Evan Hunter - Candyland

I'm not lonely.

And anyway, there's nothing wrong with looking through a magazine.

If there's nothing wrong with placing the ad in the first place (in a respectable magazine like New York, no less!) then there's nothing wrong with a person glancing through the goddamn ads, is there?

He glances through them now.

Here is a veritable grab bag of unsorted, unalphabetized pleasures, all of them but a single telephone call and a taxi ride — or perhaps even a short stroll — away from the hotel. He looks at his watch. It is six minutes to twelve, but most of the services listed here are available around the clock. He knows. He has called as early as ten in the morning or as late as three A.m. They are always figuratively and literally wide open. No padlocks here, Your Honor. Here instead are all the "sensual," "hidden," "elegant," "extraordinary," "pure," "classy," "incredible," 11 smooth," "professional," "discreet," "silky," "exotic," "satisfying," "luxurious," "affordable," "sweet," "snoothing,'' "priivate," "unforgettable," "magical," "superb," and "exceptional"

Take a deep breath, Ben.

…"escapes," "body rubs," "delights," "colonics," "relaxations,".synchronizations," "body scrubs," and good old massages," either "Shiatsu," "Swedish," or "Mongolian"

Another deep breath.

… administered by a "Southern belle," a "Viennese lady," a "skillful French masseuse," a "classy Russian masseuse," "a professional masseuse from Japan," a "California model," a "mature woman," an.ebony goddess," a "refined woman," a "China doll," a "British lady," a "sophisticated beauty," a "Boston girl on summer break," a "sensitive Swede," and "3 Asian Lovelies

A yet deeper breath.

… with names like Margo, Claudette, Bridget, Patricia (and Friends), Millicent, Sandrine, Ruriko, Stefanie, Maria, Helena (and Hildy), Bedelia, Darlene, Katie, and Natasha from Kiev.

He wonders if Maria is Puerto Rican.

He can remember fucking a Puerto Rican girl in San Juan.

She told him she had two little girls in nursery school.

It occurs to him that his keenest memories are of sex.

It further occurs to him that perhaps all of his memories are of sex. Well no, he thinks. He can certainly remember…

Well, yes.

Well.

He doesn't like to believe this about himself. Someone secretly preoccupied with…

Well, there's nothing secret about this, there's nothing furtive about remembering pleasant episodes or events that were frankly sexual in content…

Well, unpleasant sometimes, too, he supposes, but nothing in life is without its darker side. The point is, a healthy interest in sex is not what anyone might consider perverse. If his mind occasionally wanders down the garden path, what's so terribly wrong about that? He's a forty-three-year-old man who finds women attractive, is that so difficult to understand? Thinking about sex, recalling sex, dreaming about sex, searching for sex isn't something to be ashamed of, or even embarrassed about, or even anything to worry about, for Christ's sake! It isn't as if his constant…

Well, it isn't constant, come on.

His occasional sexual "associations," he would call them, are something every man in the world experiences at least as often as he does and perhaps women, too, they think about sex, too, don't kid yourself, all the time probably, it takes two to tango, honey. Finding the opposite sex attractive is something wonderful and strange, vive la difference ! Besides, he's in complete control of the situation, thank you very much, Grace. This isn't some kind of adolescent habit like, well, masturbation. This isn't a habit at all, when one examines it. Finding women attractive is not the same as smoking two packs of cigarettes a day or drinking six martinis before breakfast or shooting dope in your arm. Habits are something a person tries to kick. Habits are something bad. Since when did fucking beautiful women become undesirable? I'm not some perpetual adolescent trapped in a monkey-spanking time warp! I am Benjamin J. Thorpe — gentleman. Is what Karen called me. A gentle man.

He goes down the columns of ads again.

Something called XS Salon catches his eye.

Just those words. XS Salon. And a phone number.

He likes the pun on the word "Excess." He is in the mood for excess tonight. He likes the dyslextic quality of the "XS" ellipsis, which he imagines to be "sex" spelled backward with a missing "e." "Salon" is exotically French with a Sunday afternoon literary feel to it. Hoping some black guy in his undershorts won't be answering phones for a stable of junkie hookers who make outcalls only — he is not in the mood for any more surprises tonight — he dials the listed number and waits. His heart is pounding.

"XS Salon, good evening."

A young girl's voice. Breathy. Inviting.

"Hello," he says. "I'm calling about your ad."

"Yes, sir, where did you see it?"

"New York magazine?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Where are you located?"

"In the East Seventies."

"And where?"

"Third Avenue."

"Your ad didn't… uh… say very much. I was wondering… Always the difficult part. On the phone, you can't come right out and ask if this is a… er… whore house?

Everything on the phone is in code. On the phone, he sometimes feels like a spy.

"I was wondering if you can tell me a little about yourself," he says. "What kind of a salon are you?"

They're listed under "massage," but he doesn't want to get there and have someone offer him a haircut and a manicure.

"We're massage," she says.

"Full body rub?"

"Full body rub, yes, sir."

Meaning hand jobs.

"Complete satisfaction?"

"Complete, yes, sir."

Meaning they'll jerk you off till you come. No squeeze and tease.

"What do you charge?" he asks.

"A hundred dollars for the hour massage, sir. Sixty for the half hour. "

"How about gratuities?"

"Strictly between you and the girls, sir."

Meaning they'll fuck or suck if the price is right.

"How many girls do you have there?"

"There's usually a nice selection, sir."

"How many?"

"Usually from six to ten girls, sir. Depending on the hour."

Meaning it's a full-scale brothel.

"How many girls do you have there right now?"

"I believe there are seven, sir. I haven't been downstairs in a while."

"Okay," he says.

"Sir?"

"Can I have the address there, please?"

"Did you wish to make an appointment, sir?"

"Yes, I think so. What's the address?"

"I'll need your name, please."

"Michael," he says.

"Have you ever been here before, Michael?"

"No, never." He almost says "That's why I need the fucking address, hmm?"

"Just a moment, please," she says.

He waits. Is she running the name through a computer, to make sure they don't have a Michael who's a serial murderer or a rapist, a Michael…?

"Have you got a pencil, Michael?"

Apparently he's passed the security check.

"Yes," he says, "go ahead."

She gives him the address. He writes it down on a pad that has the hotel's name across its top in script lettering, using a hotel pen stamped with the hotel's name on its barrel.

"When you get here," she says, "ring the bell for apartment B for Beautiful, do you have that, Michael?"

"Yes," he says.

"B for Beautiful," she repeats. "Can you remember that, Michael?"

"I'll try," he says drily, but she misses the sarcasm.

"When do you think you'll be here, Michael?"

"Ten, fifteen minutes. If I can find a cab."

"It's raining, yes," she agrees. "Well, we'll see you when we see you. You didn't have anyone special in mind, right?"

"I've never been there," he says.

"Right," she says. "Okay, we'll be looking for you, Michael."

"See you," he says, and hangs up.