Page 63 of Beast

Neon-colored buildings lined the streets, some marked with graffiti. A dark-skinned man with an AK-47 slung across his body approached me. “Hey, Sailor, looking for a good time?”

Damn straight. I hadn’t laid eyes on a woman in six months. I said no words, just nodded and followed him into an alley, where he frisked me for a weapon. I was all clear. The sun beat down on the broken pavement, and I realized what a dumbass I was for going to a brothel in daylight. But I didn’t give a fuck.

The multi-colored beaded curtain crashed in the wind, and I heard some Caribbean music in the background. The man rang a bell, and at least a dozen women ran from the back of the ramshackle house. They were dressed in cheap heels and trashy nighties; this wasn’t some high-class joint. But that was fine with me.

One brunette caught my eye. Her black thong was hiked high up on her hips, like she was stuck in some eighties music video. Light-skinned, long legs, small breasts. She seemed older and more withdrawn than the others—and she was the only one who didn’t make eye contact with me.

I pointed. “Her.”

The pimp let out a deep laugh. “Star? Good choice.”

The other girls dispersed, probably grateful to get a small break from being forced to fuck a stranger.

But I didn’t want to think about their pathetic lives. There was nothing I could do to improve their existences. My conscience was already filled with guilt—I didn’t need to add their sob stories to my burden.

The whore led me down a hallway into a tiny room. The place reeked of cum and sweat, covered by some sort of coconut spritz. What did I expect for twenty dollars?

A tiny cot was pushed up to the left side of the room, a tattered teddy bear sat on the floor, and a plastic end table filled the other corner. Was this where she lived? There were a few needles lying haphazardly in the trashcan. Of course she was a heroin addict—how else could she live this life? I was a SEAL—I knew that these women were probably all forced into prostitution at a young age. They had once been little girls playing make believe, dreaming of princes and castles. But I was no prince. I’d done enough lifesaving in my time and I’d learned the hard way that I couldn’t save them all.

“Star? What’s your real name?” I didn’t really care, but I felt that since she’d be sucking my dick, I should at least know her name.

She pursed her lips as if she was trying to say something but couldn’t get the words out. Her face looked vaguely familiar, but I was certain I hadn’t fucked her before. My last whore was Dominican: dark, curvy, black eyes. This chick seemed different, more tragic.

“Fine, we don’t have to talk. Blow me.” I took twenty dollars out of my pocket. If she did a good job, I’d give her a tip.

Over the years, I’d learned blowjobs were the best way to go with a whore. They always gave amazing ones, and I never felt guilty like I did when I took extra-long to come as I had with my ex-fiancée. I couldn’t risk getting a nameless hooker pregnant and leaving a kid fatherless and growing up in this hellhole. Plus, there was less chance for a disease, especially since I always wore a condom. The Navy tested me every month so I figured there was minimal risk.

“Take your panties off.”

Her panties dropped to the floor, revealing a nicely trimmed triangle. I loved it. Why did all those American bitches wax everything off? I was a man; I didn’t want a little girl.

I sat on the edge of the cot. She knelt in front of me, unbuckled my belt, and glanced up at me, taking a moment to stare. She wore a rusty necklace with a small key charm. There were drug tracks on her forearms and a deep scar on her right shoulder. Her eyes were hazel, deep set, and disturbed. I closed mine; I couldn’t deal with her pain.

She rolled on the condom I’d handed her and took my cock in her mouth, slowly. I felt her warm tongue dance around me. Flicking, teasing, sucking. Damn, this bitch was good. Sometimes while getting a blowjob I couldn’t help but imagine the whore was my girlfriend, or even my wife. That she loved me, was faithful to me, lived for pleasing me, and that having me take care of her even for just a few months out of the year was worth enduring the loneliness when I was gone. That she respected how I saw being a SEAL as more than a job—it was my calling.

I opened my eyes and placed my hand on the back of her head, her dark, wiry hair bobbing up and down. She stopped for a second, looked me dead in the eyes, and shifted from kneeling to sitting on her left side, exposing her right ankle. It had a tattoo of a surfboard painted with the American flag—why would a woman in the Caribbean have an American tattoo. Weird.

She got back down to business.

I didn’t want to come, didn’t want this moment to be over. But fuck, it had been so damn long. I mean, I barely even jerked off in my rack because my buddies were in the ones right next to mine.

Her mouth sucked on me hard, pulling and pushing. Man, why did this feel so good even with the latex barrier between us? I couldn’t hold back any longer—I exploded into the condom.

She handed me a towel. I took off the condom, threw it in the trash, cleaned myself up and then pulled on my shorts. This part was awkward, always was. At least she hadn’t spoken, so her voice wouldn’t haunt my dreams or my conscience.

Her lashes blinked twice, as if she was deep in thought and wanted to tell me something. I didn’t want to know her problems—I just wanted to get the fuck out of there.

I threw down five twenties and pushed myself off the cot. She stood up on her tiptoes, took my hand, and her lips grazed my ear, making sure to shield her hair over her mouth.

“My name is Annie Hamilton. I’m an American citizen. I was kidnapped on spring break five years ago. You’re my last hope. Please save me.”

What the fuck? This bitch wanted me to believe she was a sex-trafficked American? What kind of con was this heroin-addicted whore trying to pull on me?

“I gotta go.” I shoved her off me. This was not my problem. She was not my problem. I walked out of that smelly room and didn’t look back.

The streets of Aruba were bustling now in the early evening; tourists strolling through this idyllic Caribbean island, unaware that around the corner from where they were buying shot glasses and sundries, women were turning tricks for less than the price of their margaritas. The view of the beach was blocked by the endless taxicabs and the cobblestone streets were littered with cigarette butts.

Dammit. Of all the brothels, all the whores, why did I go there? Why did I choose her? I didn’t need this shit. I headed to the closest bar to get drunk. Not one of those pretty tourist joints which served up fruity drinks. A seedy local dive, which offered nothing but hard liquor. No pictures of palm trees and beaches. The walls were barren, the air was thick with tobacco, and the bar stools had been cut with blades.