Benders

Benders

Jonathan Orlando Woolf

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Published by Mystic Mustangs Publishing

Copyright © 2012 by Jonathan Orlando Woolf/John Lloyd Smith, Jr

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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Smashwords Edition License Notes

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Original copyright

© 2002 by Jonathan Orlando Woolf/John Lloyd Smith, Jr... All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

Chapter One

It was a room for theatrics…of great promise and of greater intimacy. A room where souls were bared in the hope of a promised and sublime redemption, and it rested within his heart.

It was a room. His room.

It was a room of never-ending conversations; where thoughts and emotions mixed, and were curiously delivered as if it were fine champagne contained only by the thinnest of flutes…sparkling, bubbling, and fragile…which eventually would be spilled in merriment and laughter or recriminations and pain.

It was a space within the mind, within the soul…a space of intellect and dark desires.

It was the only room that she wanted, but knew that she could never have.

For all of the charity and sweetness that his heart possessed, her heart was unfathomable, abominable, and depraved.

But her imaginations at that moment were no longer about him. Her imaginations were somewhere else. Someone who could be as hard as the faux diamonds draped about her neck, someone to make her feel like the woman that she longed to be. Imaginations...

Could this be the one? The only one who could truly love her, for her?

A gentle motion in the background slowly drew her attention away from the mirror. Something was being said, but she never heard the words as she walked the room seductively. Obviously, she was not alone.

She could see her observer’s face was a mixture of emotions. She could sense his anticipation and his desire for ecstasy, for exploration, gratification, and lust. The same emotions that she, too, felt.

Within an instant, the passing of events that had brought her there, flashed across her mind collectively.

It had been one hell of a hot afternoon on the strip. The yellow sun in the cloudless pale sky had heated the pavement in anticipation of the long dark night ahead. That much she could remember, because its heat matched her own.

She could remember the anticipation, waiting quietly for the night. Wasting away the hours listening to music that had hung heavily in the stagnant air before enveloping her. She could remember the shower, and the pleasure that she took from the warm water cascading around her. And how her own fingers had explored her, gratified her, and consumed her.

He, too, could remember that afternoon. The preparation, the planning; the picking out of the clothes…the shoes, painting his fingernails, applying the lipstick…and making sure that his hair was teased. He simply loved the floral print dress that he had bought earlier in the day, and had modeled it in front of a large mirror propped up against a brown, stained wall.

He, too, relished the anticipation. After all, he was an entertainer, and the thought of appearing either on stage…or a street corner…sent a small thrill down his spine. It didn’t matter. An almost overwhelming sense of rapture filled him, as he had showered and shaved his legs. And likewise, he had explored himself, to make sure that should the evening go as planned, he would feel secure hygienically. His exploration had brought him some small sense of gratification, and yet it left him desiring something more…deeper, harder, and repetitive.

Something he knew that darkness would bring to him, and that if and when the dawn broke over the west hills, he would have that momentary, yet ever fleeting, rush of contentment.

Besides, he didn’t need her. If anything, she needed him. He had a very vague recollection of how it was she that had brought them together. Why or how he let her into his life, he could not remember. It wasn’t that he hated women. On the contrary, he adored them. And if he had been different, as he often thought, he might have enjoyed being with one; feeling the softness and of being able to bring ecstasy to someone of another gender.

And as friends, they shared things…pantyhose and skirts, gossip and cigarettes, drugs and jewelry.

His thoughts returned to remembering the excitement of stepping out onto the street as the sun had dipped behind the buildings and below the ocean. Sounds of the street littered the night like the trash. A horrible stench permeated from the gutters.

He didn’t care too much for thinking about her, especially at this moment.

His was a surrealistic, but segregated world. On part of the strip, there were the little girls fresh from some no-named small town looking for a john. Their dreams of stardom had long since been obliterated, along with their innocence. And around the corner from them were the boys, some so very young. Teens turned out from a hostile parent; turned on by easy money, easy drugs, and even easier sex.

Not far from the boys were the ‘seasoned’ whores, soon to be past their prime…women and men in their late teens, early twenties. Drugs and disease had become their existences and extremes. Rarely did anyone see any of these hustlers, especially the guys, past the age of twenty-three years. Either they had reached the point of making larger sums of money for their trade, found a real job, died trying, or just disappeared into the depths of the nearby ocean.

However, for those with a different bent…a different twist…down the back streets and alleys, one could find ‘chicks with dicks,’ the gender-benders, or just ‘benders’. In this city, if one knew where to look, a person could find anything that was desired…there was ‘crack,’ and then there was crack.

This had sadly become his world. A world he knew only too well.

His evening had already been planned. First to the club to work, and then down the strip for a little extra cash for her; and maybe a little coke with friends, while waiting for a john to pick them up.

He chided himself for doing it. If he hadn’t helped her, he wouldn’t have needed to be doing the strip. She was broke, jobless, and he was her only friend. One would marvel at the innocence, his innocence, in his actions.

As he rounded the corner, he saw the lavender neon sign flicker ‘Paradiso’…gave a dysfunctional sigh…loved the work, hated who he worked for. But, doesn’t everybody?

He entered the back alley…passed a few bums, ho’s, and druggies…towards the stage entrance.

That much, he could remember.

She could remember the people in the club. How pretty and glamorous they appeared, and how she enjoyed being one of them…attractive, seductive, and available for the right price.

She could remember the men, the money, and giving lap dances. Pulsating her body in time with the thumping of the music blaring into the darkness, rubbing up against the men, arousing them. Bouncing against them, she could feel the stiffness forming in their tight pants. Oh, how she enjoyed that moment of perpetual bumping and grinding. The wetness and the sensations. And best of all, she remembered the money and the satisfaction she got from doing it.

That much, she could remember.

He could remember the banter among the performers, entertainers, and their catty remarks toward each other and toward the patrons, as well. He reveled in the spotlight as he and the others sang, danced, and did mock stripteases for the audiences before the lights all too quickly burned out, giving way to the thumping of the disco beat.

He, too, remembered the loneliness in the eyes of the old tired gay men, and the look of excitement they held when he passed by them. He remembered how he felt that they were more pathetic than he would ever be, but he also understood their need for sexual satisfaction.

She also remembered when she had had enough and had decided to leave, and did so abruptly, not bothering to let anyone know that she had departed down the back alley and into the warmth of the summer night.

One would think that her wanderings down back streets, behind forgotten warehouses and other abandoned structures, to be quite random. But it wasn’t, and she found her special place on the corner quite quickly. It was her little corner of heaven; where she could spend hours flirting and seducing over and over, again and again, hustling, hurting, healing...hustling, hurting, healing.

It was one of the first places she could ever remember being when she had arrived in the city. And now the city came to her, came for her. The other ‘ho’s’ sometimes marveled at her rapidity and insatiability…one john after another.

And it was on that very corner, where the sleek black German-made convertible had pulled up to the curb. Its driver beckoned for her.

She sashayed to the car and gingerly placed her fingers on the side, feeling the heat and the power that it exuded even after having been driven hundreds of miles that day.

The driver teased her, played her body with his stare, and gave her a gleaming look in his eyes as she teased back. She remembered his smile…warm, white.

He negotiated. She negotiated.

A car door was opened, and her next recollection was of speeding down the 105 interstate with her hair in the wind behind her, and her back tingling as the seat warmed her. She hardly paid any attention to his chatter.

…Palm Springs...

…His boyfriend didn’t understand him…

…Left him behind…

…Music his only passion…

…House in the hills…

…Kink…Handcuffs…Dick and ass…

These little things caught her attention above the roar of the engine and the flashing of the lights, as they sped into the night.

…The rush of the excitement…

…California snow…

…Career as a Latino rock star…

…Fading slowly away, like so many others…

He remembered the kindness in the driver’s touch.

…Armando…

…Enjoy art…

…Literature…the classics, no less…

…Musician…

He remembered how, as the night wore on, the many revelations moved from hypothetical, more and more toward becoming facts. And he recollected how the car cruised toward the hills, as if to rush upon them and launching them into the moon. The house was high on one of the west hills with a view that not only encompassed the city lights below, but the glint of their reflections on the distant waters.

He remembered the climbing of the stairs, the opening of the bedroom door with a small squeak, the aquarium, the lighting of candles, and scents filling the air. He remembered Armando excusing himself, only to reappear with a mirrored tray, champagne, flutes, and wearing bikini underwear… and that seductive smile.

She remembered the tingling of the white powder, as it smoothly filtered through her nose. She remembered the touch of Armando’s lips on hers, his hands touching her through her bra.

Handcuffs, echoed through her head.

Click. Click.

Click. Click.

Armando was bound. She could feel his heart racing with hers, as her hands moved across his bare chest. First, her lips kissed his nipples, then her teeth gently pricked them, before her entire mouth consumed them. Her tongue circled his hairless belly button and found its way to the top of his briefs.

She could feel his arousal.

…Bulging...Panties...

She remembered backing away from him, staring at him, longing to expose the bulge beneath his briefs. She remembered the longing in his eyes as she left for the bathroom.

He remembered the reflection in the mirror in the bathroom; the washed out make-up, the smeared lipstick, and the bra strap dangling from his shoulder. But most of all, he remembered the look in her eyes…a look he could not bear to see.

He remembered leaving the bathroom.

She remembered leaving the bathroom.

But she remembered her reflection in the mirror on the dressing table, and how pathetic she looked. Most of all, she remembered the unfathomable emptiness inside, upon realizing that he had gone from the reflection; leaving her alone with her pain and recriminations. She needed her purse. She wanted her purse!

But, Armando stirred in the background of her reflection.

No, she was not alone, and the look of his anticipation renewed her. Slowly she moved toward Armando, stealthily across the bedroom floor, the bed, and finally across his body.

Her remembrance was complete to that point…to that very moment. His face was that of wondrous mixture of emotions that she incessantly craved…anticipation, ecstasy, exploration, gratification, and lust.

She could see the anticipation in those large brown Latino eyes, lit by soft candlelight. She could sense the pleasure he took from her touch. She could see his hands twisting in the cuffs, longing to explore her. She could sense the gratification of their bodies moving together.

Suddenly, and most savagely, she could no longer sense any lust.

His face was one of straining. Blood vessels were popping up in his forehead. She could see him screaming, but heard only silence. She tried to understand what he was saying.

…Dildo…Dong...

…Fucking Bitch!…

…Lesbian!…

What had once seemed a bottomless void, began to be filled with a rushing, violent rage. A blue-white blinding rage, as a sense of humiliation washed over her. An all-consuming sense of nothingness, depravity, and abandonment, fused within her. No longer was there a room, or anything for that matter. Just a brilliant burst of intense light. A light that transformed itself from the brightest, blistering, bluish tint, to one of smoldering red.

Red…the color that was now flowing between her legs…and now flowing between Armando’s.

It was a light that could cruelly turn into darkness; a darkness that could hide her soul. In the anguished, pleading, and disparaging eyes of Armando, she had redeemed herself, and him. But at a very intense price; the price to which Armando would never, ever be able to humiliate her again.

But, where was he? She needed him. She needed him to come and make everything all right. She hated him, but she couldn’t stand the thought of him or anyone else leaving her…especially him.

Where was he?

Chapter Two

As he lay naked in bed, both his thoughts and cool air from a window A/C unit swirled above him. He felt her stir and heard her snort as an arm fell across his waist. He knew it was only a matter of minutes before she would be staring him in the eyes. Then, she would brush her long brown hair back over her head and kiss him good morning.

And his response would be one of ambivalence; a cold kiss from warm lips.

He needed to get rid of her, but wasn’t quite sure how. His mind intervened by trying to focus on something positive to distract him.

Detective Patrick.

He liked the sound of this. It was the sound of two years of hard work and studying like hell. Taking continuing education courses at the academy had finally paid off for Alan-Michael Patrick, or Alan, as he preferred to be called.

Detective Alan Patrick.

His thoughts continued to drift. He thought of how he should be happy, this being his first day on the job as detective.

Why am I so damn anxious?

He thought of fucking her, thinking that it would help relieve his tension. Again, a wave of frustration washed over him. And once more his mind attempted to offer a distraction.

Running. Yeah, I could go running.

He’d already made his decision without perceiving it.

Alan gently moved her arm, hoping not to disturb her. He shifted his feet to the floor and felt the rough tight carpeting beneath them.

Humph. Where you going? Her voice was soft and dreamy.

She was awake.

To the gym.

Why?

He watched as she shifted her body to face him. He gazed at her exposed breast, and for a brief moment, thought of returning to the bed.

‘Cause I want to. What does it matter? Alan turned away from her and found his jeans.

Shit, Alan! Maybe I want you here with me when I wake up in the morning? Damn it.

Look, Liz-Beth, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me, and I don’t need your shit, or to have you fucking with me this morning.

Damn. Alan...

Alan zipped up his pants, grabbed his tee shirt, and pulled it over his head.

What? asked Alan, slipping on some shoes.

She was momentarily silent, staring at him with a look of amazement on her face. Shit, just go. Get the hell out of here!

Maybe you should be the one who thinks about going.

The words hung in the air above him. There, he had said it. And an odd thought formed inside his head that there would be no turning back from that moment.

Fuck you, Alan!

Bitch.

Fine, Alan. Go. But, don’t expect me to be here when you get back.

I never said I did.

He could not tell if it was the coldness of his words or of the air blowing across the bed that had aroused her nipples, making them spring to life. Their best sex had always been an angry, rage-filled sex; an exercise in frustration where they would compete to see who could fuck the other the hardest. And it was her heaving chest, just at that moment, which reminded him of those times.

Alan grabbed his gym bag and put his gun it. He picked up the leather wallet that held his badge and slipped it into his pocket. He moved to the closet and grabbed some clothes for work. As he left the bedroom, he knew better than to look back at her. She would probably be crying.

Yet, the air behind him remained silent, except for the thumping of the window unit churning out the cool breeze.

He slammed the door behind him and briefly thought of turning back and apologizing. But, he just didn’t feel the need to pretend to be sorry for something he had wanted to do for a long time.

Time to move forward. Time to move on.

The hot air hit his cool body. What little moisture that had been on his exposed flesh, quickly condensed into tiny droplets. He felt not just the heat, but the humidity, as it bathed him.

Alan scanned the lot, found his red and white pick-up truck, and unlocked the door. He smiled proudly as he looked down at the odometer while slipping the key into the ignition. He smiled, because the truck had over two hundred thousand miles on it.

He thought of the truck as an extension of himself. After all, it had carried him from the sleepy town of Springfield, Missouri all the way to the coast. It had gotten him where he had needed to go for the past five years.

In an instant, he thought of Holly as he looked at the empty seat next to him, and wondered what she was doing…not that he cared anymore.

Holly Buckner.

He could still imagine her smiling face. She had been his childhood sweetheart, and it was her fault that he was on the coast. She had wanted to be a star and thought that by going west, she could do that.

She was a pretty enough prom queen, but that was as far as it went. As a singer or actress, she had no talent…nothing to give. And in a fit of disgust, she disappeared. Months later, he got a note from her; apologizing and telling how she was going to marry some entrepreneur who lived in Monterey. That was when he had decided to stay in the city, rather than go home humiliated. Truth was, he actually missed her a lot.

Bitch. They’re all fucking bitches.

Alan slammed the truck into gear, pulled out of the lot, and began to concentrate on driving, rather than old girlfriends. As he drove down the streets, Alan’s nose began to tingle. His sinuses were beginning to drain a little from the humidity. With one hand, he wiped his nose while giving a long snort.

Liz-Beth. Dammit!

Her scent was still on his hand, and reminded him of how they had had sex the night before.

Fuck!

Alan pulled into the parking lot of the gym. Hurriedly, he grabbed his bag and work clothes and entered the building, swiping his membership card as he passed the front desk.

Locker room...Women’s...Locker room...Men’s...

As he swung open the door to the men’s locker room, a musty scent filled his nostrils. Quickly, he moved to find his locker.

Three-one-three.

Turning the dial on the lock, he was pleased with the click as it gave way, springing the door open.

Gym bag...Shirt...Shoes.

Alan began to undress. As he did, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He stopped and studied his naked body in the reflection.

Flat, washboard stomach, nice pecs and biceps...

Nice dick.

Alan was pleased with his appearance. Alan was in his late twenties, and had a tight, fit body that women found attractive...a lot of women had found attractive. A muffled sound behind him, caught Alan’s attention.

As he turned around, he made eye contact with another patron who quickly changed his glance toward the floor.

Is he looking at me? Was he checking me out?

Alan turned and grabbed his jockstrap out of the locker and put it on.

Probably a fucking queer, he muttered under his breath. Within seconds, Alan was dressed and heading for the track. As he passed by the man who he thought he had caught staring at him, Alan pretended to ignore him.

Alan definitely wanted to clear his head before going into the precinct. And after the morning he had had, he desperately needed to.

* * * *

The sound of a truck backfiring reverberated the glass window near Detective Malloy’s old oak desk. Chuck ‘Gunner’ Malloy, looked up from the file and gazed down to the street below, inspecting the vehicle.

It wasn’t so much the backfiring that brought up old memories, as much as the sound of its pitch as it filtered through the windowpanes. Instantly, his mind flashed back over his years working with the Metropolitan Task Force on Violent Crimes; years and memories