A Short Story: The Breakup Bordello
Series Teaser: A man in a failing marriage seeks comfort in the arms of a stranger—but at The Breakup Bordello, he gets far more than he expected.
Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction, but its emotional terrain is very real. While the characters are invented, the story reflects something of the mental state I’ve experienced during the ups and downs of my own marriage. More will be revealed in the weeks to come—as the story, and perhaps the writer, unfold.
Part One
The words, “The Breakup Bordello,” are what first catch my eye, but the Ad itself is so nondescript that I don’t pay it much heed; there is no art attached to it and what I am looking for will have nothing subtle about it.
I am in a near-empty dive-bar on a late Friday afternoon. There’s a vacant stool next to mine with a well-thumbed, half-open newspaper sitting on it. Who knows how many people have touched it, and this being the heart of a pandemic, I wonder as I start to turn the limp pages whether any of them might be contaminated. It’s been read a lot, by people looking for everything from washer/dryer repairmen to dog-walkers or cat-sitters to, well, let’s just say it: call girls.
Do I want someone to knock me off my feet completely, the kind of girl I would never bring home to my mother? Or do I need someone who I could take to a party and introduce to my friends? If I am going to cheat on my wife, it’d better be with someone completely different. Of course, she’ll have to be age appropriate, somebody I can realistically fantasize about later.
There are all kinds, from lascivious to subtle, dressed in everything an imagination can conjure. Girls in thongs, in business suits, and in girl-next-door pants and hoodies.
As I thumb through pages smudged with the sweat of strangers’ fingers, nothing quite does it for me, and I find my eyes drifting back to that first Ad, The Breakup Bordello, that’s the one.
Can’t hurt to call, right?
Like an archer reaching for an arrow, in one smooth motion I dial the number, remove a cigarette from my pocket, and light it and take a first puff before my feet even hit the sidewalk outside, where nobody can hear me. It’s silly, I know, but clinging to my anonymity is somehow meaningful, even if nobody at this bar knows me or cares for me in any way. If I were to ever go missing, and police canvassed the neighborhood with my photo, bar patrons would only remember me as the guy that showed up a couple of times a week for two beers, never more than three, and then left, without a word other than to order another drink.
“The Breakup, Bordello, who am I speaking to?”
Wow! They pick up on the first ring, probably to avoid losing any of those sorry fellows who question their decisions the second they make them. People like me who have trouble following through with decisions. whose resolve can dissolve with each ring, ergo second, that passes.
“Um, my name is Richard, I was wondering …”
“Hi Ted! We were wondering when you were going to call!”
“What? No, I said my name was Richard.”
“Sure, Ted, whatever.”
“But, how do you know my name?”
“Caller I.D., my friend, ever heard of it?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s just that, this is my dad’s phone.”
“Sure it is.”
Actually, it is, asshole, I think to myself without dwelling on the discrepancy, which I know makes no sense at all.
“So, Ted, or Richard, or whatever, we have here that you are coming in tonight, and you will be speaking to Samuel?”
“Tonight … Samuel?”
“Yes, and yes.”
“But is Samuel a man?”
“He certainly identifies as one.”
But I am looking for a woman.”
“Of course you are.”
“So, shall we say 8 pm?”
“Um …”
“And how much have we had to drink tonight, Ted?”
“Um … two beers, not that that’s any of your business.”
“Oh, but it is, sir, no more for you tonight, please, or anything else for that matter. No street drugs, nothing like that. We need you clear-headed for when you speak to Samuel.”
“But I don’t want to speak to a man. I am straight.”
“Of course, Ted. Look, we’ll text you the address presently, and for obvious reasons, we’ll ask you to please not share it with anyone. We’ll also include some special requests and precautions, for identity verification and other things like that.”
“Of course,” I reply, trying to sound like an old hand at this so that they don’t think I’m just some chump that they can take advantage of.
“But … “
The line goes dead then, so abruptly, so quickly, that I am taken aback, offended even, and I pretend that I am still talking so that anyone watching won’t know I just got hung up on in mid-conversation.
“Talk to you later,” I say before shoving the phone into my jeans pocket and hurrying back into the bar.
It’s 6:30 pm on a Friday.
“Fuck that,” I say to myself before ordering another drink. “Fuck You, and fuck that.”
Halfway through my next beer, my cell phone vibrates. A text message has come in from a blocked number.
“Come to 11 Jones Avenue at exactly 7:45 pm. Bring identification and other bona fides to present to Leo, who will be wearing a navy-blue Armani suit and a red tie. You should leave now if you are going to make it and, oh, don’t take Lakeshore, because there’s a police ride stop at the corner of Islington.”
New installments of The Breakup Bordello will appear every two weeks.