Ann Griffin - Skin summer

Linda puckered her lips, preparatory to saying something. She looked prettier than ever now. He thought that is was because he no longer viewed her as an object or a mark for his con, but as a vibrant, complex human being. "Don't let it end," she said.

"What can I do."

"It looks hopeless to me," Jenny said. "But then, if she's as open-minded and free a girl as you say, she should be able to forgive you and to accept the fact that you are trying to change."

"Maybe," he said, unconvinced.

"Tell her you're sorry," Linda said. She crossed one long leg over the other and leaned against the base of the sofa. "Go to her now and tell her you have re-thought the whole thing."

"Sounds too shallow," Sam says. "She'd not even listen to the first two sentences before slamming the door in my face."

"I agree," Jenny said.

"Well," Linda said, "what could you do to prove you've changed? What evidence could you offer?"

"None," he said dismally. "No matter how convincing I was, she'd always wonder when I was going to ask for money. She would never be certain the change was a reality."

"You could start," Linda said, as if she had not been listening to his answer, "by giving Brenda Markwell back the money you've gotten from her. That would be proof. Then, if Susan is still not convinced, send her to Jenny and me. We'll talk to her."

He looked at both of them, grinned. "There's no chance of it working, but it's the only thing left to try." He stood up. "I'll take the money back to Brenda now, I'll see Susan supper."

He rapped on the door of Brenda Markwell's cabin. The echo seemed unusually loud. He was nervous, his hands trembling slightly. In his left hand, he held the hundred and seventy dollars, tightly folded. It burned his flesh, pricked him like a thousand pins. Somehow, he felt the transfer of the money back to Brenda Markwell was the point at which his lifestyle would really be changing. True, he had made the decision to try to love when he had first met Susan. But now, getting rid of this cash was the symbol that made the decision real. Years from now, it would be this moment that thrust out of his memory as the turning point in his life.

The door opened, and Brenda smiled at him. She was wearing a white blouse without a bra. He could see the nubs of her nipples against it. She had on shorts, was barefooted. She was an exceedingly pretty girl, all yellow-haired and tan skinned, her blue eyes flashing, animated, warmer than he remembered them. "Come in," she said.

He hesitated, then stepped past her, into the living room. There was one reading light on over a stuffed chair. A copy of an adventure novel was spread on the seat. There was a bottle of cola on the stand beside the chair. He looked around for her roommate, could not find her.

"She's at the pool again," Brenda said, coming up behind him and closing her arms around him.

"She's coming back, isn't she?" he asked, anxious. He was not sure he trusted himself to go through with what he had planned. Was his will strong, or had all these years weakened it beyond repair?

"No," Brenda said, laughing deep in her throat. "At least not in the immediate future." She came around before him, unbuttoning her blouse. Her lovely teacup breasts were buoyant before him.

"Wait," he said.

She dropped her hands from her open blouse. "What?"

"There's something I have to…"

"Money," she said. "Of course. Wait, and I'll get you some. How much do you want?"

"It's not that," he said.

"It's not?"

"No."

"What then?"

"Brenda…" He hesitated again.

"You're acting funny."

"I came to give you this," lie said, holding out his tightly clenched fist.

"What? You're hand?" She laughed.

"Don't laugh at me," he said. He was obviously quite embarrassed, and he was trembling.

She stopped laughing and eyed his hand. "Well, you'll have to open it for me."

He did.

"The money," she said. "Is that the money I gave you for… For doing those things?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"A hundred and seventy dollars," he said, thrusting it into her hands, sighing heavily when he no longer held the sweaty cash. The burden had been raised. The symbolic moment had come and had passed, and his decision had been attested to with this ceremony.

"But why?" she asked again, staring un-comprehendingly at the bills, then up at him.

"I hustled you," he said.

"So?"

"I hustled you. Don't you understand?"

"You don't make any sense, Sam."

He was exasperated now. He grabbed her shoulders, squeezed them to emphasize what he had to say. "I saw you and set out after you to play you for cash."

"I knew that," she said.

"I shouldn't have," he said.

"But I knew. It didn't matter to me. I've told you how I've always paid to have those things done. There's no reason why I should not pay you. I don't care."

He shook his head. "But I do."

She held the money out to him. "Take this. It doesn't mean much to me. You can use it. And you earned it, after all. Here, take it back and forget it."

"You're not listening to me!" he shouted, shaking her by the shoulders. Her hair flew about her head, and her green-blue eyes danced. "You don't understand."

She looked frightened, her eyes very wide, her lips trembling just the slightest bit.

He let go of her.

She still held the money towards him.

"You don't care that I hustled you," he said. "But I care. I don't want to be a hustler. I don't want to be what I was. Things… Wells things have changed."

"There's nothing wrong with hustling," she said.

"Yes, Brenda. Yes there is."

"What?"

"Sex for money is wrong."

She shook her head negatively. Her breasts quivered deliciously. "No. You're wrong, Sam. There are people like me who need things that we can only get if we are willing to pay well for them. Without hustlers, we'd never be satisfied."

"I tried to justify my actions with lines like that," he said. "But it doesn't work anymore."

"But it's true!"

"No. Hustling you because you are sick, because you are hung up on masochism is wrong. Brenda. Terribly wrong. I am only using you. If I cared for you, I would not hustle, but would love you and help you, and try to find some way to help you understand yourself."

"Shit!" she snapped, tossing the money across the room. "You sound like you've just been to some wildass tent meeting and got your first taste of religion!"

"It's not like that."

"It sounds that way. It sure as hell does."

"You're afraid," he said. "You're afraid of anyone trying to help you. You want only the humiliation of having obscene, debasing things done for you. You want the need filled, but you don't want to dare to search for the cause of the need."

She came up against him, rubbing her resilient boobs against his chest. The smell of her warm flesh was heady, the strongest perfume a man could breathe in. She ground her pelvis against him, pressed him backwards toward the couch.

"Brenda…"

"Fuck me," she said. "You just need to get hot. Then all this bullshit won't mean anything."

"No," he said, pushing her to arm's length.

"I'll pay you twice as much as before," she said.

"Brenda, try to understand…"

"Twice as much, damn you!"

When he shook his head sadly, negatively, she struck at his arms and knocked them away from her. She came in, dropped to her knees tore open the snaps and zippers of his jeans. His cock sprung forth, limp. She stuffed it into her mouth, and felt it grow.

"Brenda…" he said.

She sucked.

He pulled her head away from his erect penis, dizzy, wanting her to continue but afraid he would not be able to make his point, to continue the break into a new lifestyle.