Sell Out Man, A Blog Novel, Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

 

Zev asked the prostitute if he could clean his dick off with a towel in the bathroom. He had used a condom but he still wanted to make sure he was clean, just to reduce the thoughts about catching any kind of STD. When he cleaned himself off in the bathroom with hot water and Motel 6 soap, Zev felt a momentary feeling of relief. It was always enjoyable for him to have a paid sexual experience with an attractive woman. He could forget about his pain and despair for a little while and lose himself in the emotionless pleasures of the perverted flesh. When Zev walked out of the bathroom the prostitute was sitting on the bed. She was still naked as she looked through her phone. Zev assumed she was texting with a friend or setting up her next client.

Her name was Quincey and she was seventeen years old. She had told Zev that she was twenty-two but Zev thought she looked younger than that. But he didn’t care. He was happy to be able to be sexual with a younger girl. The younger the girl the tighter the flesh is what Zev thought. He was a man and as much as most men don’t want to admit it, they care about these things. A younger woman is a joy for an older man. A joy unlike any other. Quincey regularly worked out of a Motel 6 because they didn’t seem to care about the men coming and going. She saw fifteen to twenty different clients a night. Zev was the ninth person she had seen that night and he was certainly the best looking. Zev was nice to her and he didn’t fuck her that hard. Zev appreciated her body and she liked that. When Zev walked out of the bathroom she asked him what he did for a living. Zev told her he was a painter and she asked him if he painted houses.

This was a common response Zev would get. People didn’t seem to think you could make a living as a real painter. A painter who made art. And most couldn’t. But some painters were able to break through and make a good living off their art. They often had to sacrifice their souls to do it, but they could do it nonetheless. When Zev told Quincey that he was an artist, Quincey was surprised. She asked him if he was a real artist and he told her that he was. She told him that she had never met a real painter before. By real painter Quincey meant an artist who made money from their art. Zev told Quincey that now she had met one. Quincey was excited to be talking with someone different and she asked Zev more questions.

Quincey sat on the edge of the bed, by the bedside light and the digital clock. Her body was thin and beautiful. Her tits shaped just right. Her vagina was shaved and she had piercings in both of her nipples. This turned Zev on. Zev wanted a cigarette as he put his clothes back on. The sex had been good. He had sex with Quincey from behind, standing at the edge of the bed while Quincey had all fours on the bed. It was a perfect angle. She had also given him a good initial blow job. Zev was relieved that the blow job was good. He felt that Amy gave the best blow jobs he would ever receive so it was nice to know that there were girls out there who sucked dick nearly as good as Amy. For some odd reason this made him feel better.

Zev told Quincey that she had a great body and Quincey continued to ask him questions about being a painter. She was only seventeen and was yet to know that it was possible to make a career in the arts. Kids weren’t conditioned to think this way anymore. Zev told her that he hated being a painter. He told her that he made large abstract paintings that would be hung in rich people’s homes and in galleries he didn’t like. He also told her that he had some paintings in a few different museums all over the world but that he hated museums. Museums were places where dead artists got hung on walls. Paintings on museum walls seemed lifeless to Zev. The environment was too sterile. Once a painting went up on a museum wall the life was drained from it. Quincey was surprised to hear this and she told Zev that she had never been to a museum before. Zev asked Quincey if he could smoke a cigarette and she told him to do it out the window. Zev sat in a chair by the window and smoked.

Quincey got up to put on underwear and a bra and Zev watched her walk naked across the motel room. Her body looked so good to Zev. He wanted to have sex with her again. Only eighty bucks for all that fun. Maybe he would come back tomorrow night. Quincey put on red lace underwear. Then she put on her red lace bra. Her fingernails and toenails were painted red. She looked like a sinister woman. She told Zev about how she had broken her hand in a car accident but had nurtured it back to health all by herself. She was proud that she didn’t need any doctors. She asked Zev if she could read him some of her poems since she had never been around a real artist before. Zev listened to her read her poetry with a nervous tone in her voice. It was as if she had never read her poetry out loud before. Her poems were about the angels that follow her around, the universe that protects her and the love that struggles to stay in her heart. Zev listened and smoked. He thought her poems were terrible but when she finished reading he told her that they were great.

Quincey was happy that Zev liked her poems. She didn’t think they were any good. She wrote poems every day to help her get through her pain. It was something that she learned at the high school she dropped out of. Quincey was a run away. Supporting her daughter and herself all on her own. She was making her own way in this world. Since guys had been trying to have sex with her from a very young age, prostitution seemed like the most obvious avenue to financial independence. It was a way for her to not need anything from her horrible parents who cut her off because of having a child so young. Her body was hot and she had been fucking since she was twelve. At seventeen she knew the power she had over men. She knew that she could sell what she possessed. And she knew that she had had enough sex to think of herself as very skilled in her craft.

Zev felt like he and Quincey were becoming friends. She told him about her daughter and her struggles. She told him about her broken heart. Zev wondered when she was going to kick him out but he was enjoying the company for as long as he could. He knew that Amy was out for the evening and he didn’t want to go back to the house and be alone. He much preferred the company of whores and he knew that was one reason he was so attached to Amy. Amy was very whore like. Zev felt relaxed enough to tell Quincey about his struggles in his marriage. He told her that he felt like his wife was in love with someone else. Quincey told him that that must not be a fun situation to be in. She asked him how long he had been married for and why he thought his wife was in love with someone else. Zev told her that it was just a feeling and that certain things had occurred that made him think Amy was in love with another man. When Quincey asked Zev what he was going to do he told her that he didn’t know. First he needed to find out if his feeling was true. He told Quincey that he felt like his wife was doing everything she could to keep her secret from him. Suddenly Zev was not as appealing to Quincey anymore. He was just another pathetic and dumped guy. It was cool that he was a painter but he was old and seemed very defeated. She told Zev that she had to get ready for her next client. As he made his way out the motel door, Quincey gave him a hug and said that he should come back and see her another time. Zev said he would.

On his drive home Zev put on the new album by Merzbow, Keiji Haino and Balazs Pandi called Become The Discovered, Not The Discoverer. The sounds were aggressive and dark and fit the mood of driving through Los Angeles that night. Zev smoked a cigarette and noticed that he felt good. He had gone to see the prostitute hoping that he could somehow ameliorate the pain that had taken hold in his gut. Zev didn’t realize then that the pain was going nowhere. That no whore could suck it out of him. He didn’t realize that the pain was going to be with him for a long time. Zev was starting to feel even more insecure than he did before his suspicion that Amy was in love with someone else. Just the thought of her possibly being with Arthur made him feel terrible about himself. How could his wife fall in love with that guy when she had someone like him? Zev couldn’t figure it out and it just didn’t make any sense. Zev had gone to the prostitute hoping that being sexual with another woman would make him feel less angry and upset about what was going on with Amy. He was hoping to improve his confidence, and it worked for a little while. But his confidence always fell back down within a few days of real life.

The drumming was loud, the guitar sounding as if it was being played by a lunatic. The noise drowned out the thoughts in Zev’s head. Zev loved this kind of aggressive and abstract music. He was feeling that post-orgasmic bliss, one of the benefits of a quick sexual experience. There was no craving in him for a woman. There was no desire for sex. The compulsion had vanished. He didn’t care what Amy was doing. He was fully satisfied within himself. When he walked into his home, the house was dark. There was a feeling of emptiness in the house that Zev ignored. Zev turned on the lights and walked into his home studio. He put a Gary Wilson record on the turntable. He then smoked a cigarette and looked out his window at the city below. He could see lights flickering in the darkness. He didn’t care that Amy wasn’t home. He didn’t care that he suspected she was with Arthur even though she told him she was going out with friends. He didn’t care that she probably wouldn’t be home till around 4am. Zev finished his cigarette and decided he would get a good night’s sleep. A sleep not perturbed by his emotional pain. Zev felt so satisfied from his experience with Quincey that he didn’t bother brushing his teeth. He got in bed and with his head on his pillow listened to the Gary Wilson record playing in the other room before falling to sleep. Amy didn’t come home that night.

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