CHARLES SCOT T
Dollie Dollie looks a sight by the time she gets back to DollAmor this morning. “Honestly, Dollie,” I say to her, “your clothes are soiled and stretched. And look at your hair! Did one of those jerks pull on it? I bet it was Cliff. That pig.” “I can tell you are upset, Molly. I’m sorry. Is there something I can do? Your hair looks very nice.” I straighten Dollie’s wig, smoothing her soft brown hair with my fingers, running my thumb over her access panel. I remove her bra, which has been put back on incorrectly, one shoulder strap hanging below her arm, the clasp twisted around twice on one side. I checked her out myself yesterday. I begin giving her a sanitary sponge bath with a special skin-sensitive antibiotic solution we use when the girls return. Her panties are missing entirely. I remove all three of her cavities. The clients cleaned those out, if they used them at all. They don’t always use them, especially in groups. When they do, they often don’t want to leave too much of themselves behind, the body fluid somehow too personal. “Molly, tell me about yourself,” Dollie says. “Dollie, you know I don’t talk about myself. Let’s get you cleaned up so you can relax. You don’t have to go back out tonight, thank God. I wish you didn’t have to go back out at all.” Dollie is a five-six brunette, petite, demure. Of all the dolls, she looks and acts the most like me, though she’s younger than twenty-nine. She even has my same chin dimple. I run my fingers over her smooth, perfect forearm. Her arm is completely hairless, unlike mine, and is perfectly proportioned to her upper arm, just a hint of bicep definition. “That feels very nice,” she says. “Don’t get all worked up now; it’s just me.” “Oh, Molly, you’re so much more than that.” Lucy, the other rental doll, stands next to Dollie. Adam and Robbie are over in our showroom, set up in living-room style, finished like an upscale steakhouse, with studded leather chairs and faux oil paintings, plush oriental-style carpet, a bit of a cigarcave sort of place. But the boys are really just bodies attached to very realistic organs; the girls are much more vulnerable. I work mainly on our specialty direct couture sales, but I handle the rentals myself
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C A R O L I N A Q U A R T E R LY
