Hooked

little man was a genius, even if his sexual persuasion was the flipside of his own. Still, Benny never judged. Like his dear, newly-departed mother used to say: ‘To each his own, said the man as he kissed the cow.’ Different strokes for different folks. Whatever floats your boat. Yada, yada. Role-playing, bondage, multiple partners, gay, or straight. Everything was on the table as long as it suited both partners or all parties, depending.
    Those kinky thoughts made him think of Eileen. Why, if he had steak at home did he seek chicken and pork elsewhere as part of a regular diet? No matter how much he pondered the question, he never came up with an answer that made sense. He savored steak—rich, earthy, and full-bodied—but he liked the different flavors of chicken, pork, fish, and all the other delicacies that tempted his insatiable palate for variety. His wife met all his requirements, triple Ds included. Even his mother had liked her. Okay, so she wasn’t Jewish. But she had a college education and a princess complex. Close enough. Of course Mom didn’t know she was a whore, but no woman is perfect.
    He pulled out his cell, dialed, and waited for the message machine to kick in. “Hi, darling. Won’t be home tonight. I have business in town. Don’t worry. Kiss the kids for me.” He smooched into the receiver and sang, “Love you.”
    Eileen knew his business. How could she not? Upper Eighties was her brilliant idea. She took the ingénues under her wing, taught them the social graces and tricks that turned one-night-stands into repeat customers, knowing full well the young ladies would practice everything she taught them on Benny. How else could he match his girls with suitable clients?
    Eileen’s wise acceptance—no, compliance—afforded her two beautiful homes, a Lexus SUV to haul the children, a legitimate lifestyle, and most importantly, Benny. You could take the girl out of the business, but you couldn’t take the business out of the girl. Not entirely. A wicked smile curled his lips.
    Back in his apartment, Benny deposited his cell phone and wallet on the hand-carved table beside his bed. Lifting one of the silver-framed photographs of his children, he pressed his lips to the glass. “My darling babies,” he said, placing it back on the table with the others, turning them all to face the wall. “Now don’t watch.”
    How could one man be so lucky? On the way back into the salon, he passed the full-length mirror, stood sideways, and sucked in the slight paunch he’d noticed only recently. He made a note to cut down on desserts. Benny wasn’t one for abstinence, but he was vain enough to do what he needed to keep from looking his age.
    Reaching into the liquor cabinet, he withdrew a bottle of eighteen-year-old Macallan single malt scotch and poured two ounces into a tulip-shaped Baccarat glass. He inhaled the sweet aroma of oak and sherry before savoring the scotch’s distinct combination of flavors. Sipping slowly, he thought, Ah, the advantages of being filthy, stinking rich. The drink was an appetizer to the main course, and the entrée was now tapping on the door. A click of his remote control and the door popped opened.
    “You wanted to see me, Mr. Cooper?”
    Every woman Benny h ired knew that satisfying him was part of her job―an occasional freebie in exchange for the exorbitant money they earned at Upper Eighties. Melody entered the apartment looking every bit the model of her day job. Tall, willowy, buxom, and Bahama-tanned, du e to an extra-long weekend cruising on a client’s yacht, she seemed relaxed and eager to please. An expensive designer suit fit her body as if she’d been blown into it, like insulation.
    “Yes, dear. I’d like to see every bit of you,” Benny said, plopping onto his down-feather mattress like a little kid at a sleepover. “And how many times have I told you to call me Benny in the privacy of my apartment?”
    Melody leaned over, scrunching her boobs so they bulged from her blouse. “Benny,” she whispered in his ear before slipping off her jacket and methodically hanging it on a waiting hanger.
    Benny hated clothes all over the place. It offended his neatness fetish, one of many fetishes he’d cultivated. He liked the word: fetish. It sounded kinky.
    He watched Melody lower herself onto the edge of the bed, freeing one button of her blouse at a time. Benny absorbed her intent gaze, the seductive come-on smile. If she wore a bra during the