Title: THE REPEAT CUSTOMER Author: aka "Jake" Rating: NC-17 (language, adult situations) Classification: Post-Ep for "The Host" (Other classifications have been left off to prevent giving too much away.) Summary: "What's your pleasure tonight, Marty?" "Oh, you know. The un-usual. Out-of-body experience. Anal probe. I'm not particular." Disclaimer: The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are the property of Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions. Author's Notes: Written for Fandomonium's Virtual Season of Smut Challenge (Season Two). Special thanks to xdksfan and mimic117 for beta. THE REPEAT CUSTOMER by aka "Jake" WASHINGTON DC SEPTEMBER 28, 1994 Most people in DC avoid certain parts of 19th Street after dark. "Bad neighborhood," they say. Matter of perspective, if you ask me. Sure, there's dealers and hookers on every corner. Can't barely take a step without tripping over someone selling something illegal. Don't mean it's a fucking sewer here. My name's Desiree. I work in customer service, so to say. Been hooking half my twenty-two years, though most times it seems a hell of a lot longer. I share this strip of sidewalk with four other girls and a pint-sized dealer named Freeway. Hand jobs, blow jobs, straight sex take place in the alley behind Cannibals. There's rooms at the Red Carpet down the block for kinkier stuff or johns with money to burn. It's a rat trap, but they rent by the quarter hour, rooms're cheap and management don't get pissy about stained sheets. My fifth customer of the night pulls up to the curb and lowers his car window, so I straighten my skirt, stick out my chest and get ready for business. He's a repeat customer. Nice manners, clean cut, looks like a cop but talks like a college professor -- even when he's talking crazy. Like when he claims he hunts aliens. First time he mentioned it, I thought he was with the I.N.S. But nuh-uh. He meant flying saucers. UFOs. ETs. Whatever. Ain't none of my damned business. I've done him five or six times in the last few months and he always treats me decent, pays extra for nothing, and never gives me no hassles, so what the fuck do I care what he says he does for a living? He's politer than most. Don't never get rough. And he's willing to spring for a room. 'Cept that first time, when we used the alley. But I'm guessing that was just a trial run. After inspecting the merchandise, he upgraded and ain't asked to go back to the brick wall since. "Hey, Marty." I strut provocatively to his car. "Nice to see you again," I say, leaning in his window, making sure he gets an eyeful of cleavage. "Missed you, darlin'." "Sure you have." His smile is shy, tentative, like he expects I might actually turn him away. "You're my number one customer, and you know it." "Right." He raises his window, kills the engine, and gets out of the car. He's one cool drink of water, as Gran used to say. Good looking. Sure of hisself. Even here -- a place that makes most uptown snobs run the other way, or feel so fucking nervous they can't make no eye contact. "What's your pleasure tonight?" I ask. "Oh, you know. The un-usual. Out-of-body experience. Anal probe. I'm not particular." That's a prime example of his weirdo sense of humor. He places his hand on my back and steers me toward the Red Carpet, walking slow to accommodate my shorter stride and six-inch heels. We enter the hotel's lobby and he suddenly asks, "Do I smell bad?" He ducks his head so I can sniff his hair. Shampoo. Some kind of herbal stuff. It's nice. Lots better than most of my johns and the stink in this lobby. Rat piss, stale cigarettes, booze, and B.O. -- Jesus! "You're good." "I don't smell like a...a public toilet?" I roll my eyes. "No." "I swear I can still.... Never mind." He pays Lou, the crabby night clerk, for a whole hour and we ride the dilapidated elevator to the third floor. "I was swimming in the Newark sewer two days ago," he announces. The elevator groans and clacks. "Why were you doin' that?" "To stop a 180-pound, blood-sucking, killer worm from escaping into the Atlantic." See why I never believe much of what he says? Times like this, he sounds like he belongs in a straight jacket. The elevator shudders to a stop and the doors scrape open. Marty leads the way to our room. "You really do that? Stop a...a killer worm?" I humor him. "Ruined my watch and a good pair of wingtips in the process, but it was a small price to pay to keep Jersey's sewer safe." He unlocks room 310 and ushers me inside with a wave of one hand. Bed's unmade, not that I expected anything different. Air's stuffy. The ashtray on the nightstand is overflowing with butts and there's an open pizza box on the floor. Crusts and slices of pepperoni stick to the carpet. Marty heads straight for the bed, props three dingy pillows against the headboard, and lays down on his back, legs outstretched, shoes still on. I undress while he watches. "Flukemen are hermaphroditic," he says as I'm tugging my shirt over my head. "Fluke what?" I fold my blouse and place it on the bureau, next to several crumpled gum wrappers and a sticky used condom. "'Fluke-its' might be more appropriate." I have no idea what he's talking about. I wiggle out of my skirt and lay it on top of my shirt. I leave on my bra, thong, and garter belt, and move to the bed. "Hermaphrodites are half guy, half girl, right?" "Yeah." He looks pleased I know that. "This particular hermaphrodite had a complex reproductive system, capable of internal fertilization, but externally it appeared completely genderless. No visible sex organs whatsoever." "It had no dick?" I snicker. "I've met a few guys like that." He laughs with me and I straddle his hips. I can feel his hard-on beneath me. I grind against him. "Not you, a course, Marty." He unhooks the clasp at the front of my bra and pulls it off me. I let him fondle my tits for a minute. Marty's a breast man. Likes to get my nipples hard. But he's gentle, so I don't mind. He don't pinch and twist like some guys do. I unbutton his shirt. It's spotless. Expensive looking. Professionally pressed. His hands roam down my body and end up at my crotch. He probes my clit through the fabric of my panties with his thumb. "Imagine having no sex organs," he says. "I'd be outta business." He smiles and nods. I wiggle my ass, pushing down on the hard ridge of his cock. "If you was born that way, you know, without a dick, you wouldn't know the difference, right?" He places his hands on my hips and stills my rocking motions. He looks sad. "Something wrong?" I ask. "Maybe. I've recently developed an aversion to Ursula, the sucker-mouthed bottom feeder in my goldfish tank." Again, I have no idea what he's talking about. "Why's that?" I push open his shirt and run my hands over his bare chest. He's in good shape. Not an ounce of fat. "I think it has something to do with a disturbing nightmare I had two nights ago." I massage his shoulders and chest, working my way down to the business at hand. "What happened?" "Well, the dream started out okay. Great, in fact. Scu--, uh, a colleague of mine was on her knees, naked, going down on me." For whatever reason he blushes at this, but continues. "Then things got a little weird." "Weird how?" "She became you." "Me?" "Yeah. And your...you were a little too...too enthusiastic." "That a bad thing?" I lightly rake his nipples with my nails. He hisses with pleasure. "It was. You bit me -- hard." "Sorry." "I sorta yelped. Or screamed. I guess it was more of a scream." He reaches up to stroke my bottom lip with his thumb. "Blood spurted from your mouth." "Your blood?" "The pain was excruciating." "I bet." "Your lips were pink. And swollen. Like a...a scolex. And you began to take on the physical characteristics of...of turbellaria." "Turbe-what?" "I tried to push you away. But..." He swallows. His hand drops from my face and he takes a deep breath. "My penis went with you. Just like that, I was genderless. Platyhelminthis homo erectionless." He's talking like a professor again. Or a lunatic. Or both. I reach for his belt, but he takes hold of my wrists, stopping me. His cock has gone soft beneath me. "What do you think it means when a female co-worker tells her male colleague 'I'd consider it more than a professional loss if you decided to leave'?" Shit. I'm pretty sure it means I'm about to lose my best repeat customer. "If it ain't professional, Marty," -- I move off him and cross the room, where I lean against the bureau, arms crossed -- "it's gotta be personal." "That's what I was thinking." He stands and fishes into his pants pocket for his wallet. He pulls out five twenties and puts them on the nightstand. Then he buttons his shirt. "This is it then?" I ask, giving him one more chance to see what I'm selling. I stick out my tits and run my hand between my legs, but he's not buying. Not anymore. "We're done, huh?" "I think so." The look on his face tells me this is his last trip to 19th Street. Marty the alien chaser, giant worm killer, and my best john, has apparently fallen in love. Ever the gentleman, he waits for me to get dressed, then walks me back to my corner. "Thanks Desiree," he says. "Any time. I mean that, Marty. Things don't work out for you and her...well, you know where to find me." He nods and turns toward his car. "Good luck," I call, but he doesn't hear me. He's striding away, whistling that weird tune from Close Encounters, and twirling his key ring on the end of one finger. I ain't got time to waste, so I scan the street for my next john. Maybe I should splurge, spend one of Marty's twenties on some crank. My feet are killing me and I could use the rush. THE END AUTHOR'S NOTES: Canon tells us that Mulder watched pornographic videos, subscribed to skin magazines and paid for phone sex. The expression on his face in "Avatar" when Scully asks, "If an otherwise stable man is compelled to go out and hire a prostitute, what else is he capable of?" always suggested to me he might have also had sex with prostitutes. Just my own little humble theory, of course. At any rate, it's what sparked the idea for "The Repeat Customer."