Ricky hated gays. He hated fags. He hated queers.
Ricky spoke with pride about his disdain for gays and fags and queers. Not only did he talk about his repugnance, he genuinely felt it, too.
One day at work, after Ricky finished some tirade about the gays, one of the guys told him the whore he got blowjobs from every Friday was really a man. All the other guys laughed. Some knew about the whore. Ricky had described her and where and when she could be found. He described her candy apple ass and the shimmering, silken black hair that flowed above it. A few of the boys had even driven down to the East End to check her out, but none talked about going for a spin.
José joked at Ricky for being a homo who got blowjobs from a male whore dressed as a woman. Ricky told José he was full of shit for thinking Crystal was a man.
The next Friday, when she got in his truck, Ricky gave Crystal a closer look. He looked hard at the throat. He saw the lump. He looked between her legs and saw a similar lump at the inner fold of her hot pants.
When she went down on him, Ricky felt between her thighs. He felt something solid but soft. Something with far more body than a pillowy mound of cunt hair.
“What the fuck’s that?” Ricky asked.
Crystal stopped working.
“I thought you knew,” the whore said.
Crystal remained calm. She’d been in that spot before with men who, for whatever reason, were no longer willing to pretend. Men who decided to feign a sudden enlightenment. Men boiling over with frustration and disgust with their deceits to themselves and needing to take the truth out on her.
“You don’t know?”
“Know what, Crystal?”
“Never mind,” she said. “Just relax. Everything’s okay.”
Ricky quivered. To soothe him, she stroked his leg.
“You goddamned women,” Ricky said. “Always playing mind games.”
“How am I playing games?” Crystal asked.
“That thing in your throat. And whatever it is you got stuffed between your legs. You women always playing your goddamned games to keep a man’s mind fucked up.”
“Women?” the whore kindly asked.
“Yes. You fucking, fucked up women.”
“Okay, Sugar,” she said. “You’re right. We women sure are fucked up.”
She peered deep into Ricky’s trembling eyes. Ricky sighed from the depths of the soul. Crystal then knew she was safe, so she carried on with the job.
When she finished, Ricky paid her twenty bucks more than usual.
She asked if she’d see Ricky next week.
He replied, “Of course. Why not?”
“I want to make sure nothing’s changed.”
“How about next week you wear the earrings I gave you.”
“Yes. The crucifixes. The gold ones,” Ricky said. “They’re pure gold. They were my mother’s.”
“Sure thing, Sugar,” she said. “Next time, the earrings.”
“Good. I like it when you wear those earrings.”
“It’s nothing,” she said.
“And thank you for making all this so easy.”
“No problem,” Crystal said. “You know I’m always here to give you whatever you need.”