The rate for his services was high. His quality was high. His acting skills were good enough that he could be a completely different person, and you'd never know.
However, the role he was least comfortable playing was Oliver.
Oliver Addams was a b...
"You really have no idea what kind of questions are appropriate to ask people who you just meet," I huff. I use the cloth napkin next to the table to wipe the red wine from my lips.
Seriously, does this man not understand common courtesy. I get that Cal does technically own me for the next five years, but that's no reason to be so curt.
"I'm sorry." Cal's apology sounds forced, as though he's not quite sure what he's apologizing for. Or, more accurately, it's as if he knows his question was wrong, but he's not sure why.
"You don't sound so apologetic."
"Well, you still haven't answered my question." Cal uses his napkin to wipe a spot off the table that I can't even see. "That's quite rude." Everything about the ways he's speaking is now very matter-of-fact. Like he's reciting common knowledge.
My face deepens in color. I'm not sure what answer Cal wants. Most of the time, the first day is filled with very little talking, and once you've shared a bed with someone, you can pretty much gauge the kind of responses they want.
"If I didn't enjoy the sex a little, I wouldn't be a glorified prostitute." Cal's eyes are looking everywhere except my eyes. His eyes are roaming all over my face. Is he trying to read me? Or can you just not decide on a place to look.
"Fair. Do you have sex with women too?" Cal asks, stuffing a piece of broccoli in his mouth.
"What is this? Twenty invasive questions with the man who owns you?" I ask. This man and his inquiries have effectively killed my appetite.
"So you do recognize that I own you." Cal leans in closer to me, bracing his elbows on the table. "Maybe you should start acting like it." His voice is low, bordering on the edge of growl. Possessive, noted.
"No. I only have sex with men, but I have played the role of a boyfriend for females." I cross my arms across my chest and lean back in my chair, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.
"Hm," Cal hums. He watches me as he continues to eat. After a bit of staring at me in silence, Cal sets down his fork, a bit aggressively, but nothing too concerning. "Are you not going to eat?"
"I'm not hungry," I mumble.
"What?" Wow, mood swing. He's fuming. If someone were to walk in on the scene before us, they would have thought we had just started a heated argument.
I straighten up as though my posture is affecting my voice. "I said, 'I'm not hungry.'"
"Fine. If you're not gonna eat. Dessa," This entitled prick motions Dessa over like she's a dog. Maybe a better way to describe it would be that he did the hand signal you would use to tell someone to continue backing up when they're parking. "Take him to my room."
I stand up, placing my napkin beside my half-finished meal that I had decided to neglect purely out of spite. If I wasn't a stubborn ass, I would have inhaled that dish.
"Your room?" I question. I had this man pegged as someone who experiences daily erectile dysfunction.
"Yes. You said it yourself. All you are is a glorified prostitute with mediocre acting skills." Cal's words are cold and calculated. Swift as though he knows just how much they affect me.
If he wants to refer to me as his whore that's fine. If he wants to use and abuse me, it's whatever. But I draw the line at throwing insults at my acting skills.
I slam my hand down on the table, which seems to startle Cal. Despite his face changing very little, he does jump a bit. Cal raises his eyebrows at me in surprise. "Saw what you want about my career choice but don't you dare insult my acting skills. You haven't even seen me act-"Cal cuts me off. "Fine. You don't need to throw a tantrum." I try to interrupt him, but he shuts me down quickly. "Go to my room. If you want to act like a child, I'll treat you like a goddamn child. Go to my room and sit on the bed, and don't you dare move." He uses dare with the same tonal infliction I had. It seems natural, so I can't tell if the mimicry means he has some acting appearance or if he's just mocking the way I said 'dare.' It's probably the latter. You spend enough of your time as someone you're not, and it begins to feel as though everyone around you is acting too.
I must be standing there like an idiot because Cal drops his voice an octave and commands, "Now."
I turn on my heel, not bothering to wait for Dessa to show me which way to go. If he wants to see childish behavior, that's what I'll give him. I'll storm off just like he expects. Not to mention that storming off from a scene is one of the most satisfying things you can experience as an actor. Although, this is feeling less and less like a performance. Perhaps it's that my emotions are running rampant. I feel like that time I had to explain to a kid that being gay isn't a choice and that you can't get AIDS from breathing the same air as a gay person. That was an aggravating day.
I find his room after more difficulty than I'd like to admit. Another admission that I'm ashamed to make is that I snapped at Dessa for no reason. All she did was ask if I wanted a hand finding the room.
I don't sit on the bed at first. I start by slamming the door hard enough to make the hinges hate me. Then I flopped down on the bed, much like a dramatic child.
It's not long before Cal is opening the door. I sit up straight on the bed because I had previously just been staring up at the ceiling.
Cal looks me up and down before saying one word that I should have been expecting.
"Strip."
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