I nodded, not really sure what to say.
“See, this kid you’re fucking gets it. He wants you to live healthy too.”
“I really doubt he does.”
He looked at me again. “See how she is? Impossible.”
“Graver.” Marine had an edge to her voice.
He sighed, defeated. “Fine, fine. I’ll give you your work.”
He turned his broad body back into the hallway and continued toward wherever it was he was taking us. I’d never been inside an establishment that actively sold sex before. It was honestly far more disgusting than I had pictured it based on… wishful thinking? I think the part where I would probably differ with other people on that is that I didn’t so much feel bad for the women.
It’s the guys who had this air of desperation about them. Sim suits were pretty cheap anymore. A few hundred bucks for a bottom end, used model. I mean, steam cleaning would do the trick on one of those. Though, I met a guy who cleaned them and I asked him what it was like. All he’d say is “neoprene never forgets.” So maybe I’m wrong on that one. But there was just something about sitting in a moist room full of other dudes getting handblasters that rubbed me the wrong way. Eh?! No? Nothing? Fine. Joyless shits. I guess the body suit deal was basically the same thing, but at least then there was no risk of making eye contact with another dude while he ropes out a load onto his own leg hair. Or worse, making eye contact with an overeager hooker with too-bright lipstick. Her lips all puckered and eyes rolling around in her head like touching your prong is the best thing she’s ever done with her life. Like she’s jerking the fucking Jism Venus De Milo out of you. And the fucking sounds, my god.
“Eeeew yuh behbie. Ewwww yuh givittumahmeeeee.”
Who could get off to that? Look lady, I don’t want to give it to mommy. That’s fucking weird. I paid for a hand job, not conflicted feelings about my own state of arousal. If I’m going to have horrible regrets, they’re going to come immediately after climax, not during. That’s a firm rule. I don’t pay strangers to slap my dick around so I can spend the whole time reflecting on the curious nature of parent child relationships. At least not during. Never during! I mean if that’s someone’s thing, fine. I’m cool with that. Hey, jerk off to super accurate renderings of horse cooch, I don’t care. Do your thing. But it just seems like there’s really only one sort of catering going on around here and that was the sort of shit you’d see in the search history of a guy who wears a bandanna and a mesh basketball jersey like they were the divinely inspired fashion of some religion that worshiped lite beer and verbally abusing anyone who fucked up anything in shouting distance of a checkout stand. “Latina jugs milk cock.” That sort of thing.
We got to the end of the fairly short hallway and opened the only door there after Graver put his massive hand on a vein scanner that didn’t even come close to fitting it. He had to bend his fingers to get the thing up to his wrist without hitting the backplate. It did its little scan and beeped the door. It was a pretty normal looking wooden door but opening it revealed that to be a facade, the real core being steel with sliding bars to join it to a steel reinforced wall.
Graver went in ahead of us, the hall continuing before giving way to an opulent bedroom. There was an immediate sound of cooing hooker words when he made it into the room.
“Aw, Gwavy baby. You know I get wonewey back here all by my wittle wonesome.” There was a real pier-based amusement park quality to her voice. “I want somma that sugar, Gwavy. We—”
She was stark naked, I noticed. Nearly flat chested with extremely puffy nipples larger than the rest of the breast. The sort of thing you see once online and you forget to save it and then you try to find it later and your life falls to pieces because you can’t. She had frizzy red hair and a trimmed bush to match.
“Who the fuck is these guys?”
She pointed at us, dropping the cutesy tone for something obviously much more authentic to her personality.
“Oooh, thas that little have chinky girl, ain’t it. And who’s the twink? You know I don’t like sharin’ Gravy.”
Graver grabbed a terrycloth robe from the top of a dresser as he passed and threw it at her face.
“Get fucking dressed, Cincy. Time for you to work.”
“But I jus’—”
“Real work.”
She straightened immediately and the accent disappeared. “Yes, Graver.”
She scurried off into a bathroom to dress herself and Graver turned toward the dresser, grabbing a thin cigar from it and putting it into his mouth to light it.
“Sorry about Cincy,” he said pulling air through the cigar as an electric arc lighter snapped away at its end. “She’s… committed.”
He blew the awful, smoky fragrance of stale ass into the room.
“Is it short for Cincinnati?”
He laughed. “I have no fucking clue, kid.”
Cincy came back out dressed in a business suit, her hair straightened and put up into a professional bun. She’d put on glasses that had no appreciable magnification.
“You good?”
“I am prepared to oversee their work, Graver.”
Graver nodded, happy with the answer. “Good. It’s the software job. I got shit to do.” He looked at Marine. “Shouldn’t be too much trouble for you.” He laughed, but not in a way that I found entirely confidence inspiring. He started to leave, stopping by my side to clap me on the shoulder. “Take care of ‘er. Else, I’ll cut your fucking skin off.” He bellowed another laugh and walked from the room.
“Well, then. If you’re both prepared.” Cincy held an arm out, motioning at the
