"Are you Party2Night?" The woman asks holding open the door.
"Yes I am. I presume you are LonelyHRT?" I hold out my hand, but she moves aside to usher me in. I step inside and swallow hard trying to remove my heart from my throat. The smell of incense is overwhelming, and I take inventory of the dripping candles, Oriental scarves draped over the windows, and the king-sized bed that dominates the floor.
"I must be honest with you," I say trying to sound calm. "I've never done anything like this before."
"And you think I have?"
"No, no, I didn't mean that. I just mean I'm really nervous, and I'm afraid I won't give you your moneys worth."
"Your internet profile stated otherwise."
"Well... actually, I am an experienced lover. It's these types of situations. I'm not used to."
"Then, how about a drink to relax?"
"Sounds great." I turn and crawl onto the bed. The satin sheets feel cool to the touch, I can tell they are new by the creases in the fabric. I pull my shirt off and study the woman's figure as she pours me a drink: fake titts, perfect ass, and no wedding band.
My friend Giovanni convinced me to try escorting when he showed me a perk of the trade -- his new BMW. He described the women he serviced as, "Out of shape housewives, whose husbands are more turned on by work than their marriage." I smile uncontrollably as she removes her robe, I won't be needing the emergency Viagra.
She hands me the drink and I take a sip. It numbs my tongue and warms by throat as it goes down. Delicious. I raise the glass in approval and quickly drink the rest.
"You don't watch the news, do you?" She says rubbing my chest.
"Nah, it's too depressing."
"Then, you don't know about the missing prostitutes on Van Buren?"
"Oh that? Sure, I've read the headlines, but nothing for me to worry about, they were all women."
"Actually, some of them were women, but a few were transvestites."
"A few what?" I hear my words slur as the room starts to spin, I lie back on the bed unable to keep my eyes from closing.
I wake up on my back with straps around my wrists and forehead. The smell of damp earth fills the room. I think I'm in a cellar. I wait for my eyes to adjust, but it stays dark. I pull against the restraints and notice I can't feel my legs. I can't feel any sensation below my waste! I started to panic, thrashing back and forth on the cold table until I lay limp from exhaustion.
Holding a candle she walks out of the darkness.
"I'm glad you didn't lie about your physical attributes on your internet profile." She lights more candles in the room. "You'll make a pleasant addition to my collection." She moves out of my view, down toward my feet.
She walks back with a large mason jar filled with fluid and what looks like an eel.
"Rasputin's got nothing on you honey." She places the jar next to my face. Floating in the pale-green water is the shrivelled piece of meat that got me in this mess in the first place.
Jimmy Calabrese is a singer, songwriter and bass player for the internally acclaimed cult horror rock band Calabrese. His stories have appeared in the Toe Tags Horror Anthology, Microhorror, Flashes In The Dark, and Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers. Check out the Official Calabrese Blog and all things Calabrese at www.CalabreseRock.com.