"I am a failure on so many levels. I've failed at life, basically. But I am NOT a man. I AM A WOMAN"

---

 
I can’t do this anymore. I’m dying slowly here, and they’re stealing me blind. I’ve got to stop before I’m bled dry. It ends tonight. No — it ends RIGHT NOW.

Bambi Johnson argued with her thoughts as she paced in her one bedroom apartment. Really, it was just one room with a tiny bathroom housing a mini sink, toilet, and stand up shower. The bed area was separated from the kitchenette by a ledge that really couldn’t be called a bar. It was close to her work; in fact, downstairs was the phone bank where Fish ran the escort service.

“But if I quit, where will I live? Fish and Mamie will kick me out. Go back home? HA. ‘Hi Mom and Dad, guess what? No, no, I still want to be a girl. Yes, I still have my penis and testicles. Still can’t figure out the surprise? I’ve been a whore for the last two years! Yep, slept with over four hundred men — and at least twenty women — since I last saw you guys! By the way, is my old bedroom still available?’ … THAT ought to win them over.”

I could go solo.

“Not without a place to live. And a pimp. That would be like going from the frying pan to the fire.”

Then I’ll go legit. Get a regular job. Get two. I know how to work my tail off. I’ll bring in enough to get by.

“Yeah — and where will I live until the first month’s paycheck comes?”

Then … then … then I’m screwed.

“Yeah. Some nights, multiple times. I’m trapped here. I literally have no way out. Unless …”

She thought of the revolver in Fish’s desk drawer.

“No. NO! Never. Never.”

Well … not yet, anyway. But if things can’t get any better ...

Bambi shook to realize she was actually considering it.

~o~O~o~

Levi “Fish” Morgenstern was apoplectic. If verbally abusing a cell phone were a crime, what he was doing would get him locked up for months.

“You WHAT? How did … HOW DID YOU FUCKIN’ BREAK YOUR FUCKIN’ LEG? Put the fuckin’ doctor on the phone!!”

Bambi plodded down the stairs into the phone bank room. “Fish … you really have to expand your vocabulary.”

He looked up at his boarder. “Fuck you, Bamb.”

“See what I mean, Boss?” She then walked outside to check the mail.

“Don’t screw with me right now, Dickgirl. I gotta crisis here.”

A voice came through the cell phone. “This is Julie, ER Charge Nurse. Doctor Rajesh is in an emergency right now. How can I help you?”

“Yeah, Levi Morgenstern here. You got one of my esco —er, extremely good friends in there right now, Sherryl Phlost. I understand her leg is broke?”

Julie’s voice was distant, talking to someone else; then she came back on. “Okay, sorry, I just had to confirm with the patient that she allows me to give you medical information. Yes, her femur — her thigh bone — was broken in an automobile accident.”

“Okay. So, how long will it take to get a cast on and get her out of there? Will she have to be on crutches? Can she still … um … be sexually active?”

There was a long pause. “You said … you’re her friend? As in boyfriend?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever. That’s me. So?”

“Sir … she’s going to be in surgery in an hour. This is not a simple fracture. The bone was crushed into multiple shards. This is serious, even potentially life threatening; she won’t be leaving the hospital this week.”

“FUCK! I need to fuckin’ find somebody else then…”

“Wha — Excuse me, sir? You need to get here and be with your girlfriend!”

Bambi walked back in with the mail, filing through the bills.

“Later, Nursie. G’bye.”

He pushed the end call button and looked up at Bambi with panicked eyes. “We are so fucked.”

~o~O~o~

The view from the executive suite at The Venetian was one of the better ones on the Las Vegas strip. But Grant wasn’t enjoying it. The spectacular perks of being well off did little to fill the void in his heart. Was this endeavor going to help?

I desperately hope so. But I can’t get my hopes up too high. That will almost guarantee disappointment. I’ve tried most everything else I can think of; I might as well try this. If it doesn’t help, there’s always booze. Or a bullet.

The bedside phone buzzing broke his sad mulling.

“Hello?”

~o~O~o~

Bambi watched Levi’s legs shake and fingers tap nervously as he attempted to be a cool cucumber on the phone. At least this little drama was taking her mind off her troubles temporarily.

“Ah, yes. Mr. B? Grant B, at the Venetian? We have had a slight hiccup in trying to fill your request. You called last week to book Cherry for tonight - yes, sir, she does have very high ratings on our online site … yes sir, she is our top requested escort, but - sir, I hate to interrupt, but there has been a terrible automobile accident, and she is in surgery as we speak.”

Bambi’s jaw dropped. That’s who had the broken leg? Sherryl? In the hospital? In surgery?

“Yes sir. I will let her know you are praying for her. Will you be in town tomorrow, sir? I know I could find you an excellent replacement … oh. Just tonight? No, sir, I’m sorry.”

A handwritten note was dropped on the desk in front of Levi — “WHICH HOSPITAL??” He looked up at Bambi’s face. Her brow was knit in worry. “Valley,” he mouthed at her. She ran out the door as he concentrated back on the phone.

“I’m sorry sir; it’s Valentine’s Day, and on top of that there are three huge conventions in town. I’m afraid all of the she-male escorts that fit the requirements you are looking for are already on assignment. I’ll bet you’ll find that is true with all the other services around.” Levi said that last part with his fingers crossed.

“Yes, sir.” Now Fish looked like he was about to cry. “We will refund your two thousand dollar deposit, first thing Monday. Monday, yes. What? Tonight? But, sir … sir. Look. Let me see if I can pull another of our stars off of assignment. If I can’t have one over there in an hour, I’ll get your deposit to you in hopes that you will consider us in the future.”

~o~O~o~

Bambi got off of her scooter in the Valley Hospital Medical Center parking lot and ran in. Arriving in the surgery waiting area, she went to the candy striper at the desk.

“Actually, Ms. Phlost is still in the pre-surgical holding area, waiting for the next operating room to open up. Would you like to stay with her until it’s time? And oh - are you part of her family?”

“For all intents and purposes, yes.”

~o~O~o~

Sherryl Phlost — Cherry Popp, professionally — lay on her gurney, still grimacing in spite of the pain shot she’d gotten. The curtain shielding her from the other patients opened.

“Hey — Bamb! You came to see me! How sweet.”

“Oh, Sherryl. Are you all right? What happened?”

“I pissed myself up royally this time. I’m gonna be here for a week, then in rehab for at least three more. That’s if everything goes smoothly! And I won’t be off of crutches for a while longer. But knowing Vegas, there’s probably a John out there who gets off on that.”

“How have they handled your gender issue? Everyone here seems to be referring to you as a woman.”

“Well they sure as hell ought to. All my records now say ‘female’. But it’s amazing; they must run into trannies all the time. In the ER, the nurse went to put a catheter in me, took my panties down, and without batting an eye grabbed my prick and shoved the tube in!”

“Sherryl — I know you and I aren’t the best of friends. But I want you to know; I care about you, as a fellow trans-woman, and as a coworker. I pray this goes smoothly and that you get well quick.”

“Yeah, I guess I haven’t treated you very humanely at work. I just want you to know, it’s not because I see you as competition for my clients.”

“Okay …”

“Because you aren’t. You aren’t competitive compared to me. In looks, in online reviews —“

“How do you know? Nobody ever gives me reviews on our website.”

“Honey. That’s because your reviews suck. That’s the only reason Fish won’t put them up.”

Bambi teared up angrily. “Blast it, Sherryl! I came over to help! Be nice to me for once, huh?”

The injured T-girl shook her head. “I could be nice, but that wouldn’t help you. Honey, get out of the escort business. You’re no good at it. And it’s eating you up. You’ve changed in the last two years; I’m worried I’m gonna see you hanging from a rope one morning. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about ending it all. I see it in your face.”

“I’ve never thought about anything like that,” Bambi lied. “You’re delirious.”

“Yeah, well, they aren’t giving me near enough pain medicine to make me loopy, much less get me out of pain. Dammit,” Sherryl flopped her head back on the small pillow, “I had a whale lined up for tonight, too.”

“That’s what I’m here to talk to you two about,” whispered a mouth and big nose pushing through the gap in the curtain.

“Ah, Fishy,” sighed Sherryl with a roll of her eyes. “How nice to know you care about me.”

“Hey, I had to come; SEEING AS I’M YOUR BOYFRIEND, AND ALL,” Fish emphasized for anyone around to hear. “Besides, I knew Bamb had come here, and I need to talk to her about being ‘Jonah’ for said whale.”

Sherryl gave him a smirk. “Wonder what your wife will think about you sayin’ you’re my boyfriend.”

“Fu … funny girl,” he caught himself. “Mamie knows I pose as a John for you guys at times to do things — like getting me allowed back here to talk to you two.”

“Boss — what about the whale guy?” Bambi queried.

Fish eyed her. “This John is disappointed. He reserved Cherry tonight, for the whole night. Called a few weeks ago to set it up; was very exact. He wanted a T-girl, pretty with a nice body, who was empathetic and a good listener. Those four things specifically. Now I need a replacement, and every tranny I got is already out on assignment. Except you, Bambs.”

“Fish. Is it really wise to send her out to a guy with such high expectations?” muttered Sherryl under her breath.

Bambi was feeling even more unappreciated than usual. “You don’t think I meet those requirements, ‘Cherry’? Well, Fish must, if he’s asking me. You think I’ve got a pretty body, right, Boss?”

Fish looked her up and down. He sighed. “I hope you’re a good listener.”

Maybe at a younger age — say, even six months ago — Bambi would have flashed with anger at this treatment. But her battered ego could not muster the strength tonight. With hollow eyes streaming tears, she whispered, “Where’s the address?”

Once she had all necessary information, she readied to leave. “Sherryl, have a good operation. See you back at the place, Fish.” As she left the pre-op holding area, she breathed “And may you both rot in hell.”

~o~O~o~

Bambi got back to the two-story building she called home and work. Mamie was at the phone bank. As the young escort climbed the stairs, her female boss yelled out to her.

“Fish called me about what’s happening. Bam-Bam, this is a super high roller — and we want his return business. Be classy. Don’t screw this up for us.”

“I won’t let you down, Mamie.” And thanks, I love you too.

She picked out her classiest duds — thank heaven I haven’t gained weight since I bought this; I finally get to use it — and put them on. A pink and black accented business outfit that had a generous neckline plunge and a skirt that came to the knees but had a high cut on the side. After getting that on, she completed her look with a layer that would help her go more “incognito”.

Her boss had called a cab for her, and it had already honked. The meter was now running, and any further delay would cause Mamie’s shrill voice to start honking, too. Bambi ran down the stairs and out the door, into the back seat of the yellow Lincoln.

On the way over, Bambi considered the words spoken to her today. She would like to write them off to just pure meanness by a competitive Cherry and a loutish Fish, but she knew better. She did a rapid self-evaluation.

Five foot ten inches — not too tall, but I could be shorter. My biggest problem is my shape. I have a straight tube for a torso; hormones haven’t done a thing for my hips or butt, not noticeably anyway. My two breast implants look like alien tumors — thanks for nothing, Dr. Wells — protruding out of my barrel chest — thank you, Dad’s genes. My face is a lump of dough with a masculine jaw. What was really depressing was the FFS consultation with Doc Wells. When he showed me the computer model of what my best result could be, even with multiple surgeries — God, what a letdown. I know I’ll never be Elle MacPherson, but I’d at least take looking like Ricki Lake; what he showed me looked like Al Franken in drag. Let’s face it: I’ll always be ugly, and I’ll never be a great passer.

The hormones have made it difficult to use my penis; I can’t get it hard enough anymore, even with high dose Viagra. Kind of limits my usefulness as a she-male whore. I can do a great blowjob, though. Ah, the blowjob. Where would ugly chicks be without it? Guys can just close their eyes and dream of Kim K. while the crypt keeper could be down below, and it works.

~o~O~o~

The entrance to the Venetian was massive; the lobby itself seemed at least thirty feet tall. The influx of traffic from the airport had slowed down, as it was 10 p.m. Bambi’s cab was able to pull up to the lane closest to the entrance.

Her heart was beating faster than George Kollias’ drum kit when she got out of the cab. She rarely got sent to the five star resorts, and this was her first time to step foot in this one.

God … I’m usually lucky to rate the Riviera or Circus Circus. I’ve spent so many hours at Motel 6 I should get a frequent flyer discount. What the hell am I doing here? Sherryl was right; on our menu, I’m the liver with onions, not the prime rib. What if this guy is, like, a kinky foreign billionaire who wants me to mate with his Great Dane? Or some guy attached to the Mob? I should no-show.

Right. Riiiiight. And then guarantee that I’ll be homeless by midnight once Mamie hears. Okay. Time to “suck it up” and go in to “suck it down”. Crap. Fish’s pistol is sounding more attractive by the minute.

It was mid-February; winter was still not completely gone, weather-wise. The air was cool tonight, at least for Vegas. That gave her a good reason to wear a full-length black trench coat, which in the summer would scream “hooker”. She probably still would get “read” as such by the hotel staff, just not as obvious to out-of-towners. She had worn understated makeup, big sunglasses, gloves, black hose and heels. Originally she’d put her blonde hair back in a conservative bun, then thought better of it and let it down; full exposure of her neck and jawline could enable her to be more easily “read” as a transsexual, which would be potentially worse than the hooker label.

She walked up to the registration desk as instructed. This would be the first time she would have to use her “first class” fake ID.

“I’m Lenorah Scott,” said Bambi, showing the card to the clerk. “Mr. Brisbane in the Executive Suites is expecting me.”

“Yes, Ms. Scott. Mr. Brisbane called us regarding you. We just were notified about Ms. Phlost’s cancellation.” The clerk was so casual. He obviously knew what was going on, but treated it as business as usual. Hotels want to keep their whales happy, too. “Here’s a key card; you’ll need it to activate the elevator to gain access to the top floors, as well as to get in the room. Will you be going directly to the suite, I assume?”

“Yes.” I realize you’ve got to ask me that question, but we both know I’m not here to visit your Starbucks.

“Elevators are through the casino, in that far hallway. I’ll call ahead to inform Mr. Brisbane of your impending arrival. Enjoy your stay.”

Bambi walked through the casino area as sophisticated as she could. Since she was a bundle of nerves in this place, she was sure that she stuck out like a sore thumb, though no one shot her an apparent frown or sneer. It’s probably so obvious that I’m out of my element here.

She arrived at the top floor. The hallways were elegant. Good Lord, this is even fancier than the lobby — and the lobby looked like Windsor Castle on steroids. The suite she arrived at was the corner one. Of course. Okay, final instructions were to knock five times and let myself in. Here I go.

As she opened the door, she saw a tall, broad, rugged man standing just on the other side. He was dressed formally in a three piece suit with a thin black tie. His mustachioed face wore a scowl that belied his happy curly hair, and his arms were crossed. Bambi swallowed hard.

“Uh … Mr. Brisbane? I’m — “

“Not what he was expecting,” he interrupted. “I’m Jace Carter, Mr. Brisbane’s personal assistant / bodyguard. You can’t see him until I clear you. Take off the coat and give it to me.”

Bambi was mute and open-mouthed, still unsure as whether to comply or to turn and run from this hulking, malevolent figure.

“Jace!” A hoarse voice barked from beyond the small atrium they were standing in.

The curly coiffed man jumped slightly at the rebuke, and his countenance immediately changed. As if someone had pushed a button at the back of his skull labeled “ACTIVATE HUMAN PERSONALITY”, he now spoke in velvet tones. “Forgive me, madam. I just need to screen you for weapons; can’t be too careful these days, you know.”

Bambi took off her coat and held it out to Mr. Curlyhead. He took out an electric wand — one she’d seen used before by airport screeners — and “wanded” the coat up and down. It squawked, but closer inspection revealed only pocket change as the offending substance. He then had Bambi hold her arms straight out to her side and he “wanded” her, too. She passed.

He leaned forward, placing his mouth near Bambi’s ear. “I’m not a fan of hookers, much less tranny ones,” he whispered. “I don’t like what’s going down here. But he’s the boss. And if you so much as leave a scratch on him, or steal from him, I’ll make it my life’s aim to inflict suffering and pain on your hide. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear,” quivered the young blonde.

“Here’s your coat back,” he said back in his normal volume. “Mr. B, I’m going to be in the bedroom at the far side of the suite, as you instructed. I’ll have the hot box on; if you need me, just press the button, sir. Goodnight.” With that, he turned and walked briskly to the left. With his huge mass no longer obstructing her view, Bambi beheld the presidential suite.

“Mr. Brisbane? Lenorah Scott. I …”

She was once again made speechless, this time by the glory of the setting. The whole opposite wall was floor to ceiling glass panels, with a postcard nighttime view of the strip. The lights were off except for some moody glow from selected lamps. A fire was burning in the fireplace — this has a fireplace!? — and soft jazzy music was playing in the ceiling speakers.

My God. I have never seen a room like this. Wait, yes I have. “Pretty Woman”. Now, if I only looked like Julia Roberts. Maybe he’ll look like Richard Gere? Hope not, or they’ll be calling 911 to revive me.

“Mr. Brisbane? Ah … I … I believe you’re expecting me?” Where is he? Good grief, how many rooms are in this hotel room?

“In here, Ms. Scott. The bar area, to your right. I took the liberty of pouring some wine for us. Come, please, have a seat.”

Sitting on the couch by the wet bar, fully clothed in an immaculate grey wool suit and blue silk tie, was a middle-aged man. He was thin and extremely well groomed, as if ready for a board of directors meeting. Shined leather shoes and a gold watch completed his look — at least from the neck down. A pleasant but tired smile creased his face, and eyes with bags that seemed older than the rest of his features scanned Bambi up and down.

“Forgive me for not rising to meet you. I’m starting to feel particularly tired tonight. Please, come over here into the light where I can see you. Take a seat, and have some wine.”

Bambi took her coat off and came to sit. “I’m just twenty. I’m going to decline the wine. We probably should break as few laws as possible, for both our sakes.”

Brisbane’s smile had vanished. He was getting a good look at Bambi.

“Mr. Morgenstern told me he was getting another one of their ‘stars’… I don’t recognize you from the website.”

“I’m … not one of the featured escorts. But I have been with them for two years.”

He remained unsmiling. He sighed, and looked more and more disgruntled each second.

Bambi’s ego was getting flatter and flatter. “You look disappointed.”

“Forgive me. I just was expecting … hoping for … someone who appeared, well, more truly female.”

She gazed at the floor in hot embarrassment. “I know you said you were looking for someone pretty, a good body, empathetic, and a good listener. I can meet some of those requirements. I’m not the best. I’m what was left. And tonight, I’m pretty much what you’ve got available, if you still want someone all night. If that is unacceptable, then I can leave, and I’m told you can get a partial refund. Since Mr. Morgenstern did make an honest attempt at a replacement, he’s told me to tell you that it would only be a 50% return.”

The suited man became suddenly angry. “That … that snake! That lying, cheating, unprofessional … I knew it. I’ve never done anything like this before, and I was too embarrassed to have someone else with more experience arrange it for me. So I spend all this money and get not a transsexual, but an obvious gay drag queen! What an idiot I’ve been. Just leave, please, sir. And tell Morgenstern that I’m coming after him with lawyers.”

Bambi got up, crying, crushed. The words he said bounced over and over in her ears.

“Gay drag queen … hoping for someone more female … sir.”

Sir. Sir! SIR.

Something then snapped in Bambi’s soul. Her ego, shredded to bits, started oozing pure fire.

“Okay, Mr. Brisbane. Just realize that what you’re doing there affects more than just you and him. I’m probably going to be fired and then homeless because of my failure here tonight. But that’s no consequence to you; I’m just a slutty whore, right? Well, just know this: I may be as ugly as sin, but in my heart, I am a woman. Not a gay drag queen. A woman! I have done this shit for two years to try to complete my journey to womanhood, and I have nothing to show for it except an asshole with 100,000 miles on it, and a body that has all the sexiness of a tube of toothpaste. I am a failure on so many levels. I’ve failed at life, basically. But I am NOT a man. I AM A WOMAN — in here,” pointing to her heart, “and in here!” — pointing to her head.

“A transsexual woman, but a woman nonetheless. NOT a gay male. No matter what you or anyone else says. I have nothing else in life, but dammit, I have that truth. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Brisbane sat silent, staring intently at her.

Bambi was now in a flood of tears. “Answer me, dammit! Yes or no? DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

“Yes. Yes, madam. I understand, and I believe you,” he said in a low, steady tone.

“Peachy.” She grabbed her coat and stepped towards the door. Fish’s pistol, here I come.

“Madam? Lenorah! Please — wait.”

She turned to him one last time. “As dear ‘Mr. Morgenstern’ says to me daily: fuck you.”

“BAMBI — please don’t leave!”

She froze. Then without moving a muscle to even look his direction, she choked out a question.

“Who — How do you know my name?”

~o~O~o~

“Please, please don’t leave. I apologize. I’ve been a monster — I was so wrapped up in my own feelings that I’ve hurt you. Please forgive me, and please come sit back down,” Grant Brisbane pled.

The woman with her hand on the doorknob and ready to leave refused to meet his eyes, instead staring straight at the door. “Why? I obviously disgust you. And you referring to me as a man disgusts me right back. So I think I should leave. But before I do, I repeat my question. The agency told you to expect me as Lenorah Scott. How do you know my other name - Bambi?”

“If you just come sit back down, I’ll tell you all you want to know. I’ll make it worth your while. But please do not leave — for my sake.”

That made her spin back around. Her mascara was a mess, dripping down her cheeks from her angry, hurt eyes. “For your sake? My God, what are you, bipolar? You just got through telling me to leave! For your sake? Look at this place! You’re obviously loaded. Just buy ten hot girls to spend the whole night pleasuring you — or each other, while you watch. What could I ever do ‘for your sake’ that couldn’t be done a hundred times better by some other hooker, straight or tranny?

“Unless …” she mumbled with a look of discovery, “unless this is part of what you like to do! Are you a kink? The kind that gets off on humiliation of his women, breaking them down? If so, you should know: I’m not into that BDSM stuff, even verbally. So. I’m still looking for a good reason why I should stay.”

Grant was now leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands cradling his tired head. “Because … I’m dying. I don’t know how much longer I’ve got to live. And I need someone like you. I misjudged you before, and jumped to conclusions. Again, I am so sorry. Please don’t leave. Please stay and help me.”

The room fell silent. While Grant wearily held his head, eyes gazing at his feet, Bambi pondered this revelation.

“Like, are you dying right now? Do I need to call 911?”

“No. I’m not about to die right this second — at least, I don’t think so. I’ve been getting sicker over the last few years; the last 3 months, much more noticeably so. And before we leave the subject; what you just said a minute ago, about you being a woman … I see that I was horribly wrong to call you a drag queen, and sir instead of madam. You indeed have the soul of a woman, and that’s the most important thing I was looking for in my companion tonight.”

Bambi was no longer so angry, but was definitely confused. “Ah … okay. You know, most people call an escort for — ”

“Sex. Yes. I’m quite aware of that,” he said. “But that’s not what I am wanting. Well actually, I would love to have sex, but my heart is too weak for that; the strain could damage it further, and shorten my life. That doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could, though.”

“What were you wanting tonight, then? Perhaps, a striptease?”

“No. Nothing stimulating. I need … touch. Companionship. Someone to listen to me as I talk, and at least show a modicum of interest. A woman to sleep next to me, press her warm body next to mine, and stay there.”

“A woman with a penis?”

“No. Not necessarily. In fact, I prefer my women to have vaginas.”

“So. You wanted a feminine presence, someone to talk to, someone to listen, and lie with you all night, and you don’t necessarily want her to have a penis, and you’re not planning on intercourse. Not even a blowjob or hand job. Is there a reason you called a she-male escort service instead of a regular one?”

“Yes, madam. Empathy.”

“You wanted a transsexual … to feel sorry for you?”

Grant looked a little irritated at that. “Not sympathy; empathy. The capacity to understand another person’s feelings. Gracious, just explaining all this is tiring me out. I’m having a bad night with my heart failure; I’m getting weaker with just talking, and in dealing with the emotion of the last fifteen minutes.”

“You called a tranny escort service … looking for empathy … ‘cause they’d understand how you feel,” - Bambi was mumbling, trying to figure out what he was hinting at.

Her eyes widened as the truth became slowly but definitely obvious.

“Mr. Brisbane — have you ever wished you were born female?”

He smiled a tired smile. “Many times, my dear.”

~o~O~o~

“So … you will stay?”

Bambi actually smiled a little. He wants someone to connect to, someone who knows the hell of growing up in a body you grow to hate; who knows the potential for shame and rejection; someone to commiserate with.

I think I’m better suited for this assignment than any I’ve ever been on.

“Yes, I will, Mr. Brisbane.”

“Please, call me Grant.” He was breathing was a little labored. “Excuse me, but I must take at least a short nap, on my oxygen. I am almost totally worn out. Can you help me to the bedroom?”

Good God - he's looking paler and weaker by the second, she thought.

She took his hands and aided him in getting to a standing position, then walked beside him, supporting his back as they stepped. When they got to the bed, he sat down on the side, then tried to pivot so as to lay down on the pillow; being so weak, he ended up with his torso on the mattress and his legs (all of the right, and part of the left) still hanging off the side. She grabbed his legs and gently lifted them onto the mattress, then took his Oxford wingtip shoes off and put them against the wall.

He looked exhausted, and was really breathing hard now. Bambi’s gut was tied in twenty knots. She had handled so many freaky situations — young studs, fat sweaty slobs, and perverts with custom made “toys” — but she’d never dealt with someone who looked so … frail. If he starts looking any worse, then I’m calling 911, lost fee or not.

“I’ll be … fine; just … hand me my oxygen tube,” he said as if sensing her thoughts.

There was a green metal cylinder next to the bed, with some sort of meter device attached on top and clear tubing wound around it. She unwound the tube and handed it to him.

“Thank you … please … turn it on … to level 2.”

Oh God. Great. How do I do that? She looked at the tank. There was a gauge on top; no buttons … to the side and under the gauge there was a green cap — wait, it was a knob! She carefully twisted it — lefty, loosey — and heard a hiss of air flowing as it activated. The gauge had numbers ranging from 0 to 6, and the needle was sitting just below 1, so she kept twisting until it reached 2.

“There! Is that helping? I think I did it right,” she hoped; but upon looking at him again, he was weakly — and unsuccessfully — trying to attach the tube to his face.

“Grant, let me try to get it on you.” She picked up the end of the tube. It was a loop, about a foot in diameter, with two tiny prongs sticking out at the farthest point. Now how the heck does this go? She felt the oxygen coming out of the ends of the prongs. “Do these little things go …?”

“In … my nose,” he croaked.

She took them and put them to where one was blowing in each of his nostrils. But how do I get them to stay there? After looking at it, she thought she might have figured it out. She spread the loop into an oblong shape and hooked it around the backs of his ears; then fit the bottom under his chin.

“That’s … correct … Thank you.”

His shoulders slumped and his head tilted slightly to the side as he went limp except for the movement of labored breathing. Bambi thought she had never seen someone look so overwhelmingly exhausted.

“Hey, Mr. Brisbane,” she whispered, “you doing any better?”

This time, he gave no response; just continued breathing heavily.

“Mr. B? Grant? Can you hear me? Are you OK?” Oh no — he’s not responding! Where’s the phone —

Then she noticed a little metal chain around his collar — not jewelry, but more like a military dog tag chain. She tugged on it, and sure enough — there was one of those “emergency alert” boxes with a button on it. It emerged from its hiding place behind his vest, outside of his shirt. She pressed the button. Now, aren’t the ambulances supposed to come?

Instead within 30 seconds curly-haired Jace came bounding into the room, in a T-shirt, sweat pants, and sandals. He was holding a huge handgun.

“Okay, Missy. Back away from him, and get against the wall.” He then looked at his boss in the bed. “My God — what the hell happened? What did you do? I told you, if you’ve hurt him —”

“I haven’t done anything but walk him to the bed and help him in! He said he’s having a bad spell, or something. Please point that thing somewhere else,” she said while motioning to Jace’s pistol.

The bodyguard was now down on his knees with an ear to Grant’s chest. Then he stood up. “So — he didn’t exert himself? You didn’t stimulate him at all? Did he get emotional?”

“Just barely, but really he started looking more and more tired from the first minute I saw him. Where the hell are the EMT’s? I pushed his button!”

“That’s the button he uses to call me,” Jace said. “And he doesn’t want EMT’s. No ambulances, no emergency room trips. Unless they finally find a matching heart donor. But if they don’t — and they probably won’t, not in time, anyway — then my instructions are to allow him to die in peace, with medicine to dull the pain and the shortness of breath. He’s made me his medical power of attorney, and I will follow his wishes.”

“Wait — you aren’t going to help him?”

Jace snarled back at her. “There’s nothing more we can do to help! He’s already on the maximum medicine dosages, had all the available procedures, and seen the best specialists. They say his prognosis is supposed to be less than six months. We just got him signed up on hospice. He’s told me that if he does die, he wants no CPR, no chest shocks, and definitely no machines to artificially keep him alive. He’s had these bad spells before. So far, he’s always come through them eventually, but one of these days he’s not going to.

“About all I can do now is wait here with him through the night, and hope he once more will recover with rest and oxygen. I’ll take care of it from here. You go back to your red light district.”

Jace pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. He mumbled a quick prayer under his breath, all the while never taking his eyes off the heaving chest and tired face of the man lying there. He listened for Bambi’s leaving footsteps, but heard none. Glancing to the side, he saw her still there.

“Hey, hooker — your pimp has been pre-paid for your ‘services’. And I’m not giving you a tip. So leave already — don’t force me to drag you to the door and throw you out.”

She ignored the threat. “Hey, Curly-top. All you’re going to do is just sit there beside him? And if he dies, all you’ll do is keep him comfortable?”

“His wishes, not mine. And I intend to honor them.”

“Well, heck! If that’s all he wants, then I can do that. And I can give him some of what he asked me for, too — contact, companionship, someone to empathize with him — and do it with a woman’s touch. I understand him in a way I’ll bet you don’t.”

Jace looked at her with irritation on his face. “I’m his caregiver. I know he likes to dress up in ladies’ things now and then; I don’t get it, but I don’t judge him for it either. His secrets will remain secret with me. You’re just someone who’s pretending to care so you can get your money.”

Bambi persisted. “And you’re telling me you don’t get a salary, Mr. Bodyguard? Listen, I could just leave now and claim my share of the fee he’s paid. But like you said, when it comes to wanting to be like a woman, you don’t get it. And I do. Let me give him the gift of camaraderie, of someone who knows how he’s felt. Even if — especially if — it’s his last hours. I promise I won’t hurt him.”

Jace stood to face her. “The only way I’d allow that is if I heard from his lips that it was what he wanted,” he growled. “And I’m not going to wake —”

“It’s what … I want,” came a weak but firm voice from the bed.

The bodyguard and the call girl abruptly stopped and looked at their employer. Grant was still lying limp, but his breathing seemed a little more even and less strained. He looked at both of them through partially open eyes.

With perplexion wrinkling his brow, Jace once again spoke in his submissive, velvet servant’s voice. “Yes, sir. Madam, if he needs any medicine for pain or problems breathing, press the alert button once more. I give you my leave.” He walked away briskly back to his room, pistol in hand.

Grant spoke again, this time to Bambi. “You’re more intelligent … than you let on, my dear … ‘camaraderie’ is a quite … sophisticated word; ... I’m starting … to feel a little better.”

She sighed in relief and sat down on the chair next to the bed, as he shut his lids and relaxed. He then opened one eye, and winked at her before closing it again.

“Are you going to be okay?” — she whispered with concern, and put her fingertips to his.

“Give me … thirty minutes … I should be fine … as long as … you hold on to my hand.”

Bambi sat and stroked his hand and arm as he fell into exhausted sleep.

~o~O~o~

To be continued this evening.
 
 
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Thanks to Cassie Nicol for a first look!

If you've gotten this far, please leave a comment. Don't make me reach through the screen and give you a tweak on the nose!

**Sigh**