The Automaton

The day Tommy Wolf became my pimp, he said something about Maple Street being like a box of tasty chocolates waiting to be discovered by some lucky passer-by. Now the magic has faded, all I can see is a stretch of dirty brick wall in a bad neighbourhood. Still, no complaints. There's only one thing Tommy asks of me, and I'm pretty damn good at it.

      That's why you won't see me rush to strut my stuff when the man in the black suit walks by. Instead I make myself more comfortable against the brick wall and take a good look at him.When you've been in this business for as long as I have, you learn to recognize the types. Rudolph Valentino vibe, expensive clothes- men like him don't bother coming here, and when they do they want pretty boys with full lips and innocent eyes. Rafe and his friends have been the first to spot him. I wait for Rudolph Valentino to pick one of them. Probably Rafe himself. Such a piece of candy, with those tattoos on his arms and the hipster nose-ring.

      It surprises me when he swats them away and walks over to our spot. His eyes study us one after another, considering- Zander, Epps, me- and I stare back, feeling awfully self-conscious. A subtle gesture disentangles me from the wall and I head towards Tommy's striptease club without a glance.

      Inside, it's hot and noisy, as always. I sneak behind the counter to grab the keys to one of the private rooms and lead him upstairs. He speaks only once, to ask my name. His voice is deep and raspy.

  “Wolfgang.”

      A nod.

  “Very fitting,” he mumbles, whether to me or to himself, I couldn't say.

      When the door closes behind us I press my mouth against his to kiss him slowly, exploring his body over the black pinstripe suit. He returns the kiss, but his arms remain at his sides, refusing to touch me. The hand I slide between his legs is curtly pushed away as he rummages in his pocket to produce a small brown bottle.

“You'll have to rub this on me first,” he says quietly.

      The liquid inside the bottle looks like oil.

      No problem. I can do that.

      While removing his jacket and shirt, a golden glint on his wrists distracts me from my task. He's wearing a set of cufflinks shaped like tiny jaguar heads. I trace their outline with my thumb, entranced: as a kid, jaguars were my favourite animals. He stares at me questioningly, but says nothing.

  “They're beautiful,” I explain, embarrased.

      Stripping him of the rest of his clothes takes less than three minutes. I then open the brown bottle and pour a generous amount of oil on my left palm. It smells funny, almost like motor oil, and feels...well, greasy. After my hands have evenly spread it all over him, though, my client's body relaxes at once. His movements become more fluid, more natural- if that makes any sense. Now it is him who reaches for me and pulls me into a kiss, fingers quickly unzipping my jeans before pushing me towards the bed.

      By midnight we're both exhausted, but, unlike most of the men who get to fuck me, he doesn't drift off to sleep after he's finished. That's nice- and feels oddly reassuring. For a while we just lie sprawled on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Then I find myself asking him about the cufflinks, and where did he get them.

  “Someone I cared much about gave them to me a long time ago,” he says, but doesn't elaborate.

      I explain that, back in the third grade, the jaguar was my favourite animal, and that I was dying to travel to South America so I could actually see a real one. I wait for him to smile or make a comment. He does neither. His eyes stare at me with an expression I cannot read. And then, suddenly, the words start flowing out of my mouth and there's no way to stop them.

      I tell him that I now know I'll never make that trip. I tell him that with each year spent in Maple Street the rest of the world fades away a little more, and that I can no longer remember how things were- how things are. I tell him that I don't regret any of my life choices, but sometimes wish for something that could remind me of all the things I've given up. Just because it feels good to remember. Just because it would make life more bearable. I don't need to go to South America- I don't want to go to South America. But it would do me good to remember, every once in a while, that it's still there, somewhere- waiting for me.

      He doesn't ask any questions. He doesn't try to comfort me. He just listens, and, though I know saying this aloud won't make me feel any better, it's a relief- and I'm grateful to him for that.

      In the morning, when I wake up alone in the rumpled bed, reeking of motor oil and in serious need of a shower, I find the pair of cufflinks sitting on the bedside table, next to my fees.

      Donwstairs, Alan pours me a glass of water in greeting and returns the keys to their place. He´s watching the news; something about an automaton that has disappeared from its museum overnight. I lean on the counter, glass in hand, waiting for Epps to show up so we can go buy ourselves some breakfast. The tv rages on. Apparently, the missing automaton could play a short melody on a small black piano, still at the museum. A close-up image shows it stiffly moving its hands across the piano keys, and my heart skips a beat.

      The golden cufflinks pinning the cuffs of its white shirt have the shape of a jaguar's head.