Festival. I mean, if I was ever going to fall for a date, it would have been Randy, hands down. But, as always with these situations, it worked because we both knew the deal.

She clears her throat again, the bartender, and I finally let myself get pulled out of the memory.

“Sorry,” and I smile, that one that you use on other women. “I guess I’m lost in space. I’ll have a Caesar, please,” and I smile again.

“No problem,” and she smiles back.

I turn to look out the glass doors; from the lounge you can see the games starting and ending as the summer evening just begins to fade. She brings me my drink a few minutes later and I fiddle with the lime. My buddies from the parking lot are happily immersed in noisy conversation about the game they’re about to play. There’s no one here I recognize. It seems strange. Then again, the guys I used to see here were weekday regulars, leaving the manager or maybe the wife in charge of the store while they’d sneak out for a round. On a Thursday night in July it looks like a lot of out-of-towners.

“Can you tell me what time it is?” I ask my pleasant bartender.

She glances at her wrist.

“About twenty to nine,” she says.

“Thanks.”

He was supposed to start between seven and seven thirty, this guy, and it’s only nine holes. So if he’s not here now it should be any time. The minutes tick by as I sip on my Caesar and sit quietly, unobtrusively for now. I order a second drink somewhat reluctantly after half an hour. It’s not recommended, getting drunk when you’re trying to outsmart somebody, and that’s all this really is. But, on the other hand, they won’t just let me sit here.

“Waiting for someone?” she asks while handing me the glass.

“No,” I answer. “I used to come here, some years ago. Maybe four of five. I was in town on some business, and I just thought I’d drop by and reminisce.”

This time my smile is a little more irregular, more genuine, and it’s accompanied by a rueful little sigh. It’s what happens when you’re silly enough to tell the truth. She answers something and turns to the next customer, but my eye has already caught them on the last green. It’s gotta be my boy Edward. Medium height, dark, wavy, extravagant hair. Same sunglasses as the picture. And the blond giant there has got to be the friend she mentioned. The wife, that is, she said to look out for the blond giant in Edward’s foursome.

I watch as they finish the round. I can’t tell by their faces who won, they’re all laughing.

“Could you watch my drink for a few minutes?” I ask the bartender.

“Sure.”

It’s timed just perfectly. I slide off my jacket as they’re entering the clubhouse, turn elegantly on my heels to take a slow, tight walk across the floor to the ladies’ room. The theatrics are necessary in this case. The guy’s here with his buddies, they just finished a round of golf and they want to drink and tell stories. Just sitting there at the bar and batting my eyelashes won’t work. But if he’s as much of a dog as the wife says, this should get his attention. And I do need to check the exterior at this point.

I stare back at myself from the mirror for a moment after I wash my hands, rubbing a smudge of mascara out from under my eyes. The make-up’s good still, it’s flawless. And the pink dress, well, I never liked it much, but other people seem to. Men always like it. Eye make-up and a tried and true outfit. A formula that’s never failed me yet. I walk back to my stool, stopping just for a second to open and look into my tiny purse as if I just thought of something. Push my hair back over my shoulder seductively. Look under my eyelashes for a reaction. Bingo. He’s looking right at me. And I smile back, this time the one that’s reserved for men.

I climb back on the stool, conscious of every move. Crossing my legs, leaning over to pick up my drink. The neckline of this dress hangs loosely, it’s a little too big upstairs to tell the truth, but it does afford flashes of titty for those in the right line of view. A few sips later, I look over at his table again. He’s the best-looking of the four. They usually are. His forearms are muscled, tanned, and he’s wearing probably the least geekiest outfit you can get away with on a golf course – a basic polo shirt and khakis. Nice watch, and a couple of sparkly rings, but not overdone. The blond guy, the friend he’s here with, he notices me looking and turns away quickly. Edward, he glances over to see why and we exchange looks again.

It’s hard not to smile at this point. This guy’s just way too easy. I mean, you marry the rich bitch and get a corner office in Daddy’s company – you’d think he’d be a little smarter. Three years, too. At least, she says it took her that long to figure it all out. I linger in his direction just a couple of seconds more, then turn back to the bar to take a drink. It doesn’t take him long.

“Four draught,” and the voice is right beside me. “Two Rickard’s and two Upper Canada.” I turn on cue to smile at him as she goes to get the drinks. “You live in town?” he asks me.

“No, just here on business today,” I answer with another smile.

“Oh, yeah? What kind of business would that be,” and he pauses with a little smile of his own, “if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Modelling,” I explain. “I do a lot of work as a model.”

“Really?” Now he’s really interested. They always are, it impresses them. It’s the greatest hook for all these married guys looking for a quick hit, especially when they find out what kind of modelling. And it’s true, as a point of fact, I do model part-time – more and more if Jimmy has his way. It’s important. You either have to tell the truth about this kind of stuff, or rehearse it until it sounds real. That way you have the details, the stories to tell when they want to know more.

“Yessir,” and I take a drink because it’s not much in the way of conversation.

The bartender brings the beers.

“Listen,” he says, “I’m opening my own restaurant soon. We might need models for some promos and things. You do hostessing? At private parties and functions?”

“Sure. I do…” and I wave my hand in the air “… lots of things.”

He laughs.

“Got a business card?”

“Yes, I do.”

I dig in my purse and draw out one of my cards. He takes it and smiles.

“Cat – figure and erotic modelling? Now I’m really interested.”

“That’s me,” I agree, skipping over the invitation in his last remark. Erotic modelling. Let him just think about that one for a while. You got a card?

“Oh, sure,” and he hands me one from his back pocket. Edward Deliotto.

“Edward,” and I reach to shake his hand.

“Ed,” and we shake, fingertips lingering just a second too long. “Actually, most people call me Eddie.”

“OK, Eddie, that’s great. But I think your friends are getting thirsty.”

He looks at his table, where the three of them are pointing and snickering.

“Yeah, right,” he laughs and heads back.

I watch him show the guys my card, they start a round of laughing and joking with each other. I drink up in ten minutes or so and slip back out to my car, pulling my cell phone from my purse.

“Santos Investigations.”

“Yeah, Davey? It’s Cat.”

“Hey, Cat. What’s the news?”

“Piece of cake, man, that Deliotto guy. Hook, line and sinker. I mean, I’ve only got a phone number so far, and he’s saying it’s business. But I’m sure business is the last thing on his mind. I should have it wrapped up in no time.”

“Good work. You’re the pro, man.”

“Not really, Davey, not any more,” and David chuckles as I hang up.

“Hello?”

“Oh. Hi. I was looking for Cat.”

“Yeah, this is Cat.”

“It’s Eddie. Remember? From the golf course. In Niagara-on-the-Lake.”

“Right. Eddie,” and now my mind’s racing to put all the pieces back into place. “So how are you?”

“Great, I’m just great,” he says, his voice more confident now. “I checked out your website, by the way. Nice, really nice.”

“Thanks,” and I’m never quite sure what to say.

“Are you busy Saturday?” he asks.

“No, why?”

“Do you sail at all? Do you like to? I have a boat at Niagara-on-the-Lake, the marina near Queen’s Landing, do you know it? Would you like to go? I can tell you about the restaurant, what I had in mind for work,” he says.

“Sure Eddie,” and I laugh a little, “we can talk about whatever you want.” He laughs too, after a slight hesitation.

I wake up early and leave with enough time to take the old route down highway 8. The day is splashed with a hard glitter from the sun as it makes its way across a mottled sky, all of it balanced by the cooler and quieter green of trees and fields. This way into the Niagara Peninsula is still beautiful, still retains much of its farmland charm. But ugly development is creeping in everywhere, and more and more of the orchards are giving way to acres of new housing and soul deadening sameness. I lived in the Falls during the lean years, before the Casino, and I have to say I liked it better. But I’m not such a hypocrite I don’t recognize that I’m just a tourist here too. Just part of the problem.

The wind lifting the hair from my face is warm, and it’s too impossibly gorgeous out here to be brooding about anything. After St Catharines and over the bridge, I slip off the highway again to wind down country roads, past houses with huge porches and gingerbread trim and estate wineries set in the fields. I can’t help the feeling I get – I still get – taking the drive into town. Like I was far away from the rest of the world and its problems, somewhere that, in spite of the prevailing tourist trade, always had an atmosphere all its own.

The marina is down on the river, behind Queen’s Landing, a five star hotel in the guise of a Georgian mansion. I have to park a few blocks away on a side street. A couple of minutes wandering around and I see Eddie down at the end of the pier. He waves as he spots me. I walk quicker to meet him. His smile is real, he reaches for my hand and kisses me on the cheek like an old friend. I hate it now when these guys are nice. I used to be able to keep my distance a lot better.

“Come on!” and he takes me by the hand.

It’s a lovely boat, 30ft or more if I’m not mistaken, a dark navy blue with white trim, and the name – Ariadne’s Thread.

“How literate,” I joke.

“Not my boat really. Belongs to the family.” Eddie jumps in, helping me and my bag. I fall against him and he takes his time steadying me, looks down at me with approval.

“You like the sailing outfit?” I ask. It’s white shorts and a bikini top, a pale yellow blouse knotted at the waist.

“I do.” He smiles wider. “I know I saw smoked oysters in the fridge when I was here on Wednesday. Champagne too.”

“Is that all we’re here to do?” and I’m kittenish, “Eat sex food? I thought this was business.”

“Oh, sure,” and Eddie’s sudden efficiency as he unties the boat and takes over the controls. I follow him into the cabin. “I thought we’d make it out to Burlington this afternoon. I can moor it at La Salle, and drive you back to your car.” He glances over at me quickly. “But I want to eat sex food too.”

I’m laughing and I really mean it. I’ve heard lots of lines over the years, men have told me lots of stories. But it doesn’t prevent me from responding now and then. Eddie seems like he’d be a lot of fun. The thing I have to keep in mind about decoy work, this guy isn’t the client. He’s supposed to think all of this is for real. After a while we’re both silent, making good time down the river to Lake Ontario. The land rises in rocky cliffs on either side. This is the nicest part of it here along this stretch, unspoiled by tourist helicopters or the Maid of the Mist, just blue water under the sun and the trees that cling to the cliffs. Time seems to have stopped, I have no idea how long we’ve been going. Just ahead the river widens into the lake, it stretches far to the horizon. Eddie’s doing something with the boat, it stops. He’s dropping the anchor.

We head for the deck, and he sits back in the sunshine with obvious pleasure.

“What a day,” he exults.

“I’m with you,” and I sit down near him, closing my eyes. I slip out of my blouse, and we’re quiet again for a few minutes. He moves closer to me, till his thigh is touching mine, casual like.

“Hungry?” he asks.

“Starving,” I tell him.

“Good. You do like smoked oysters?”

“Love them.”

“OK,” and he springs up again. “Be right back.”

There are strategies for moving things along quicker. Like sometimes when the date hesitates, or maybe you’re just getting tired of the small talk. In public places, natch, there are alternatives, maybe a little whisper in the ear, like “let’s go back to your room and fuck, honey,” or “God, I would love to wrap my lips around your cock, right now!” But nothing beats a visual for dramatic effect. A look around and there seems to be no other boats in the vicinity, no houses directly in view. I slip out of the rest of my clothes, and when Eddie comes up the stairs to the deck again I’m lying on my stomach wearing nothing but my sunglasses. I see him start, almost dropping the champagne bucket.

“I hope you don’t mind.” My voice is soft. “I hate tan lines.”

He laughs, then sets down the champagne bucket and a plate of goodies to open the bottle and pour us a glass. I take a sip, and a quick bite of the oysters. Eddie brings his glass to sit next to me again, and I finish my bubbly while he strokes my shoulder, down my back to my ass. Soft skin has always been one of my trademarks, and it’s been worth the time and money spent on it. He pets me just like you’d pet a cat, but I like this. I half close my eyes, rest my chin on my hands, and I could fall asleep in the sun. But Eddie’s not getting sleepy. He pours another round of champagne, and his petting turns to kisses. It goes on from there, down the steps and back inside on the plush carpeting of the cabin.

Most of the time, with these decoy jobs, I don’t end up in bed. Not unless I really like them. I mean, I’m not supposed to. Like, my God, that would be prostitution!! We just need a compromising enough position, whatever the wife needs to be sure the guy is really the dog she thinks he is. But here, I mean, I can’t exactly walk off the boat. And I’m liking this Eddie, he’s uncomplicated. Or at least he is with me.

Anyway, the whole day is spent naked, eating and boozing and fucking Eddie all over the boat. Fucking and sucking and licking every orifice of his, and of mine. Not such a bad job to have, on a Saturday afternoon in July. He’s like a child, he just wants to have a playmate. And he tells me all kinds of things about his life, about growing up in a small town up north, coming south to Hamilton.

“Supposed to be on my way to Toronto,” he says with a laugh, “but somehow I never left.”

I smile and laugh back, and listen wondering for about the millionth time what exactly it is about naked women that makes men want to spill their guts.

It’s early evening by the time we get back to the marina in Niagara-on-the-Lake.

“Hey, you promised me Burlington,” I protest as we jump off the boat. “And wasn’t this supposed to be about working at your restaurant?”

Eddie secures the boat, giggling like a school boy.

“You want Burlington that much, we can go next week. How about Monday? And don’t worry about the restaurant, there’ll be enough work there to keep you around for as long as you want.”

He’s charming, too charming. Too guileless.

“Sure Eddie. That would be great.”

He kisses me good-bye and we’re both still wrapped in that warm glow of physical closeness, giddy and faces creased into an unbreakable smile.

“Call me,” he says, and I promise to.

I walk back to my car slowly, get in and pull out of town. Fuck David anyway, and fuck the wife. They’ll get their report, sooner or later. But there’s no need to hang the man yet. The strangest thing, I’ve found, is the way some of these guys – like Eddie – actually give a shit about whether I’m having a good time or not. Whether I come, even. And I have to wonder how bad it could be to have a husband like that.

Admittedly, though, this is not my area of expertise.