Closing the Door

The glow of the bedside lamp illuminates the dust particles dancing in the air of the hotel room. It’s the same room we always use, with a slightly sagging mattress and an abstract painting over the desk that looks like an alien vagina. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, putting on my jeans and T-shirt again, tying my shoes.

Dylan paces back and forth. He’s still wearing his wrinkled work shirt. He runs his hands through his thick, black hair. He’s forty years old, but now he looks like a puppy whose heart has been broken for the first time.

“Mitchell,” he says, his voice trembling. He stops walking and turns to me, his hands steepled in front of him, as if in prayer. “Just… just look at me.”

I do. I look at him. I see the disappointment in his brown eyes, the slight twitch of his lower lip. I look at the man who has given me thousands of dollars in the past six months, who knows how I drink my coffee and how I got the small, pale scar on my left knee from a bike accident during a triathlon years ago. He knows these things because he listens, because he pays for the privilege of having my undivided attention. He’s been one of my best regulars.

“I’m looking at you, Dylan,” I say, keeping my voice calm. I like to be friendly but firm, without getting angry. This is the hardest part of the job. The part they don’t tell you about in the manual.

“No, you aren’t,” he says, his voice rising in frustration. “You’re looking at the clock. You’re looking at the door. You’re looking everywhere but at me. Was it bad? Did I do something wrong? Last time… I thought it was good. I thought you liked it.”

I feel a knot tighten in my chest. This is the trap. The one I’ve worked so hard to avoid. “It was good, Dylan. You know. You’re always so … generous.”

“Generous?” His laugh is hard and bitter. “I pay you. Of course, I’m generous. I see the way you look at me sometimes. When you forget I’m a customer. When you laugh, it’s real. I know it is.”

He takes another step, and I tense up instinctively. He sees it and stops. His face darkens. “You’re walking away. Why?”

I stand up slowly. I have to take control. I have to be in charge, not just of the session, but of its outcome. “Dylan, we need to be clear about what this is.”

“What this is? It’s… us. It’s more than just scheduled appointments. You’re on my phone. I’m one of your biggest clients. I watch every one of your videos. I know you love that documentary about manatees. I know you hate Drag Race. It’s just not business, not for me.”

“I know,” I say softly. “And that’s the problem.”

“Problem?” His voice sounds incredulous now. “The problem is, do I care about you? The problem is, do I want more? I’m not asking you to marry me for God’s sake. I’m asking for a chance. A real date. Just you and me. If you want money... fine! Name your price. I’ll pay it. I’ll pay anything. I’ll pay enough to have you all to myself. Just for me. No one else.”

The offer hangs in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. It’s the client’s ultimate fantasy. He wants the gilded cage, and that’s what I’ve always fought against.

“Dylan,” I say, my voice even sharper now. The softness is gone, replaced by the need to stop this. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” he whispers, taking another step. He’s close enough now that I can catch a faint whiff of his cologne. It’s what he always wears: sandalwood laced with regret. “Are you seeing anyone seriously right now?”

“No.”

“So what? What’s wrong? Tell me. I can fix it. I can be whatever you want me to be.”

“I don’t think you realize how… wrong that would be,” I say, shaking my head. “We need to end this. You want to be more than a customer, and I can’t be anything but your escort. That’s all it is. That’s all it’s ever been.”

“But the connection…”

“It’s part of the service,” I say, a bitter taste in my mouth. It’s cruel, but it’s true, and he needs to hear it. “I’m good at my job, Dylan. A big part of my job is to make you feel seen, heard, and feel a little special. I’ve done that. But I’ve done it because it’s my job.”

His face pales. The hope in his eyes flickers and disappears, replaced by raw, wounded anger. “So you’re an actor now? Those…things you said? The way you held me?”

“Mostly,” I lie. The lie is necessary. It’s the only way to get him to leave me. “That’s the most expensive part of the service.”

He looks at me, his chest heaving. I watch his thoughts race, his denial struggling against the brutal clarity of my words.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, I don’t believe you. You’re just scared. You’re scared of something real.”

“This is real,” I say, pointing to the space between us. “This conversation. It needs to stop now, before you get too involved. The fact that it’s time to end it, that’s real.”

“I can fix whatever it is,” he insists, his voice dropping to a desperate, pleading whisper. “I’ll give you all the space you need. Just… don’t say it’s over. Don’t say it doesn’t make sense.”

I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and put it on.

“I’m not seeing you again, Dylan. It’s not fair to you. I’m giving you false hope, and I can’t do that in good conscience.”

“So that’s it? You’re just…?”

“That’s right,” I say, walking toward the door. I put my hand on the doorknob. “I want you to be okay, Dylan. I really do.”

“Don’t,” he says, his voice cracking again. “Please. Don’t go.”

I turn the doorknob and open the door. The hallway is filled with bright lights and looks like every other hotel I’ve ever stayed in. I don’t look back. I can’t. If I look back, I’ll see his face and remember the man who knows how to listen, who brings me my favorite brand of whiskey, who asks how my day was, and who actually cares about the answer.

He’s not a bad person. He just wants something I can’t give him.

“Goodbye, Dylan,” I say, stepping out into the hall and gently closing the door behind me.

I stand there for a moment, my back against the cold wood. I hear muffled sounds coming from inside: a strangled sob and the sound of something hitting the wall. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and leave.

The job is done.

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“Remember who owns your cock.” - Douglas Degenaars, The Naked Men and the Clothed Men Who Enjoy Them Series