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She leans forward while commanding me to spread. I comply, knees parting, and her free hand slips to my perineum, once again I feel a pang of joy as she again coats her fingers with my essence.
“Let’s see the rest of you,” she forcefully declares, once again retrieving her pocket knife.
It’s sharp, the cable tie giving way within a moment after she carefully aligns the blade. Then into full view comes the ringed vestigial organ I labor to conceal. She palms it, the disheartening three inches bringing a smile.
“Cute,” her only word as she releases and sits back to draw more nicotine.
“I assume you have more cable ties. I understand the need to keep this little guy tucked away. A girl does not need to show a bulge there.”
I nod.
“Well, Robert,” she begins.
“I prefer Renee, Ma?
?am,” I correct, hopefully not sounding pretentious.
“Yes, of course. Well, Renee, having seen so much in my eight brief years, I must confess you’re the topper. Working Central Park in broad daylight, for next to nothing, in drag, with your balls dangling from your ears.
“What brought you to getting them chopped?” the street vernacular charming, had I not been kneeling naked before her.
“A diagnosis of cancer. At least that is what they thought.”
“And it was not?”
I shake my head.
“I’m no longer sure what the truth was. But whatever... they’re gone.”
Sergeant Kelly laughs... shaking her head.
“They’re hanging from your ears, silly girl.”
She begins clearing the coffee table where hours ago Miss Lalique presented me with the gift of my plastinated testicles.
“You’re not too heavy. This should hold.”
She approaches and finally releases the handcuffs from my wrists.
“Let’s have a full exhibition, shall we? We’ll both be happy.”
She guides me to the coffee table and in wearing the precarious heels assists as I know to step up. Then the cell phone reappears and I by rote begin to model myself on an improvised pedestal, turning and listening for the click, then turning again, then bending, then turning, then spreading. Nothing escapes the lens... not one square centimeter of shorn, plumped flesh. I feel exposed... violated... my privacy desecrated. I also feel a glow of comfort. Sergeant Kelly protects... sparing me from ignominious arrest.
Sergeant Kelly utters encouraging words and instructions, filling the memory of her phone.
The drool streams to my knees.
***
Fortress Mansion of Pablo Escobar
Secluded Mountains of Colombia
Plangent beeps indicate an incoming message. The private cell phone of Pablo Escobar sounds not often. Too much potential surveillance, too many potential electronic traps. He thus has an old model phone... no GPS capability... and he only uses it to receive... never to send.
‘Think I’ve got your boy. If so, I will establish control and maintain contact,’ the message reads.
Escobar reads then clicks to view the attached photo. It is indeed Renee, the transsexual who fellated him on videotape months before. Somewhere posted on the internet is high definition evidence of the depravity. And gratefully, after parting with the one million dollars... plus the $200,000 for the mysterious clue promised by Ramona Cortez... there have been no repercussions.
