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My iPhone vibrates against my thigh, flashing that The Boy is calling. I stretch on the nude leather of his bedroom’s chaise lounge, in an unchaste yawn, before I press ACCEPT. “Yes, sexy one?”

“Can you come up the elevator and open the garage door for me?”

“Done.” I hop up, and in and out the small lift, into the garage. I feel against the dark wall, and press the first blur of a button I touch. One of the mahogany doors yawns open, like a heavy curtain rising. I see The Boy waiting for me, though I’m out of his line of vision, like an actress paused in the wings of a stage. “Want to play dress up?” I ask.

“I want to play ‘get rid of the garbage,’” says The Boy. “I can’t see you. Where are you?”

“I’m standing on some rug,” I answer, tiptoeing to the carpet’s curling edge. “I don’t mind a dirty mind, but dirty feet don’t get me off.”

“So open the other garage door so I can see you.”

I finger another button, and a second door slides up. The inside of the garage is spotlighted by the sun, setting the scene: a young femme fatale looks on while the older man, The Boy, sweats, maintaining his Los Angeles land. I step out further into the light. “You want to watch me so you can touch yourself?”

“Precisely,” says The Boy, not looking up from the empty boxes he’s juggling.

I rub my breasts through my blush-pink nightie, snaking my hands down my stomach, lids lowered; I’m playing Clara Bow. “How’s this?” My breath is a moan, spiraling down in time with my hips. His name slides off my lips.

“Hey.” The Boy laughs, watching me. “Keep it down, I have neighbors.”

“I’ll only boost your reputation, making these noises in your backyard on a Sunday morning.” I whisper a scream of his name. “How could you lose with this?” I lift my short skirt, revealing nude lace panties I lower with licked fingers.

“With what?” He pauses his work. “This porn show?”

“It’s free.” My face is a silent cry of priceless pleasure. “You don’t even have to pay $9.99 a month for it.”

The Boy puts down an old TV box and sits on it, facing me. “Maybe you should charge for your show.”

“It runs on advertisements.” I moan. “In two minutes I’ll have to tell you about my iPhone.”

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