Venice

The life of a man who fit's perfectly in the paradigms of what is perceived to be physical beauty (of a male protagonist) makes the best of his gifts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Venice

 

 

 

 

 

 

By: Valentine Mabuza & Roman Steenkamp.

 

 

 

Venice central:

Friday evening. I’d been sitting next to the telephone for days, any glass I had was either broken or dirty. So I always drank from the bottle, I’d roam around my living room whiskey in one hand and a lit cigarette on the other sometimes stopping to stare out the window and watch random people pacing up and down the street. My luck had finally ran out, usually my agent Doyle would have called by now with a prospect of a pay day but a month had gone by with no such prospect in sight. I only had $17 to my name, a refrigerator full of condiments and a left over bowl of spaghetti which tasted stranger and stranger each time I reheated it.

I finally took the initiative so to speak and decided to call Doyle. The phone rang a few times, he picked up severing the sound of the forth ring before it finished.

“Doyle speaking,”he said loudly, the noise of cars passing him on the highway echoing in the background “times money, so start talking and make it short.”

“Jesus H. Christ, you’re still using that old catch phrase.” I replied.

“Ah… Martin,” he said recognizing my voice “I thought you’d call.”

“And call I did. Four weeks man, please tell you’ve got something for me.”

There was a small pause. I only heard what sounded like a large truck honking through the telephone receiver as I extinguished my last cigarette on the pile of others, ash lined up symmetrically all around.

“G… I don’t know what to tell you buddy. The modelling agencies are going with younger faces nowadays.”

“What do you mean younger? I’m twenty-nine.” I said, muscling a bit of anger in my tone.

“Look let me put you on hold for a while,” he said “I’ve got another important client on the line. You know, one who’s actually paying me.”

On hold, I left the telephone on the kitchen counter, and walked to the bathroom to splash lukewarm water on my face and relinquish the lingering drowsy from it . When I lifted my eyes I was greeted by a foggy mirror. I whipped off a small portion with my left palm and didn’t like my reflection on it. It was grotesque and almost unrecognizable, my facial hair had grown well beyond the norm and the tiny scar on my forehead seemed slightly more visible. I went back to Doyle on my counter and I wasn’t surprised to find I was still on hold.

“Hey Martin you still there…?”

“Where else could I be DOYLE!” I said “So what? You don’t have anything for me?”

“Well I wouldn’t say that,” he said “there’s always something in L.A but you might not like it”

I nodded as if he could see me and told him at this point I could do anything no matter how small. I’d even consider doing one of those miscellaneous cologne commercials that you see at 10am in the morning while you’re brushing your teeth.

“In that case,” he said “grab a pen and paper and write this down…”

I rushed over to my room and grabbed a hello-kitty notepad on the side board an ex-girlfriend left behind. I started scribbling what initially I thought was the name of some small time agency but as Doyle went on it suggested otherwise. I immediately inquired as to what the numbers next to the name were, to which he replied -an address. Naturally I was puzzled. After all I’d been to almost every Mod agency in California and knew them well. Espouse facto I only needed the name and as my agent I was more than sure he knew that, until he began to explain.

According to Doyle, apparently there were these unfuckable monsters or divorced and widowed older women which inhabit those large mansions you usually saw in movies across the greater city of Beverly Hills Los Angelis.

 “That’s where you come in,” he continued “if you head out to that particular address you’ll find a nice rich lady waiting just for you. It’s your job to show her a good time by reminding her that she’s still alive. If you know what I mean?”

“Yeah think I do,” I said, the reflexes on my hand already preparing to hang up“and I think it’s creeping me out.”

I hang up; with a certain satisfaction might I add. And again bottle in hand I started pacing in my apartment weighing my options, there had to be a job opening or at least a part time gig on the Venice-paper. Waiting tables, pizza delivery, maybe bar tendering uptown, something… anything. I knew that I needed enough cash to cover the rent on my place and the once energetic clown fish I had as a substitute for an actual pet now marched angrily up and down their tank and held malice intentions towards me for not feeding them. It was around three O’clock now; sleep eluded me well into the morning. I was down to my last packet of smokes but the hours went by fast and Doyle's offer became less of a ridicules notion and more of a possibility with each passing hour. I secretly hated myself for even thinking about it.

Bye-bye Venice:

Saturday morning came and I’m ashamed to say that the idea of leaving the male modelling industry to reinvent myself as a Hollywood man w***e wasn’t as repulsive. Maybe it was the hangover from all that Jack and Vodka, or maybe the final eviction notice letter my landlord had shoved under my door at some point or the evolved upright cockroach I came across with in the cupboard while looking for a plate to place my tomato and cheese sandwich. A combination of all three perhaps…? Regardless of the reasoning behind it, I called Doyle again at around 11:45am.

 

“I’m surprised it took you this long to call.” he said, in a way I imagined him smiling on the other side “But anyway the address is still the same if you’re up for it.”

After a short yet never the less unpleasant interaction with the electric shaver I was off, on Wilshire Boulevard which runs from Santa Monica to downtown. The yellow cab driver, who’s introduced himself as Sam by now, tells me that Wilshire Blvd was the main drag in Hollywood during the good old days but there’s not much happening now worth the conversation.

I arrived. The house stood tall at the end of the block, Sam pulled over parking up front a gate that could easily convince the dead to be an entrance to paradise as it towered above a row of well-tended to eucalyptus trees.

“Hey… watch it pal.”hollered Sam after I unintentionally slammed the back door of his cab when I stepped out nervously.

I apologized and walked over to the intercom, not familiar with the device I simply held down the largest button and spoke out.

“Hello, is this the Goldstein residence?”

 “Yes, who is this?” squalled out a woman’s voice in a thick accent.

“I’m Martin. I have an appointment with the misses.”

“Okay hold on.”

I waited a few Mississippi’s, and tried not to look too suspicious or menacing as a Mercedes from a nosy neighbor passed by, the driver slowing down and eye balling me heavily. Probably looking for any signs of criminal intent, I waved awkwardly feel a stupid look on my face.

“You can come on up now Mr Martin.” said the radio like voice over the intercom.

The gigantic gate swung open in synchronized motion. As I got closer to the house, the reality of what I was about to do started seeping in. Was I actually going to go through with this madness? was it worth it in the grand scheme of things?My mind drifted to more comfortable thought as I imagined what she would look like, what her voice sounded like when it wasn’t traveling via electronic wiring. The front door was open, so I invited myself in.

I was almost immediately enchanted by the intricately designed furniture, flawless marble sculptures and paintings which filled the room.

“Back here!” yield out a sweet voice bouncing on the colossal walls.

I approached, my hands jammed in my pockets. At first glance was a figure stretched out horizontally poolside, blocked from the waste up by another woman in a classic black and white maids outfit,-serving drinks.

  “Thanks,” again said the sweet voice passively“you can take the rest of the day off Esparranza”

“Muchasgracias madam.” said the grateful maid, then walking away in frantic little footsteps, a fading into the darkness of the room behind me with a smile that told me she knew exactly why I was actually here.

The maid left the figure in eyes reach, and what a figure it was. She was no monster at all, not by a long shot. A woman in her early thirties, brunet hair flowing down to her bosom, pink pouty lips, a thin waste above curvy hips, borderline perfect skin tone and legs all the way up to heaven.

City of fallen Angels:

 “Mm… don’t be shy, come closer stranger” she assured me, biting her lower lip, her head tilted to the side.

She took a sip of her martini, stood upright confidently and walked closer as I meet her half-way. Her hands stretched out and landed on my shoulders and I placed first my right then the other hand on that impossibly thin waste of hers. We kissed, her tongue flicking in and out of my mouth -sought of a hand shake of the lips between ancient and close friends. The kiss separated, but our eyes didn’t as the oxygen slowly returned to my vacant lungs. She abruptly slid into the pool and hovered on the surface, teasing me with tiny bubbles she makes with her mouth.

 “What are you waiting for? Take your clothes off.” she called out.

I undressed slowly, still not breaking eye contact and joined her. The water was warmer that I thought, and like a playful little shark she came at me. She unhooked her bra, releasing it as I watched it float away…the suns raise twinkling the water around it. She smiled a malevolently smile, intertwined her smooth long legs along my torso with my hands supporting her weight beneath.

We kissed some more, it felt deeper this time, somehow more intense, more intimate. I massaged her moist lips with mine; my anxiety had completely vanished, along with any feelings of uncertainty. She took charge, pulling my trunks down and off, I did the same… untying the flimsy little knot at her side that held up her two piece bikini undergarments.

Not shy, she grabbed my unmentionables and guided me inside of her. I started to work slowly while kissing her neck; I felt her respond, with her breasts pined up against my chest. She began shaking franticly but steady in my arms, as if electricity was coursing through her entire body. I spun her around easily, and had her back somewhat pressed on the ledge of the pool and mounted harder. Using her moans as a campus for my aggression, we soon fell into a natural rhythm.  Everything seemed to slow down and got quieter, only the sound of the water plashing in that small space between us that opened up and closed when I entered her thighs.

Moaning loudly, her face was a cosmic smile like a child in Christmas morning, you could almost taste the pleasure and sheer satisfaction oozing from her green tinted eyes, I must have been doing something right. Effortlessly, I pulled up one of her legs and had it up and over my right shoulder where it curled nicely as if it was supposed to there, now I had full access to her most privates. I felt myself sliding deeper inside of her and with each persistent dive in that pink velvet utopia I got closer to God, and closer to blowing my top. We went on like this for about an hour, switching positions, switching places. It’s a little cloudy as to how because of all the booze aftershock, it’s all a blur of tit’s and a*s really but we ended up in her kitchen where I had her propped on the counter and was still going at it.

 “More, more… harder.” she’d say; making it clear she wanted her money’s worth.

The Aftermath:

A few minutes elapsed, maybe an hour -I awoke in her living room still naked and her napping on top of me also nude. I tried not to wake her, avoiding the awkward post coital conversations that come with this sought of thing. I quietly moved her slim hand off from my chest and with cat like precision and stealth I slipped out from under her, collected my trunks which were floating alongside her bra on the pool, then I went back inside the house to pick up the rest of my clothing on the kitchen and living room floor. Almost burglar like I tippy toed to the exit while putting on my T-shirt which was wet along the bottom. On my way to the door, I nick an expensive looking vase with my elbow but luckily it didn’t break when it hit the floor, but the noise it made was enough to awake sleeping beauty laying all the way across the living room.

 

“Leaving so soon.” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

 

“Yeah, you know working class,’ I said “got to get back on the wheel.”She stood up, her breast agreeing with her swaying motion as she walked toward me slightly smiling with that look of satisfaction still clear of her scowl.

“Poor baby.” she said pouting sarcastically, kissing me one last time, the smell of her breath some exotic fruit she was probably eating before passing out on her hand woven tapestry.

However exhausted she might have appeared, she was still kind enough to see me out witch made things a little less awkward for me. I apologized for the vase and she assured me it was quote " a non-issue. Outside, leaving Mrs Goldstein standing on the entrance of her doorway, I could feel her eyes behind me as she watched me walking away. Somewhere along her driveway I took out my phone from the back pocket of my jeans to call a cab and I saw a message just as I was about to reach the gate.

Venice beckoning:

$3000.00 has been deposited to your account by an unknown source, thank you for banking with us.

I smiled a bit, and in a short while Sam’s cab was there to pick me up. It was getting dark as we drove pass Hollywood Boulevard, you could see the sun shine through the Hollywood sign as it settled behind the hill. It was quiet it the cab, each man left to his thoughts, the air conditioner humming modestly behind the sound of the radio playing in an octave that only dogs could pick up. It dawned on me how much easier this kind of job was, there was no uncertainty, no inconvenience and there was a sought of honesty that I had never experienced in human relationships before, plus the pay-out was relatively decent considering what it was the job entailed.

Doyle called when I had just reached Venice central and said he had two offers for me; a mod agency had an opening and was looking for the kind of look I had (whatever that meant) or door number two would be another unfuckable monster would be waiting for me somewhere in Sunset Boulevard tomorrow evening, the choice was mine. Do I go back to my life of displaying cloths I don’t even like or can even afford for f**s and get over paid for it? Or stick to this newly found passion?  I weighed the pros and cons of it all. There I was in the back seat of that yellow taxi cab, rotting away in the embrace of the warm California sun.

-The End.

 

Author's Note

I wrote this one with my best friend roman, it was a lot of work but we had a great time doing it. Got a bunch of magazine reviews when we published it, some bad but it was a great experience for me.

Reviews

[VALENTINE]

Thanks man, great to hear, your latest poem was no joke either. Loved the attached art too.

[Sami Khalil]

A splendid read and write...You are so talented...Keep up the great work dude...:).......................

[VALENTINE]

Thanx, any favorite parts in particular?

[Sami Khalil]

Nope...You are welcome...:)........................