I usually like to call her around 9 p.m. That’s when I know she’s trying to sleep. She strips and I think she has a kid. She spends time with me because she loves money more than anything. Probably more than her kid.

The operator put my special request through and the phone started playing that 80s saxophone music. I was already hard.

“Hello?” she asked.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hold on.”

“I have somewhere to be in fifteen minutes, can’t you just do this for me?” She breathed hard in the speaker like she needed a respirator and I smiled a little bit. “Svetty, I need to talk to you.” She breathed hard again. “I had a hard day. I’ll pay an extra ten cents a minute.”

She breathed hard again, only because she knew she was going to do it. 

She gushed me, “What is wrong, Paul?” and I shrugged even though she couldn’t see me.

“What’s not wrong?” I asked. “Everything’s awful. Everyone’s awful.”

She laughed and I told her to shut up, that it wasn’t funny. “You’re lucky I even call you,” I said, and I waited for a minute.

“Are you still there?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said after a while, and I lowered my voice. “What are you wearing, Svetty?”

She laughed and I told her to shut up. “Answer me.”

“I’m pretty covered up. I have jean shorts and crop top. Very in. I saw it on red carpet, some thin blonde with blue eyes was wearing it.”

“Did you work tonight?” I asked, digging in my trousers.

“Yes,” she said. “I have my work clothes on underneath.”

“Oh, ok then. That’s nice. Get in those then.”

Svetlana laughed again, but this time I let her. My pants are down to my knees and I was looking up at the ceiling, seeing what she wore to work – those nasty panties and nasty bra. What a nasty girl, so nasty while I was stroking, aiming it toward the curtain. “Are you naked now?”

“No, not quite,” she said. “I am in bra and panties. What you want now?”

“Take them off,” I said. I took off all my clothes off and opened my window’s curtain a little bit more. 

She laughed, “Okay. They are off.” I listened closely and heard a slight pitter patter, something like pans and water rushing, and I remember Svetty likes to do her dishes when she gets home.

“What’s the big fucking deal?” I asked, pulling up my trousers and shutting the curtain. “You’re at the sink now?” She stuttered for a moment and I tried not to scream because Dad was asleep. “You didn’t even get naked, did you?”

“No,” she said. “I do dishes and I’m sexy. I’ll make you so proud, baby.”

“We’re not at that part yet,” I said. “And doing dishes isn’t fucking sexy. Just go to the couch, we’ll talk.” I heard her toss something glass like she was mad and then silence. There we go.

“Well, what you want to talk about?” she asked.

“You want to be my fucking whore?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I be your fucking whore all day, baby.”

“It’s day. Tell me what you’ll do.”

“I suck your cock until you cum, then put it up my ass, baby.”

“Yeah, you’re a dirty fucking slut, aren’t you?” She got quiet for a second. “Aren’t you? Moan.” She started moaning and I aimed for the curtain.

“Suck my fucking dick,” I said, and she said,

“Okay.”

It was silent again, for a while – for a couple minutes, but I’m sure she didn’t mind. She got paid for that silence. “What you want now, baby?”

“I just want to go to sleep,” I said, shutting my eyes as I lay in my bed. “Can you say it now?”

She cleared her throat. “You make me so proud, baby. I just know you’ll never let me down. I love you so much, baby. You make me so proud, just so proud.”

“That’s it,” I told her. “Do you remember that song I taught you? By Bertolt Brecht.”

“Yes, the German song,” she replied.

“No,” I corrected the immigrant. “It’s an American song. It was written right here, in the good old U S of A, in the heart of the Blue Ridge.”

“Yes, just lay down my sweet boy. I’m so proud of you, I couldn’t be more proud.”

I lay my head down and smiled. “Now sing it,” I told her.

“Old moon of Alabama,” she sings, “We now must say goodbye…”

She went on and on and I started to drift off to sleep when she got to the best part. “We’ve lost our good ol’ mama, and must-a have whiskey, oh you know why…”

“That’s it,” I said. “I love that song. I love it so much because the verses are structured in the most hideous ways, just terrible really.”

“That’s weird.”

“You’d be surprised. The chorus is pretty when it’s alone, but the hideousness of the verse that builds up makes it shine like the brightest star in the sky. Without the ugly, we can’t have the pretty.”

She laughed a bit and shifted wherever she was; a bed, a sofa, or maybe snugged between her kiddos. “Ok, baby, if you say so.”

“I do say so,” I said. “Now get some sleep. Thank you for the chat, Svetty.”

“No problem. I pray for you, Paul. I pray deeply. Goodnight.”

The phone clicked and I was left alone in my living room, stained and looking out the window at a waning moon, almost full but not quite to the trained eye. I drifted off to sleep and think of the prettiest part of that song, the part I like the most.

This work is featured in issue #16

Read Charlie Boy: VIII next Friday