Dirty Tricks

Unpublished short stories, copyright 1996, 2009, 2021 by Christine D. Beatty
(Part One is based on a true story by a sexworker I loved way back when)
(Part Two is a nightmare I sometimes feared when I turned tricks back then)

Part One
Revised May, 2009

As always, the elevator ride was only a little faster than the unemployment queue. When she’d started with the agency three months ago, Courtney’s stomach hosted butterflies the size of pterodactyls on her way to a date, but she’d finally rationalized this job to her satisfaction. As she saw it, the alternatives were completely unsuited to her. Or, really, she to them.

As a waitress should could never figure out that balance-the-plate-on-your-arm trick. Behind the bar she had trouble recalling the basic ingredients of a Cuba Libre: rum and Coke. And her Starbucks position lasted until her first latte scald. Courtney even tried stripping, but had less rhythm than the average white guy. Besides, all these jobs left her dead on her feet, no energy for what mattered most, her true calling.

And, when she thought about it, this was an arena to explore her muse. That’s what she told herself, anyway. She was a professional. Perhaps not in ways that she preferred, but it was all good practice.

At least it isn’t low rent, she observed, fluffing her hair in the polished brass of the control panel as the car settled to a stop.

Courtney loved these fourstar hotels. In this kind of place you could usually count on highrollers, and she needed one today. Last week it had been a choice between the gym and her actor’s workshop, now it was next month’s rent. She anticipated the day when she was turning down parts, when she no longer needed to scrupulously balance her checkbook.

The young woman sashayed down the plush carpet, getting in character and cursing her lackadaisical agent, Melvin. For too damn long this was the only kind of paid acting she got to do, and it wasn’t the kind of gig you could put on your resume.

She reached the door. Number 1211.

Lights, camera . . .

Courtney knocked, offering a prayer to Mary Magdelene.

Let this one be easy, please?

After a few moments, the door opened. Courtney stifled a gasp and congratulated her self-control.

He made Quasimodo seem like Tom Cruise. Somewhere in his late forties, the guy was sweaty, slightly less hairy than a wookie and it looked like he was digesting a beach ball. On top of that, he was garbed in tight, blue silk shorts and — gross! — a fishnet T-shirt.

Thanks a lot, Mary.

She struck a well rehearsed pose in the doorway. “Hi, I’m Angel,” she beamed. “I’m from the agency.”

That was pretty good. Not too contrived, right amount of zest.

Her smile deserved a Golden Globe. She wanted to doubletime to the elevator, not to go into this guy’s room! Her barren pocketbook said otherwise.

“I’m Barry,” he leered, his eyes darting to her boobs. “Come on in.”

“Do you have something for me?” she coyly asked after the door was closed.

“I sure do,” he replied, handing over three, crisp Franklins.

“Thank you,” she smiled, tucking the bills away in her purse.

There’s ten percent you’ll never see, Melvin.

The trick settled down on the overstuffed couch and motioned that she should join him.

Okay, now, cross over. Lightly. That’s it. And then turn. Now, very ladylike . . .

Courtney perched on the far end, struggling to maintain a genuine-looking smile. It wasn’t like she was turning her first trick; it was more like Barry was an oversized toad in a man-suit. He was almost as gross as that Bel Air photographer the week before, with all the showbiz snaps on his wall, who wanted her to twist his nipples while he masturbated. The worst part about that guy was the goddamn Vaseline smeared on his chest. Yuck!

Here and now, Courtney. Remember, you’re a professional.

“Do you want some wine, honey?” he asked, already pouring.

“Oh, yes!” she enthused, taking the full goblet from him. She fought the urge to toss the entire drink down her throat in one gulp. Better yet, right into his leering face.

She controlled this impulse. He’d never buy her act if she did the former, and the latter risked the darkest of consequences. It made a nice daydream, however.

Sips, not gulps, Courtney. You’re doing just fine.

She sat there, trying to smile pleasantly, hoping she was convincing, as his eyes crawled greedily all over her. By the time he finished looking her up and down, from the wisps of golden hair that feathered her forehead, down to the light pink toenails protruding from her white, leather sandals, Courtney felt like she’d been coated with a thin film of slime.

This was the first date where she wanted to take a shower before she’d let the guy touch her. She was tempted to give him his money back, thinking she’d sooner let a Doberman Pinscher fuck her, but maybe she could work him if she played the role just right.

As slowly as Courtney made herself go, she was still halfway through her drink in a few minutes. After an exchange of banal pleasantries with comely call girl, Barry recovered a mirror and straw from beneath the coffee table, marshaled two fat rails and offered it.

“Want some?” he grinned.

Oops! Plot twist. Time to improvise.

Courtney made her eyes as big as saucers. “What’s that?” she asked in an awestruck voice, like he’d just produced a live Gila monster. She silently groaned. Not another goddamn coke-tweak! They could be so annoying. Seldom able to get it up, much less get it off, they peevishly expect you to work a miracle. No way was she gonna screw this guy!

“It’s coke. Want some?” he repeated.

“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, trying for extreme mortification. “Is that really cocaine? I never did that before!”

Steady, girlfriend. Don’t overplay it.

She tried to imagine Soderbergh directing this scene — no, Sean Penn. He was cuter.

“The girls who were here before you liked it,” Barry wheedled.

Buffy and Jenny, two girls who worked for the same agency, had been here earlier. Doubtless they were the ones who suggested he call and ask for her, probably not knowing that drugs ranked several rungs below parking tickets in her world. Courtney vowed to get even with them.

“Really?” she said, still wide-eyed. “Oh no. I could never do that.” Then she knocked back the rest of her Chardonnay and handed the glass back to him. “More, Barry?”

“Hey, no sweat,” Barry soothed, refilling her glass. “Sure you don’t want to try some of this stuff? You’ll love it.”

Courtney shook her head. She could almost feel the imaginary pigtails flopping around.

“No big deal, you sweet thing.”

I’m selling it! Oh, I wish I could share this with everybody at the workshop.

“Okay,” Courtney giggled, working Girl Scout for all it was worth.

She found that injecting a little naiveté, like it was her first day on the job, made her clients more manageable. Faced with a terminally innocent girl, some of these guys became downright avuncular and much less demanding.

Of course, they still wanted to get their nut, but they were usually gentle. They came quicker, too. Still, Barry was a cokehead, and she hated the thought of trying to coax his drug-shriveled little weenie into doing anything, which it probably wouldn’t.

Fortunately, Barry was a talkative kind of cokehead, so she let him rattle on for most of the hour. She nodded, smiled and giggled in all the right places, hoping he’d chatter away until the hour was up.

Finally, Barry seemed to sense this as well.

“So, sugar . . . When are we going to get down to it?”

Uh-oh, Third Act. Find your center.

“Huh?” Courtney asked him, knowing damn good and well what he meant.

“I mean, let’s go. Let’s see you.”

Time to go for broke. Lights, camera —

“Oh, okay,” Courtney said brightly as she peeled down her haltertop to expose the breasts she prided in not having been worked on. “Do you like?”

“Oh, baby,” Barry moaned, “you’re so hot.” He rucked down his drawers. “Give me some head, Angel.”

“What?!” she yelped, like he just asked her to fuck a Doberman. Her eyes opened wide enough to pop from their sockets.

That’s good. Keep the shock. Roll with it.

“Yeah, honey. Suck it.” Barry pointed to his crotch.

“You must be kidding,” she gasped. Courtney looked on in horror, like the Alien was exploding from his loins, edging into Academy Award territory. “I’m a dancer. I thought that’s why you wanted me . . . to dance for you. But you don’t even have music, so how can I dance? And now you want me . . . you want me to . . . Oh my God!”

“Honey, what do you think this is all about, anyway?” Barry went for a soothing tone. “Your two friends had no problem.”

“You mean those girls . . . you mean they . . . did that?”

“That’s right,” he grinned.

“Oh my God! I just can’t believe . . . I had no idea . . . I just thought I was supposed to dance. I didn’t know anybody expected me to . . .” Her voice trailed off hopelessly. She tried to think of when her pet schnauzer died, work up a few tears.

Barry’s leer faded. “Honey, are you new at this?”

If you smile now, you’re dead. There’s no CUT. This is live.

“I started yesterday,” she mumbled. “I’m used to being a stripper.” She looked at him with perfectly emoted panic. “My boyfriend would kill me if I did more than that.”

“Don’t you know what this business is all about?”

“I guess not,” Courtney replied, snugging her top back up and standing.

Not too fast. You’re awkward, now. Embarrassed for the both of you.

“Honey,” Barry sighed, “you’re lucky this was with me. Any other guy wouldn’t be so nice. You’re obviously a sweet kid. You should be doing something else.”

Bingo! I couldn’t have written that line better. But don’t apologize. He might . . .

“You are so right, Barry,” she said, lifting her purse from the coffee table.

Exit, stage left.

Courtney began walking slowly toward the door. She silently counted her steps, hoping he wouldn’t ask for even part of the money back.

Five, four, three, two . . .

She turned and offered a meek smile. “Nice meeting you, Barry.”

He opened his mouth to say something, and then shut it as she opened the door.

“Take care, Angel,” he mumbled.

“Bye.” Courtney closed the door behind her.

Cut! Print! That’s a wrap!

Barely suppressing a screech of laughter, she practically danced her way to the bank of elevators.

She would wow them the next time she got a screen test.

 

Part Two
Revised May, 2021

Crystal looked wildly at the knife held just inches from her face. Just over the gleaming, wicked blade she could see the cheap Formica coffee table littered with evidence of masochistic overindulgence: several empty wine bottles, an ashtray peaked with cigarettes, and a cracked portion of mirror abutting a baggie of cocaine. There was also a blood-clotted syringe laying next to a glass of water, and a length of ruined pantyhose Crystal had used as a tie-off.

The queen—transsexual—was trembling, and panicked tears leaked from her eyes as she looked at her captor. “Please don’t hurt me,” she pleaded with him.

Though shorthaired and relatively cleanshaven, he reeked of rancid sweat and the chemical poisons leaching from his pores after God only knew how many days of drug and alcohol intake. Lean of build and hirsute, his arms were dotted with ominous-looking tattoos reminiscent of jailhouse artwork, which they probably were. Half-naked in frayed, faded jeans and K-Mart flipflops, he sported a thick gold chain that nestled in the wiry, dark hair of his chest.

His name was James, and he’d called just past three in the morning with an offer to party. Crystal had explained that, while she liked to party as much as the next girl, she needed the cash, especially for a cab ride to Santa Monica and Western. For a while they’d dickered about the possibility of an incall, but Crystal stuck to her guns and wound up with an agreement for a hundred bucks and all of the coke she could do.

For an hour, it was just great. James really only wanted company, and he had plenty of high grade toot. So she kicked back with him, and after a coy moment when she decided he wouldn’t be overly put off, she produced her rig and proceeded to slam line after line.

While James wasn’t quite repulsed, the queen got the feeling he was smirking at her. Fuck him, she had thought.

Every ten or fifteen minutes she’d scoop a tenth into her cooker, squirt in some water, and fire it into her forearm, soaring uncontrollably for five minutes in the dizzy, heartpounding, near-orgiastic rush. An excruciatingly pleasurable counterpoint to the heroin she’d fixed an hour before.

The world buzzed and crackled, seemingly filtered through a hornet’s nest, as she had attempted to concentrate on James’s conversation, which oscillated between a convoluted rant and a pleasant yammering about nothing. Crystal began to suspect that was the main reason for her presence. He was sick of talking to himself. Thus she’d acted appropriately, paying attention and nodding, as though she really gave a shit.

After that first hour, things headed undeniably downhill. James had been feeding himself a steady stream since Crystal arrived, tooting up thin rails almost nonstop, several times scooping a small pile and sifting it into a Camel, smoked like a joint, holding in the fumes as long as he could.

During the second hour, he’d spent more time ranting than pleasantly yammering, his mood morphing from pleasant craziness to parapsychotic, paranoid ugliness. Soon he was referring to other transsexuals as “freaks like you,” instead of “you ladies” like he had earlier. All in all, James’ manners had completely departed.

As wired as Crystal was, she had known it was time to go. Sure, she was already intensely highstrung from Peruvian powder cannonballing through her veins, but the main source of discomfort was now clearly this incipient monster forming in front of her.

Obviously a veteran jailbird, James had regaled her with stories of “the joint.” She was just coming to the uncomfortable conclusion that his stories of killing people were not just stories, and that dawning realization made her even more antsy. Finally, she had decided that she didn’t care how much dope he had left. At that point he could have pulled out a full gram of heroin and she’d still give him dust.

“Honey,” she had cooed sultrily, “I got to get up tomorrow morning, and I need to leave soon. Do you want some head or something before I go?”

He’d cast a suspicious eye at her. “Why? Whadaya gotta do?”

“I have to meet with my P.O.,” she lied.

He stared at her for a moment. “You’re not on probation,” he had finally spat at her. “What’s really going on here?”

“N-nothing,” Crystal had protested, cursing the tremor in her voice. She sensed James slipping quickly down the evolutionary scale. He’d soon be kissing cousins with a rabid pitbull. Dangerous if he scented her fear.

She was right.

“Bullshit, bitch,” he’d snarled. “You’re trying to set me up, aren’t you?”

This accusation made Crystal’s anger surface. “What the fuck are you talking about?” she had snapped back at him. “You called me, asshole. I was trying to go to bed and you talked me into coming over here. Remember?”

This had proved the wrong tactic.

“Fuck you, freak!” James had yelled back, hauling out a long knife from under the couch. Like coked-up lightning he’d stepped over the coffee table, began waving the oversized pigsticker in front of the transsexual’s eyes.

“Hand over the money,” he demanded.

Crystal turned to her purse and cried out as James grabbed her by the hair.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he menaced, placing the blade at her throat.

Feeling the pricks of tears forming at the corners of her eyes, Crystal felt around in the bag for the wad of twenties he’d given her. Her hand brushed the straight razor, a fresh wave of selfpity and despair washed over her. So close and yet so far. Finally, her fingers closed around the money and gave it back to him.

“Okay,” he said, releasing her hair and kicking her purse aside.

Crystal’s heart sank even lower. No way she could make that leap to her blade with James so close. All she could do was hope this drugaddled psycho wouldn’t hurt her before she could get away somehow. The hopelessness brought more tears, and she began pleading with him.

“Shut up, punk,” James said, smiling slightly. He backed off a step and contemplated the queen sitting in front of him.

Crystal began to realize this creep was relishing every moment. James was a sadistic, kind of felon, the kind who enjoys dishing out mayhem. Then she saw his hand begin to rub his crotch and she understood completely.

She almost puked in revulsion.

“On your knees, you punk faggot,” he grinned at her, pointing at the carpet in front of him. Then his free hand went to his zipper, extracting his cokewithered cock.

“Guess I don’t need to tell you what to do, huh?”

This freak’s on a jailhouse rape trip, the queen thought, gaining her knees, I bet he loves jail. Home sweet home.

Crystal almost gagged when she took him into her mouth. She’d given head more times in the last year than she cared to count, but this was the first time at knifepoint. Furthermore, the creep’s unwashed condition didn’t stop at his beltline. She was grateful that the coke had mostly numbed out her sense of taste, but the idea was revolting nonetheless. James groaned as the queen began to work on him.

Hearing his crude sounds of pleasure, Crystal’s fear was displaced by fury, especially when his free hand groped for her head, roughly grabbing it and thrusting his hips forward, nearly choking her. The queen’s anger, amplified by the megadose of circulating cocaine, rose with every minute the evil bastard’s dick violated her lips. She started having fantasies of disemboweling him, of castrating him, of . . .

It came to her in a flash. Despite the pain and humiliation, Crystal began to smile inside. Suddenly she knew what to do. Suddenly she knew the path to safety and payback, all at once. In her mind’s eye, she pictured how many feet her purse lay to the side, calculating just how fast she could get there when she had the chance.

In two minutes, the transsexual got her opportunity. His mind hazy with coke, locked on the exquisite groinward sensations, lulled by memories of practically risk-free jailhouse gang rapes of days gone by, perhaps even convinced the queen was getting into it, James relaxed the arm that held the knife next to her face and allowed it to slowly drop to his side.

When Crystal saw the blade a good twelve inches from her face, she braced herself and bit down as hard as she could on the bloodgorged head.

James screamed hideously, a banshee gone way berserk on drugs, and he pulled back from Crystal like she’d turned into a sixfoot moray.

Crystal wasted no time hurling herself to the side and crawling the couple of yards to her purse. In a flash she dug out the straight razor and brandished it. She needn’t have bothered. James was flopping crazily around on the floor, both hands covering his crotch, which was horrowshow bloody. His imprecations were barely coherent, sobbing and shrieking at her.

“Guess you’re not as stoned as you thought,” Crystal said, getting to her feet. She retrieved her purse and gathered the money from the table. She was a little amazed at her relative composure.

“What’s that you said? I deserve a tip? Why, thank you.”

She again reached down to the table and hefted the baggie containing the remainder of the coke. Only a few grams left from what must have been at least an ounce, but she figured it was better than nothing.

“You know,” she said conversationally as she headed to the door, “you’re goddamn lucky that I’m a woman of compassion. I could slit your fucking throat for this, and if I ever see you again, I will.”

James’s screeches had reduced to moans by now, and he managed to pull himself up on one elbow as the queen opened the door.

“I’ll get you, punk! I swear I’ll fucking kill you!” he threatened.

Crystal’s returned stare was arctic. “If you have even one fucking ounce of a brain, you’ll forget what I look like, asshole. I have a lot of friends in this town, and not all of them are as merciful as me. Get the picture? I’m sure you do. See you in hell, James.”

And with that, Crystal closed the door and beat cheeks down the hall.