by S. L. Finlay
No, I couldn't do this. I would just have to bite the bullet and start going. I had to go for it, I had to take the dive.
I walked right out of my studio, down the old stairs and out the front door. I walked and I walked. I didn't let myself slow down. I was walking in the direction of the restaurant, the cool evening air on the skin of my legs which were not covered my by dress or coat. I was walking off the anxiety I felt, so I was walking fast.
I hadn't planned to walk to the restaurant, I had planned to catch a cab, but I was walking none the less. I marched all the way there without even noticing the beauty of the city (which I always noticed as I walked) or the greyness of the city or even the grime (which one could not help but notice, as beautiful as she is, Paris is still old, gray and dirty). I hadn't noticed all the people walking past me speaking French or the children who were out with their parents who were taking them to special dinner plans. I hadn't noticed the tourists who are normally the most noticeable people of all on the streets of Paris. I simply walked, and dismissed all thoughts from my mind. I simply put one foot in front of the other and tried my hardest to walk off all the uncomfortable feelings I had.
By the time I arrived at the restaurant, my anxiety about the whole thing was almost gone. Now all I felt was a sense of wonder at just how beautiful the restaurant was, and that I was here, in Paris. I felt a little gob smacked and I'm sure I did a poor job of hiding that fact. The French had a way about themselves, that they could make anything beautiful and that they could see the beauty in anything. I wanted to learn that. Right now though, I was just in awe.
The restaurant was a famous one, and for that reason was full tonight. Yet, the diners were not loud and unruly as most tourists seemed to be. There was enough space between the tables and few enough people in the room that the volume was perfect. I could hear the music play. They had a pianist who was wearing a nicely cut suit, tailored to his strong frame and sitting at a beautifully polished baby grand piano. When I walked into the restaurant, I did feel under dressed when all the wait staff were wearing their coat tails and all the diners were in their best clothes. The women dripping with diamonds, the youngest of which being at least twenty years older than myself. I felt like I stood out in this place, and not in a good way.
As one of those older women caught my eye, she looked my clothes over with a confused look on her face as if she didn't understand what I was wearing, or even why I was wearing it. But then I reminded myself that she was probably unsure of why I was there. I could understand that, as this wasn't small town girl from fly-over lands usual scene.
The wait staff were polite, tactfully ignoring my clothes - the 'little girl' clothes that this man seemed to have picked out for his dates to wear - they asked if I was there to see the benefactor. I smiled and told them that I was. I fought the urge to say something like, 'how did you know?' ironically because if he'd met more than one girl here, and we were all dressed like this, it must be obvious who I was here to see. In the end, I simply followed the man in coat tails to a table for two that was out of the way.
When I arrived, there was the benefactor, looking better than he had in his photo. It was as if he had submitted his most unattractive photo to agency for us girls to see yet he still managed to look hot in it. In front of me now, this man was gorgeous. It wasn't just the model-like good looks he wore, but also the presence he had.
From the moment I arrived, I knew I would have done anything he asked of me.
We sat together and talked. The conversation flowed easily, him being very interested in me, and me being just as interested right back. I was also feeling a bit shy and hesitant when it came to asking my own questions, rather than just asking a question back of him that he had just asked me. Just how much was I allowed to ask? If I asked anything too personal, would he feel like I was invading his privacy?
This man had money, and I knew he wouldn't appreciate the feeling of someone prying into his life. The agency had made me sign a non-disclosure agreement and I had done so happily because I couldn't see myself really explaining the nature of the agency or of relationships with benefactors to anyone, however, I was concerned about how I would come across to him if I did ask these questions none the less.
Evidently, he sensed this and asked me, "You are holding back?"
I nodded slightly and bit my tongue for a moment, one breath. Two breaths. Then it came out, "I want to know more about you, but, I don't want you to feel uncomfortable with my questions."
The Frenchman laughed slightly before telling me, "What would upset me? I am paying you to be here."
"What do you mean?" I asked, a little confused how that had anything to do with anything at all.
His face returned what I imagined was the confused look on my own face, "You think I will have secrets from the woman I have paid to be here? Why would I? I have ensured you cannot talk to anyone because of your contract, and I don't think you would talk, why would you? Then you might need to tell people how you know, what your relationship with me is."
We were gazing into one another's eyes for a long moment, I thought I could see something there for just that moment, then it was gone.
When I looked at him, it wasn't like looking at some boyfriend, or someone who I was on a regular date with. Due to the nature of this relationship - this exchange - things felt a lot more raw, honest and real. I couldn't express that any better to someone who hadn't ever had an arrangement like this before, seeing a man who agrees to pay you for your time.
Sighing I turned away, "I am sorry. I am just new to this." I told him.
"Yes, they told me. Your first arrangement?" He asked.
Turning back to look at him, I could see something in his eyes again. It was humor, he thought this whole thing was funny. Like I was behaving so weird in a social situation and he thought it was cute. I wanted to chuckle with him, but I was afraid I was missing something.
Then I had this feeling like I was actually the one he had chosen, like he had made the choice already. Perhaps the other girls had interviewed with him and he didn't like them, but something in his way, in the way he had said that he knew this was my first arrangement, made me feel like we were already under way. Not like this was an interview anymore. The date just felt as though it flowed, which was fantastic!
Internally I was smiling, and pushing all of these thoughts to the side. I had to be present. I had to be right here with this guy. I had to engage with him right now, or I might miss this opportunity. Even if he did choose me, it might be a long time between dates. Emilie had told me that men who used her agency were busy, and sometimes wouldn't see the girls for several months at a time, "but you'll still be compensated, as long as he has said you are his girl." She told me.
It was an odd feeling, knowing that I would be someones girl, without all of the romantic overture, it was a business transaction, but it wasn't something I had any idea how to market or sell.
"So," I began, fiercely shoving everything from my blurry mind now, "What exactly do you want in a girl?" I asked him. The question was direct, but his face lit up like it was exactly what he wanted to hear. I would have been surprised, but I was focused on making my face remain stony.
"I want a girl who is a native English speaker, like you." He began slowly, as if he hadn't already told the agency exactly what he wanted and he was discovering his wants for the first time as he spoke to me, "and I want her to have a good sense of humor, an interest in French culture, I want her to be slim. I want her to be happy to wear, different kinds of clothes..." His voice trailed off at the last comment, and he looked me over.
In answer to the last statement, I gave him a smile and told him, "yes, I saw some of the styles of clothes you like. They're very cute."
"So, you would not mind wearing them?" He asked me.
"Not at all." I told him simply. "I liked them, this was just the most appropriate to wear out tonight." I motioned down to the dress and he humored me, looking at it for a se
cond before looking back up at my eyes.
"So, I want you to, do some other things for me. If you are okay with the clothes." He said, and his gaze and tone were both so direct that they caught me off guard.
"Yes?" I asked, trying not to show my apprehension on my face, "what else would you like from me?"
He nodded slightly and moved a little closer, "I want you to call me, something a bit different."
I was conscious of the other people in the restaurant then and tried to look around to see no-one could hear, I was sure the conspicuous voice he was displaying meant there were things he was thinking that he didn't want anyone to hear, and that made me want no-one to hear them either.
"Yes?" I prompted, when I was sure no-one else could hear.
He cleared his throat before telling me, "I want you to call me daddy." His voice sounded a little guilty, like he'd just requested something naughty before going on, "I do not want you to use my name, or to call me 'benefactor', or anything like this. I want you to call me Daddy."
I nodded. I guessed he was sort of like a sugar daddy, paying for everything, giving a girl an allowance. The only thing that made it all a little different was the involvement of the agency. But then, I was sure there were odder things out there. I could handle calling a man who was older than me - and who was paying my way - my daddy. It was pretty Southern to call your boyfriend 'Daddy' anyway.
"I can call you that, no problem." I told him.
He beamed and moved back from me, "That is good news!" He said as he took another sip of his drink and first course arrived.
We had four courses all told, each one of them delivered to us as if it were a master piece, as if it were art. Everything was so beautifully presented that the food itself looked beautiful. It felt like everyone here was so proud of everything that they did. The waiters were proud of the work they were doing, and judging by the flavors and the look of the food with the detail that went into plating it up, I felt sure the chefs were also proud of what they did.
Eating food someone is so proud of does make a difference to your enjoyment. That food was the best I had tasted - outside Ma's kitchen of course! - and I couldn't believe that I had only been in Paris for such a short time, and I was already enjoying such marvelous dishes.
Life was great. I was happy.
Our conversation was flowing freely through dinner, with me asking him all the questions I had been unsure I could ask a man like this. This guy wanted to be my Daddy, so he would answer all the questions I had for him. He would smile and tell me what the thought about life and love and sex and I would giggle behind my hands. This man felt so worldly and I was from small town America!
As We finished our dessert and moved onto coffee, he smiled at me and told me, "I would like to see you again."
"I would like to see you again as well." I told him without taking a moment to think. It was true, I had a wonderful time with him! This didn't feel like work at all!
He nodded, "good." He said before gazing deeply into my eyes and asking, "next time, will you come to my home?"
I felt my heart leap into my throat at his request and hurriedly told him, "No, I. I am not here for that. I just want to see you socially and -" I began but he was shaking his head.
"No. That is not what I want, from you, at all. Ever." He told me, his voice in stops and starts. The shock was obvious to the ear.
"Okay." I agreed, feeling a little embarrassed I had leapt to that conclusion. His reaction told me that I was being silly.
Quickly, Daddy recovered himself. "I want you to come over so you can show me what you look like in other outfits."
I nodded slightly. "that's okay then." I agreed, feeling my nerves bubble inside me, not really sure why these outfits were such a big deal to him, and feeling a little awkward and not knowing quite why I felt that way.
Daddy nodded then, "good. So, next weekend?"
We were both nodding and I smiled at him. "Next weekend."
"So," He began in that was I was sure I would eventually begin to see as less than cute, "would you like me to call you a cab then?"
I smiled and gave him a nod, "I would like that."
Daddy nodded to the waiter and said some things to him in French. The waiter disappeared. "There will be one waiting out the front." He told me, "I must settle this bill."
Daddy stood up and the warmth that he had had previously was all gone. "I will see you next time?"
I was being dismissed, I realized. "Okay." I told him. "That should be fine."
Then I scrambled up and got my things before giving Daddy a kiss goodbye on both cheeks (very French, very European, I nailed it!) and followed the waiter out to the waiting car. He opened the door for me and I got inside, thanking him in English and then in French.
The waiter just nodded before waving as my car pulled away.
I only realized when we arrived at my place that I hadn't given the cab driver any money and he wasn't asking for any. Daddy had taken care of that before I'd left, and I hadn't even noticed. He had obviously been so smooth at the restaurant with the waiter and the waiter had been so smooth with the cab driver that I hadn't noticed at all.
These guys were well practiced. This was the normal way for them to be, even as their world was a little alien to me.
I tried to shrug it off but as I lay in bed that night thinking things over, the whole thing began to eat at me. There was a lot wrong with what I was doing, even if I turned away from those things. I wasn't doing the right thing, but what I was doing didn't feel like the worst thing ever. Actually, despite what I'd always been told, I didn't feel bad about it at all.
This must be how female celebrities feel when they start wearing sexy clothes and singing about how naughty they are, even as they're not. I was selling a fantasy to this man, even as I didn't understand what fantasy I was selling was, exactly.
Selling sex is something women shy away from, but is selling a fantasy the same thing? And if it was, did it really matter to me? This guy was great, why should I feel bad about seeing him? I was getting what I wanted (the Parisian life, even a well-to-do one I had never expected when I left home) and I was making someone else happy. So what's the harm?
The struggle was against something I couldn't see, and that I wouldn't understand for some years to come. That whorephobic struggle was there right from the start though. That night I had dreams about being a Vegas showgirl and having men tip me in a haze of excitement, then turning into a little girl and having one man take me home to a bed filled with stuffed animals. The dream ended in a warm, loving place. Something I wouldn't have expected to feel when I'd been dreaming about Vegas, that's for sure.
When I woke up, I shook these thoughts from my head. I had other things to do besides worrying about this right now. I would need to find another place to live in no time at all and had no real leads.
CHAPTER NINE
The way the arrangement was to work going forward, Emilie explained to me on the phone the following morning after congratulating me for landing such a well-to-do benefactor, was that I was to see my Daddy (even she was going to use that term) semi-regularly for dress up dates and maybe the odd work function when he needed someone to accompany him, and in exchange I could keep any of the clothes he gifted me, in addition to any gifts he gave me and I would also receive an allowance from the agency. I took it that this allowance was issued after the agency had taken their cut, but I accepted that. They had to keep in business somehow, and without their help, I wouldn't have landed this client in the first place.
So here I was living in Paris, only having to see this man occasionally and I would have a decent income coming in so I could eat and drink as much as I pleased, buy whatever I wanted and spend as much time as I wanted learning the French language.
I had to find a place to live first and foremost. The agency had told me they had a few apartments where they housed girls, but Emilie told me that it was better if I found my own place, because those apa
rtments cost more than regular rent (they came with perks like being close to the office, so you could get one of the PAs to run out and get you anything you liked and deliver it to your apartment, so of course the agency wanted more money). Emilie also told me that the apartments were not as nice, and that if I should ever leave the agency, I would need to move out pretty quickly so another girl could take my place, as there was always new girls arriving at the agency. "Even faster than we have them leaving." Emilie had told me smugly.
I didn't want my job - if I decided to call it that, it didn't feel like work so far - to dictate where I lived and for how long, so I kept looking, only this time I used the Internet to find a place and did a tone of research before going to check out a few places with agents.
By the time my next date with Daddy rolled around, I was tired of looking at apartments, and excited - and super nervous - to be exploring this dynamic with him.
A car picked me up at home - Daddy's personal car, apparently, as I would learn later when I realized the same car and driver always picked me up to see Daddy - and drove me to a very expensive address. It was Daddy's apartment in Paris. A two-story apartment larger than most of the homes in my small American town.
Apparently this was Daddy's Paris address. He had multiple addresses around France and the world, and they were all just as beautiful as this home.
I had never been an admirer of homes, but between Daddy greeting me with a double cheek kiss at the door and my making my way into his home, I was blown away by just how beautiful it was here.
Daddy showed me to a bedroom that looked plane enough and gave some instructions to his staff to deliver some food and beverages. We both sat down on a couch in this room and talked while the food was prepared.
The room was large and comfortable. It was decorated like most palaces with antique furniture and beautiful drapes on the large windows that looked out over the river Seine. There was two couches that faced one another and a beautiful oak-wood bed as well as doors that led off the adjoining rooms. From what I could see there was a large bathroom in one of those rooms with marble floors. I didn't want to be too obvious about looking, so turned my attention back to Daddy.
