Not Even Myself (Story by R.C. Peris)

Her nose, a slightly large one with a less than straight profile, wrinkled and then her glossy lips, the ones that tormented me, pouted and made her bottom lip look like a morsel to be plucked and devoured.

“But I don’t want fish eggs,” she said.

“Darling, it’s caviar. All the wealthy people eat it. You simply must. Just a dollop on toast, then some creme, some chopped egg…there you go. Good girl. Delightful isn’t it? Divine.”

She laughed. The sound reverberated across The Russian Tea Room. Some diners looked up and a few whispered discretely to themselves.

“Are you saying I’m fish eggs?”

She purred like a kitten. I had picked her up on Avenue A, which was not the seedy place it was for decades. It was gentrified with Gap and Starbucks on every corner. But a few hookers still walked at night. Click. Click. Their heels hitting the pavement. Weaving around people walking dogs, black youth beating buckets, a violinist playing Mozart, couples arguing over wheat pasta and eggplant at the overpriced organic stores. When I saw her sauntering down the street I knew she was a whore. A lady of the night. Her body was full, heavy breasts, straight brown hair, and a look of carelessness. She clutched her little silver purse to her. She eyed the cars. Swiveled her bulging hips. Her skin was tawny and it seemed to glow in the fluorescent lights of the street. God, she was gorgeous. Not appropriate for my fine bicoastal family, distant earldom, and my seat in the House of Lords. But she did look like a treat and I was hungry. I said hello to her.

“Yeah,” she tapped a cigarette. “You’re not from around here.”

“Oh, no. London.”

“Wow.” Her lower jaw actually slackened. “You rich or something? Something powerful?”

“I’m just a man.”

She snorted. “That you are.” She inhaled the cigarette. “I’m Divine. Cost is three-hundred. That includes a little discount.”

“Why a discount?” I paid her five hundred and I indulged in her flesh in a hotel room. She had so much flesh to squeeze and lick. I wouldn’t let her go. We settled on a weekly rate. I left her in hotel rooms as I went on business meetings. And then we would roll like glorious gods into ecstasy. I decided we needed a fine night out so I took her to The Russian Tea Room but not before selecting an appropriate dress at Saks. She was wrapped in purple. A sparkling, Italian jewel.

“I don’t like the caviar,” she said. She had no problem with the rest of the meal and our conversation consisted of sex positions and her choice of occupation. She was quiet about that.

“My business.” For the first time, she looked hard.

After dinner, I asked if we should go to the hotel.

“I need some things from my place.” She directed the cab to the Lower East Side.

Her place was a studio with few furnishings and mounds of books. They weren’t precariously stacked but carefully stacked. She ran water in the bathroom and I noticed the very best of the Western Canon and quite a few in Italian in French as well as older books I had never heard of. I was dumbfounded.

“Are these yours?” She was standing before me in flat feet and muted makeup. She looked like an Earth goddess.

“Who else would they belong to?” She didn’t sound happy.

“But…Divine…”

“Concetta. Concetta Amasi.” She bowed. “In the flesh.”

“We’ve been babbling on about nonsense. We could have been having…”

“Real conversations? Is that what you are paying me for? This dress is tight. Can you help me unzip?”
We had bought the largest size at Saks but still, her flesh could not be contained. I kissed her shoulder.

“Why?” I asked.

“I couldn’t figure out what to do with a literature degree from a state school and…a history of sexual abuse…well, prostitute seemed logical.”

“That’s not logical.”

“It is in my mind. That’s what counts. That’s all that counts. Now, I suppose you’re off to London soon. It’s been wonderful, Charles. Truly. Can you pay me now for the week?”

“I should take you…”

“To London?” Concetta laughed. “Even if I went as Concetta and not Divine I would be wholly inappropriate.”

“I’ll pay you. We still have a week.”

“Yes.”

“I think I love you.” I was very near tears.

“And our love story now ends. In a week.” She took money from my extended wallet and slid it into her bra.

“Do you love me?” I think my eyes were glistening.

“Oh, Charles. I love no one. Not even myself. Especially myself.”

THE END