Hot Blooded

A Short Story

“That was wonderful, darling!” Her voice had a deep, throaty sound to it with a husky breath to accompany that smoker’s cough. She slithered in the sheets and reached over to the nightstand searching for another half-emptied, orange vile of pills to help alleviate her fatigue.

Anthony ignored the comment. He gathered his clothes as he was fresh from the shower. Though there would never be enough hot water in all of downtown to wash the sweat and kink from his body. 

He buttoned his shirt while Mrs. Parker watched him with a smile. 

“Next week?” she asked with a moan.

“Can't,” he didn't look at her. “I'm booked up for the rest of October.” 

Mrs. Parker clicked her teeth and gave a low pur that made his skin crawl. “Shame,” she whispered. 

Anthony avoided her hard, green eyes. He could feel them scanning over his half-dressed body. He was use to it by now, but no matter how many times he'd come to Mrs. Parker, or Mrs. Dumas, or Miss Winters, or Mrs. Rhinehart, or Ms. Lucas, or any of the other wealthy, lonely women in the city looking for romance, his policy remained the same: when the sex was done, he was gone. Take the money and get lost.

He'd shower, dress, and carry on with his day.

As a merchant of pleasure and play, Anthony made his living giving wealthy old widows and divorcees the satisfaction they could not find in their previous marriages. He knew his place in the world, the services he provided to his clients. Just a bed warmer - nothing more. It was only business. Lucky for him, business was booming. 

Clients loved him, with his handsome, debonair look, like an old Hollywood heartthrob of the sixties. A mix of a younger, more sober Peter O’Toole with eyes the color of the globe, beach blonde hair, tanned skin and a rugged frame. 

He kept himself well-groomed, ate a balanced diet, and exercised daily. He'd only been working for three months, but was quickly becoming a favorite toy for many clients. Sure it was his looks and physique they liked, but he had one other thing. A glow, a radiant arora that drew many women to him, not just his current clientele. A certain magnetism and vigor that attracted female attention like sharks drawn to blood. 

For Anthony, it made his work easy. He never thought about it. It may have been a nuisance every now and then, sure, but still, this youthful energy earned  him a living. 

He checked his phone, saw the push notification light up with a five-figure cash deposit and hustled out of Mrs. Parker’s penthouse suite. In the elevator, he descended back to the street level of the Downtown District, the dusty, urban jungle home of the common class. He ordered a private car on his phone app. The driverless car pulled up at the curb where he stood and took him back home.

He knew it was morning because of the rush hour traffic. From the tinted window, he watched the average man and woman sprint their way through the filthy, beaten concrete, heads looking down at their feet, doing their best to avoid each other, to keep their distance from one another, always in a hurry to get to their shit jobs, for shit pay. 

It was the same in the evenings. They’d rush back to their cramped, overpriced dwellings, bringing home their complaints and lamentations about the great corporate machine grinding their souls to dust only to forget their problems as they lull themselves to sleep in front of their little, handheld screens. Everyday, after his work was done, he’d watch common, working people rushing morning and evening to their deaths by foot, car, bus, and train. 

Anthony liked to watch the sorry souls living their mundane lives. It gave him every ounce of strength to endure his profession a bit more. Selling his body to those metropolitan aristocrats gave him the means to survive his life in the Borough. As an escort, he had a kind of immunity among the rabble and junkheads of the streets. For them to kill a private beau, to even look at him the wrong way could mean a gruesome end for some poor bastard. 

Deep in the Borough, the car pulled up to an old brownstone and shut down with a low hum as the passenger door flew open. Anthony made his way up the stairs of the front door, pulling up the collar of his overcoat to shut out the morning wind. He looked good in tailored cashmere - a gift from Ms. Lucas during their Labor Day getaway down in Palm Springs. 

The card only read: Keep warm, xo! Gifts were common in this business. As his fees quickly rose, so did his tastes. 50-year-old Single Malts, rare Richard Mille watches, and world-class dinners became commonplace for this young scoundrel in exchange for nightly activities. Late night parties, trips, and the occasional date at fundraising galas. Worth it, he thought. Absolutely worth it. 

He slept soundly at night in his gilded cage.

Anthony scanned his hand on the front door security panel. As the doors parted, the scent of jasmine incense washed over him. He walked into find his private dwellings: 4,000 square feet of urban affluence and lavish decor now tainted with prayer candles, portraits of saints, and the sound of monks chanting in his overhead speaker. 

Anthony stepped in the living room. An old woman, early seventies, sat on the couch covered in plastic, eyes closed, praying over a rosary bead. Anthony gave a deep sigh and moved on to the kitchen. At the fridge, he grabbed himself a sparkling water and twisted the cap off and drank. 

“Mi nieto. ¿Ya comieron?” 

Anthony took a gulp, “Si, Abuelita. I already ate.”

Anthony’s grandmother waddled her way into the kitchen still in her nightgown and robe. She came up to him and poked his side and murmured something in Spanish under her breath. 

“Tan flanco,” she shook her head. “Need to eat something!” 

Anthony smiled and kissed his abuelita on the forehead. She hobbled over to the stove top for the pot of coffee, with a noticeable limp in her step. Anthony stood by the fridge slowly sipping his water. Abuelita hummed a familiar tune, an old folk song from Cuba she’d sung him to sleep when he was a boy. 

He watched her pour herself a fresh brew when she asked, “Any sales?” 

“Hmm?” Anthony muttered to give himself a half second to think of a response. 

“Tu trabajo…any sales today at work?” 

He threw back the bottle and swallowed hard,“Si, Abuelita! Business…is good.” 

Abuelita smiled her warm smile at him, picked up her mug, and hobbled back to the living room. “Bueno,” she said. 

“You a good boy, Antonio. Papa is proud. He smiles at you from Heaven.” 

Anthony cleared his throat and smiled back. Of course, all she knew was that he was a salesman, nothing more. It would kill her poor heart to know the reality of her grandson’s trade. All she knew was that everything was covered: the medical bills, the apartment, the private car to Saturday night Mass. Everything was covered. That’s all she needed to know. It would stay this way. It had to. She was proud of her boy taking control of his earnings and his future. She’d pray nightly to God for her grandson to get out off the streets, to go back and finish school to earn a respectable living. As far as Anthony was concerned, her prayers were answered. 

He watched her as she lit another candle to the Virgin Mary. He caught a glimpse at her swollen legs. Skin almost purple, and peeling. It slowed her down these days. 

He was prepared to do anything to keep his grandmother healthy and comfortable. 

Anything.

Sweet Abuelita sat nestled in her big chair with her rosary and her coffee. “Soon,” that’s what he always told himself. He told Mrs. Parker that morning he was booked. In a way it was true. He checked his phone to look at the email confirmation again: Two first class plane tickets to Havana.

Soon.

---

The following morning, he waited outside the Native Street Cafe just a block and a half from his apartment. A place overrun by a cool, young crowd. Sitting by himself at a table, he sipped on an Americano, waiting and staring off into the distance. Three coeds sat two tables away from him. They caught his attention, one of them smiled at him and he smiled back. 

The Autumn air shook around him and as old leaves descended, he was instantly reminded of the relentless power of age.

Elderly citizens were left to drift out and die alone these days. Retirement homes were shutting down in record numbers, along with the outlaw of pension funds and senior assisted care.

Unless you had financial means to get by on your own, your chances of survival were slim. To be over sixty-five and poor was a death sentence.  

The only old folks left in the Districts were those with fortunes big enough to keep the bureaucratic wheels turning, an elite senior class that had found ways around the laws. There were rumors of ways to cheat death for the right price. Urban legends and myths, of course.  

 Age wasn’t pretty. It was often unkind. Anthony saw what age was doing to those widows in their beds, those nouveau riche divorcees. To his Abuelita.

Though he still had his youth, he could sense that all the comforts of life – of this life, were fleeting. Comfort and pleasure were his business, afterall. He traded them both for coin that afforded him his lifestyle, Abuelita's bills, and soon his escape out of this tired old city.

A young man plopped into the chair in front of him. Anthony kept sipping his coffee.

“Sorry, sorry!  I got held up by my last meeting.” Behind the eight hundred dollar shades was Vic Nguyen, Anthony's “appointment setter.” 

“You know I don't like to keep my people waiting.” Vic said with a cheesy grin.

Anthony placed his coffee down on the table, reached inside his coat pocket and threw a large envelope at Vic. 

Vic glanced at the banknotes, flipped through the stack with his thumb and whistled at amazement. 

“My man!” he said as he tucked away the bills in the pocket of his ripped jeans. He wore a blue leather skin jacket with black stripes across the chest and neon green pants. Conservative dress was not Vic’s style nor was the art of subtly. “How was Mrs. P last night?” he asked.

Anthony gave him nothing. He never discussed clients or entertained pointless gossip. He returned to his coffee.

“Right. Well, man, you keep doing…your thing and keep these ladies happy, then we're gravy.”

As a matter of fact,” Vic cleared his throat “I got someone new I want you to meet tonight. ”

“Vic–” 

“She’s a bit older, sure, but she’s practically baths in gold from what I hear–”

“Vic, I want out.” Anthony didn’t flinch.

Vic sat there stunned,“You want..what now?” 

“I want out. For good this time. No more of this tired shit.” 

Vic adjusted in his seat, slipped out a nervous laugh, and cleared his throat again.
“Brother, you don’t understand. I’m about to hook you up for life, my friend. When I tell you about this client and what she’s willing to pay, you’re gonna need an ambulance!”
Anthony shook his head with a smile, “Nah man. I’ve got enough now. I want to move on and kiss this dump of a city goodbye.”

“Enough?” Vic leaned in. “When has Anthony Martinez …Ever. Had. Enough?” 

A gust of wind came whipping around the table. Both men sat in their seats in silence for a moment.

Then Vic let him have it, “That’s a fine cashmere coat you got, my friend. Fine and expensive.”

Vic leaned over the table, “And that watch – Omega, right?”

Of course, Anthony knew what the man was trying to do, the message he was trying to send. 

“That apartment of yours – two or three million? I just can’t remember anymore–”

Anthony let out a sigh of annoyance as he balled his hands into fists. 

“That’s definitely some strong bullshit you must be drinking in that ten dollar coffee. Enough, huh. Brother, we both know why you do what you do. I know for a fact, you’d rather be in this line of work than some desk job. You're motivated by money. It’s your drug of choice. Or maybe you like laying in bed with someone’s granny—”

“Fuck off!” 

 “You’re lying to yourself, man! You’ve got that sickness in ya just..like me. We’re merchants of pleasure and we always will be. You know I’m right.” 

Vic leaned back, sighed, and said, “But who am I to tell a grown ass man what to do with his life, eh? Where you off to?”

“Cuba,” said Anthony.

“Ah, your grandparents’ home.” 

“She’s not gonna survive up here, Vic. You’ve seen what they're doing to them. You’ve seen the camps. The black smoke.” 

“I get it, man really I do. You want her outta here. Respect. Do this last thing for me and we’ll be squared away. Deal?” After a moment that seemed to go on longer than Vic felt comfortable with, they shook hands on their agreement. One more job. That’s all Anthony needed.

“Now, about the client.”  

---

The residence displayed a grand, palatial presence, an air of generational affluence and power. The doors opened upon his arrival. Anthony stood in the foyer waiting with little patience. He kept checking the tickets in his pants pocket, to make sure they didn’t suddenly vanish. One more job. This is it. The last one he needed. Some extra cash doesn't hurt. Nothing wrong with a little more in the back pocket. Just one more for the road.

To kill time, he walked over to the oil paintings in the foyer. Several portraits spanning back to what looked like the French Revolution. Old money lived here.

Anthony was checking his phone. Did he have the right address? This place looked more like a forgotten museum than a home. 

“Hello?” he shouted. “Ms. Duval?” 

Slow and steady footsteps began to echo. Anthony turned around. 

There she was, standing in the shadows, dressed in pink silk threads and satin gloves. His attention was fixed on her face, hidden away behind a broken doll mask, but he was a professional, he was not going to make his client uncomfortable. 

She raised her left hand, nearly decrepit fingers prompting him to “come hither” through a dark room. 

Anthony followed without hesitation. Sooner this was over, the sooner he could be on the plane.

On the ground floor, they made their way into a cramped little bedroom, filled with what looked to Anthony like tired old junk for rich folks. In the corner of the room, on a gorgeous decorative table, sat an impressive Victorian dollhouse with several china dolls layered in neat little rows, side by side. 

Being curious and wanting to break the uneasy silence, he inquired about the old toys. 

“So,” he attempted a smile, “you like dolls, eh?” 

His host said nothing. With her face covered by the broken mask, there was little telling what Ms. Duval was thinking, though he could feel her starting to tense.

“No worries. Forget I asked,” he said. He started to undress.

“They…are antiques.” Ms. Duval slowly lowered herself to the side of the table, admiring her darlings. Her speech was hoarse and scratchy, with a twinge of a French accent. “I collect dolls and other rare oddities. Please, have some wine.” She pointed to the twin chalices next to the dollhouse. Anthony, with his shirt open and shoes off, walked to the table, grabbed one of the chalices, and took a sip.

Anthony didn’t care much for wine but he didn’t want to be rude. Another sip.

She rubbed her hands gently then hid them in her silk sleeves. “Forgive my appearance. I haven’t been well these past few weeks. ”  Her voice was warming up now, sounding refined and distinguished. 

“Oh if you’re not feeling well then–-”

“No!” her voice echoed through the room, “It’s alright. My sickness comes and goes. It is fine. I often joke that it came with my inheritance.”

“I didn’t mean to pry. Tell me more about the dolls.”

“Oh the dolls! Yes, my family has collected dolls since…oh, the very beginning. There is something…beautiful in the stillness of such darling antiques. My mother once said they capture beauty frozen in time.”  Ms. Duval’s silk rob came undone, though her mask remained. She was ready. 

“You see what’s happening out there, don’t you, my darling? To those…old and less fortunate. Life can be so cruel. Beauty is such a precious substance.” She came towards him and pulled off his shirt. Her boney fingers caressed his arms, his chest.

“Beauty is – often,” she clung herself to him tightly, “fragile!” 

They embraced in the shadows.

---

The aroma of something rancid hit him hard. It slapped him awake.

His eyes snapped open as he gasped for breath, listening only to the sound of his heart thumping harder and harder in his chest. His host was gone. There was only blackness and a cool dampness in the air rapping around his body. He was in a different room now. His body hung naked in a cold sweat with his ankles and wrists chained to a wall. The panic was rising in him now. If only he could see better. 

He cried out to Ms. Duval, to anyone, but there was no reply.

Only the sound of a deep snarl next to him. Something had awoken.

Still blind in the dark, he tried as best he could to shift himself away from whatever thing was awakening on his right, but his struggle was pointless. The low snarl grew louder, then came a cough, and a gasp for air. It licked its lips as the lights flickered on just above them. 

Anthony yelled, still shaking his chains. The creature beside him coughed again. Anthony could see him now with the light. 

A skeletal figure barely holding on to the last bits of life in its blackened, broken body. Thin strands of hair draping over a weary face in pain with wine-colored eyes. The body hung up by chains sunken in his leathery skin.

Anthony’s eyes widened. He could not blink, he could not speak, he could barely comprehend at such a sight. 

“S-stupid. Boy.” 

It spoke. The skeletal man spoke. 

Anthony just stared at him. At it. Tension and nausea began to mix around in his stomach. 

“Stupid. Stupid boy.” said the man. 

Again, Anthony tried to free himself from his chains. He’d had enough of this place. Sure, he’d slept with women with fetishes of all kinds, but this was – different. Too much.  Screw the money!

“Stupid boy. Poking his junk…where it doesn’t belong!”

The skeletal man chuckled at first then winced in discomfort. New arrivals brought a sudden joy to him; he couldn't resist chuckling no matter how painful it was for his weakened body. 

“Well,” continued the man, “I was just like you. Not long ago, I too sold my body to those willing to pay. You’re nothing special, my young friend. Trust me! I’ve seen it all and done it all, buddy. Tasted everything under the sun.” 

The skeletal man hacked up something vile deep within him, cleared his throat of warm mucus and continued. 

“Then I met Camille Duval. We hit it off so well, she became my regular.  Then things started to change. I noticed I was getting sick, weaker, slower, forgetful. Funny thing though…Camille never looked better. At our next appointments, she always looked…better, radiant, almost youthful. My illness started to worsen and then…well, I ended up here in this – hellscape. With the others.” 

“Others,” Anthony said, “What…others?” 

With his broken, rotting teeth, the man formed his best smile at the…new addition.

The lights of the darkened room flicked on one by one, each ray of light shining bright over bodies of dried, used, and withered men of skin and bone. 

Line by line, row by row, the overhead lights showcased bodies of escorts, now aged, limp, and hoisted high like pigs on meat hooks. 

“I don’t understand!” Anthony said. “Where the hell am I?”

“This is what happens when she's done with us. She puts us away, down here with the rest of her antiques. Welcome to the Dollhouse, boy.” 

Ms. Duval was indeed a collector of dolls and antiques: her dried up playthings. 

“You sold more than the junk in your pants, boy. You picked the wrong house to play in.” 

A symphony of painful moans shook through the room. Even death could not save these former merchants of pleasure. As they grew weaker, Ms. Duval, whoever she was, whatever she was, grew stronger and healthier.

“Say,” the skeletal man sniffed the air until he caught the scent of sweat from Anthony’s body then proceeded to laugh.

“You've still got it,” he snickered, “You’ve got that…glow in ya. 

“...What?”

“You’re still hot blooded, son,” the man laughed again. “Hell, that old hag ain’t finished with you at all. You’ve got a few more rounds to go, boy. Don’t really remember how long it takes anymore, but let’s just say you’ll be looking like the rest of us in here when she’s taken all the life out of you. As pretty as can be.” 

The skin of Anthony’s wrists bled from the hard rubbing against the chains of iron. He’d continue to fight, to scream for his release. The groans of the other men would drown out his pathetic cries. Deep beneath the estate was her new home.

The skeletal man was right, of course. Camille Duval continued using Anthony, night after night for the next thirty nights. He’d return to his spot with the other men, each time with new bruises, claw marks, peeled skin, broken teeth, and discoloration. His bones were thinning and his hair was gone. 

He returned again on his hook, no longer the heartthrob. The sickly expression on his aged face became common, just like the others below the estate.

Gone was the glow, the rugged frame, careless attitude and tan. The youth and body that were his prized assets now belonged to his collector. 

Life in the Havana sun would not be his. He’d remain in that dusty dungeon below the estate, forever frozen in time waiting for a merciful death that would never come.