Another passenger boarded at 30th Street. A teenaged mother, burdened with a toddler, a folded stroller with diaper bag dangling from the handles, and a huge bag of disposable diapers. Neither the driver nor the Penn student moved to help as the young mother struggled onto the trolley. Weighed down by her own problems, Victoria had to quell the urge to assist the young girl. Expecting a lengthy delay, Victoria settled back into her seat; she began to practice a breathing technique that would help calm her.
As it was, the young mother was a skilled commuter, who paid the fare effortlessly without causing a delay. Victoria was amazed by the ease with which she maneuvered baby and bundles.
There were so many distractions; Victoria couldn’t concentrate on the breathing exercises. Troubling images crowded her mind: the eviction notice that was stealthily slid under her apartment door, the words SHUT OFF NOTICE stamped across utility bills, bold threats from collection agencies over the phone and through the mail. These thoughts were wrenching reminders of the series of events that had led to her steep slide into debt and despair.
Victoria stood up at 19th Street. She emerged from the trolley on the intersection at 19th and Market Street and walked another block. The building she was looking for was sandwiched discreetly between a pizza shop and a bank. There were no identifying signs, just the numbers of the address glued to the door.
Taking a deep breath, Victoria opened the door. The chime of a doorbell announced her entrance. A gust of wind accompanied her inside a waiting room with three folding metal chairs and a chipped wooden coffee table that was cluttered with portions of The Philadelphia Daily News, old lottery tickets, a crumpled cigarette pack, and an ashtray filled with cigar and cigarette butts. In a corner stood a dust-covered silk plant. Pictures of girlie magazine-type models were plastered on the walls surrounding a huge sign that read:
WE ARE OPEN 24 HOURS…
$100.00 FLAT RATE FOR FULL-SERVICE
MASSAGE…
NO TIPPING REQUIRED…
FOR YOUR PLEASURE, WE HAVE A
SELECTION OF 25 GIRLS…
Within seconds, the inner door opened. Six scantily clad women stood on the other side of the door—five Caucasians and one light-complexioned young black woman. Five of the women about-faced and disappeared from view. A young woman-thin, white, with long chestnut brown hair and glossy pouting lips, remained at the door.
“We thought you were a customer,” the woman said, explaining the speedy retreat of the others. “Can I help you?”
Victoria was embarrassed by the woman’s attire. In the broad of day, she had on black stiletto heels, thigh-high stockings with black lace gathered at the top, red satin panties and pink nipples peeked out of a red push-up bra! Her breasts—too large to be real—were poked in Victoria’s face, but determined not to stare at them, she focused on the woman’s eyes.
“I called earlier and spoke to someone—a man. I didn’t get his name, but he told me to come in for an interview.”
“Rover!” the brunette turned around and yelled. “Did you tell someone to come in for a job?”
At the end of a long corridor, Victoria could see the shadowy figure of the person she presumed to be Rover.
“Yeah, tell ‘er to come on back,” the man shouted.
Murmurs of discontent were heard as Victoria passed a room where the women lounged. “Don’t we have enough girls?” she overheard someone ask, irritated.
“I thought Gabrielle said only one black girl was allowed to work the morning shift—ME!” the light-skinned black woman complained.
“Looks like you may have some competition, Zoe!” one of the women taunted.
There was a bed in each of the three empty rooms Victoria passed. What was she getting herself into? Well, it was too late to think about that now. Her rent was three months past due, the eviction date loomed!
Foolishly she had chased a dream, she’d taken a risk and lost. There were no other options, she reminded herself; it was time for damage control.
CHAPTER 2
It had not been a profitable day. Seven women milled about the smoke-filled room. The Action News theme song blared from the television, heralding the start of the second shift. No one was watching. The women were in different states of waiting, and all were waiting for the same thing. Sessions. Those who had worked the first shift but hadn’t made any money, or enough to leave, wore tense, solemn expressions. They peered in mirrors and tended to make-up or hair in a futile attempt to ignore the threatening exuberance of the girls who had just come in. Their arrival had changed the climate of despair and hopelessness to one charged with expectancy.
Sydney, one of the newly arrived, settled in the room with quick and certain movements that suggested confidence that she’d leave with a full purse. With her back turned to the others, she purposefully pulled articles of lingerie from an oversized plastic satchel and studied each appraisingly. Finally, she turned and proudly displayed a flashy red sequined bustier that was bound to catch the eye. In a taunting tone she asked no one in particular, “Ya think I’ll make money in this?” The others responded with sighs and groans.
Sydney was not pretty. Her eyes were set too close on a face too wide and her straggly brown hair wouldn’t hold a curl. But she was young, thin, and white—the only requirements for the top moneymakers at Pandora’s Box. Just the week before, Sydney had been meek and unsure of herself, but her quick popularity had gone to her head, producing an air of arrogance.
Though most of the girls felt a twinge of envy toward her, there was a certainty that Sydney’s reign would be short-lived, that she’d be replaced by the next new face and would become as bitter and afraid as the rest of them.
Rover, the manager of Pandora’s Box, stuck his head in the doorway. “Did Bethany get here yet?”
“No,” replied Chelsea, a thirty-somethingish black woman whose striking good looks had no effect on her cash flow. Chelsea had worked the previous shift and hadn’t made any money.
Rover glanced at his watch. “This is the second time Bethany’s been late this week. I’m gonna have to give her a twenty-dollar fine. When she gets in, tell her to come back to the office to see me. She can’t work until she pays her fine.”
“Damn, Rover, the girl just had a baby,” Chelsea replied. “Why are you being so hard on her?”
“I don’t make the rules, and I’m not changing them for Bethany. Instead of lying around with her bum boyfriend, she needs to get here on time so she can take care of that baby and her other kid. If I really wanted to be nasty, I’d send her home.”
Chelsea shook her head.
“I hope Bethany don’t come in, we got too many girls here now,” complained Miquon, an overweight brown-skinned twenty-year-old with a limited clientele of men who snubbed the frequently sought-after slender women to indulge in private yearnings for the amply endowed. “Shit, seven women scufflin’ for the same dollar is more than enough.”
“Then maybe I should send you home, Miquon,” Rover threatened. “You’ve been late a coupla times this week, too.”
Miquon sucked her teeth and mumbled something about having baby-sitting problems.
Rover ambled back up the hallway to the dreary room that served as both his home and the office of Pandora’s Box. The small room was filled with his possessions: a TV, two VCRs, dozens of videocassettes, a microwave oven, a miniature refrigerator, and a cot. A monitor on top of a battered metal desk allowed Rover to oversee the comings and goings in the lobby.
Rover worked two shifts a day. The first shift started at 10 a.m. and ended at 5 p.m. and the second shift ended at midnight. In his absence, Dominique, one of the older girls, collected the money for the third shift. After work each night, he frequented nearby adult peep shows or hung out at the all-night diner where his tips bought the attention of Amelia, a tired looking, washed-out waitress who wore a faded pink uniform bedecked with her own plastic nametag. Amelia laughed uproariously at Rover’s stupid jokes, stomach-holding, s
ide-splitting laughter, while wishing she were home with her feet up watching Nick At Nite, the Home Shopping Network, or anything on cable TV.
Around three in the morning, Rover would sometimes return to the massage parlor to check on Dominique and the others to make sure that no one was getting high, drinking, or pocketing money that belonged to the house.
“Who’s Bethany?” Sydney asked as she pulled out and slowly unfolded yet another dazzling outfit. Pairs of worried eyes landed on the negligee that was blue and sheer with tassels.
Just as Chelsea began to describe Bethany, Rover yelled from the office: “Bethany’s on the news; turn on channel six!”
“Oh my God! That’s Bethany!” squealed Chelsea as she scrambled to turn up the volume. Bethany, who should have been there with them, was being led away in handcuffs from her Wharton Street apartment in South Philly.
In the midst of the excitement and confusion over Bethany’s arrest, the doorbell rang. The seven women abandoned the TV immediately and rushed to the door dressed unashamedly in skimpy lingerie. Bethany was barely a distant thought.
As Chelsea swung open the door each woman struck a seductive pose. A rather handsome young black man who drove a bus for SEPTA stood in the doorway wearing his work uniform. He looked delightfully surprised as he beheld the array of scantily clad, heavily made-up women. The young man literally licked his lips and rubbed his hands in lustful anticipation.
Sydney and three other young white women threw their heads high and abruptly turned away; most of the white working girls refused to service black men. A puzzled look crossed the bus driver’s face.
Miquon rolled her eyes at the retreating figures. Then she turned to him and parted her lips in what she considered a sexy smile and stuck out her 38Ds. “You want a session, baby?” she cooed.
“Uh…how much is it?”
“A hundred dollars.”
“A buck!” His eyes widened. “That’s too steep for me.”
“You get a whole hour. Come on,” she cajoled.
“I don’t know…”
“Maybe we can work something out.” Miquon reached around Chelsea to open the glass door that led from the lobby to the session rooms.
The young man took a few hesitant steps forward, then stopped. “What am I gonna get for my money?”
“Whatever you want,” Chelsea piped in, brushing her hand lightly across her crotch. The bus driver brightened perceptibly.
“Come on with me.” Chelsea took his arm and proceeded to lead him up the hall.
“Hold up!” Miquon demanded. “You don’t have to go with her. You can choose whoever you wanna see.”
He peeked into the room where the others were lounging.
Miquon’s eyes were wide with indignation. “Why you checkin’ them out? They ain’t interested in you. They sat the hell back down because they don’t mess with no black men.” She punctuated the statement with a hand on her beefy hip. “So, whassup? Who you wanna see?”
“Uh, I’ll take her.” He pointed past Miquon and Chelsea to Arianna, who had remained standing but hadn’t bothered to assist in the sales pitch. Arianna’s smug attitude and seeming contempt irked her coworkers but intrigued the customers.
“Follow me,” Arianna said, leading the man up the hallway to one of the three smaller session rooms.
Inside each room was a hard narrow cot-like bed with plain white sheets and a folded towel placed at the bottom. A box of tissues and generic brands of toiletries sat atop a metal nightstand, along with a metal waste can and folding chair. There was a sign on the wall behind the bed, a wooden plaque that prohibited tipping. The other walls were decorated with cheap mirror panels.
After collecting the fee, Arianna informed her customer that he was entitled to a full body massage with his choice of powder, lotion, alcohol, or baby oil. Promising to be right back, she slipped out of the room and went to the office to record the session.
Arianna handed Rover the money and entered her name on the first line of the paper where sessions were logged.
“Good for you!” Rover said cheerfully. “Tiffany got the first session this morning and she ended up with six sessions out of nine.” It was considered good luck to get the first session of the shift.
Arianna deliberately kept a straight face. Rover irritated her, but she was inwardly pleased.
When she returned, Arianna found her customer poised on the edge of the bed, naked. He leered at her and boldly stroked himself. Repelled by the sight, Arianna averted her gaze. “Do you want your massage with baby oil or lotion?”
“We can skip all that.” He reached for her hand and attempted to guide it between his legs.
Arianna jerked her hand away. “You’ll have to cover that up.” Unable to conceal her disgust, Arianna’s face creased into a scowl.
The young man recoiled when she removed the covering from the condom that she retrieved from her purse. “I don’t want that thing on yet. Come on baby, let’s play for a while.”
She exhaled audibly. “As I said, you’ll have to cover yourself before I do anything.”
“Hey, I didn’t come here to play no fuckin’ games. I could have stayed home and took care of myself for free.”
Sensing that she was about to lose her customer, Arianna began a seductive act of slowly untying the strings of her velvet bodice. The bus driver gaped as the bodice fell open, revealing perfectly shaped breasts. Arianna bent slightly and began peeling down a lace-topped thigh-high and then stepped out of a black velvet shoe. He continued to stare stupidly before his gaze shifted to the stiffening between his legs. He was panting by the time Arianna stripped out of the thong bikini.
Arianna stood naked before him. Still holding the condom, she challenged him. He looked at her helplessly.
Arianna was petite with an unidentifiable exotic look. She was black and most people thought she looked mixed with something. Asian, Hispanic—something. She had a tiny waist and a surprisingly big heart-shaped, protruding butt.
Arianna’s dark almond-shaped eyes gleamed as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She shamelessly admired her image. This incited the customer to reach for her. From his seated position he pulled her down on the cot and attempted to cover her mouth with his. Arianna turned her head; she would never allow a trick to kiss her on the lips. Undaunted the man moved down to her breasts, lightly kissing and licking her nipples until she seemed to relax. He assumed that she’d been stirred by the foreplay and raised his head, expecting to see defeat in her eyes. Instead, he found eyes that mocked him as she quickly tried to get the condom in place.
“Hey, slow down, baby. I have a whole hour, don’t I? So what’s the rush?”
Arianna recognized the determined look in his eyes. Getting him off would not be easy, the session could drag on endlessly. The man obviously had the impression that the money he spent entitled him to prolonged lovemaking: kissing, cuddling, caressing. He was the type who’d use every trick in the book to extend his stay. She’d be drenched in his sweat as he panted and snarled and fought to hold back an orgasm. He was also the type who’d become violently angry when she refused to comply with his fanciful desires. He’d demand his money back. Or insist upon seeing another girl.
“Does a blowjob come with that buck I just gave you?”
“That’s extra,” Arianna said dryly.
“That sign out there says full service and tipping is not allowed.” His top lip curled. “So what kind of game are you trying to play? Seems like you trying to beat me.”
Arianna spoke slowly and deliberately. “Full service includes a massage and intercourse with a condom. You said you didn’t want a massage, so I assumed…”
“Don’t assume, baby! I called before I came and the dude who answered the phone said I could get a blow-job.”
“Oh! Then I guess he’s going to give you one.” Arianna had had about enough of this asshole. She hated cheap bastards who didn’t want to tip. Sure, the crazy owner, Gabrielle, posted
signs all over the place that prohibited tipping, but anyone with a modicum of decency should know that for extras, he has to tip. Arianna began to gather her discarded garments.
“What are you doing?” the bus driver demanded.
“I’m leaving. Do you want to see one of the other girls?”
“No.” His face softened. “I want to be with you.”
“Well, you can’t see me. You can either have your money back or see someone else. It’s up to you.”
“Aw, come on, why you gotta come off like that? I was just kiddin’.”
“I don’t have time to play games, and you’ve wasted enough of my time,” she said, checking her watch.
“Wait a minute, gorgeous.” He attempted to chuckle. “This is my first time here and I was just going by what dude told me on the phone. Let’s start over. I don’t want to see nobody else. I picked you because you the best-looking shorty in this joint. Your girlfriends out there should be ashamed to stand up next to you.”
“And that being the case, you had a lot of nerve coming in here giving me such a hard time.”
“I’m sorry. Look, I’m in your hands, you can do whatever you want.” He delivered a gleaming smile but Arianna looked at him stone-faced.
“Put this on,” she demanded again, handing him the condom. She walked across the room to dim the light. He’d be out of there in less than ten minutes and his pompous ass would only get a hand job. No stupid trick could match wits with her. The other girls obeyed the rules, foolishly giving the customers a massage, and a blowjob along with sex and all for the measly fifty dollars that was left after the house got its cut. Arianna prided herself on doing as little as possible for the same amount of money and always insisted on a generous tip.
When the customer realized that the release he sought would be manual, he pleaded to remove the condom.
“I will not touch you with my bare hands,” Arianna said with unmasked disdain. “It’s unsanitary. If you take it off, I’m going to have to wear a rubber glove.” He opted for the thin, surgical rubber glove. Arianna poured baby oil into her palm and after only a few slippery strokes, he exploded. Remarkably, at that very moment she could hear the distant sound of the doorbell. There was no time to get back into her bodice and heels, so she wrapped a towel around herself, grabbed her things and brightly waved goodbye. Arianna rushed from the room and ran barefoot to join the others greeting the most recent caller.
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