B as in Beauty

by Alberto Ferreras

He pulled out a few more little bottles from the well-stocked minibar, put them on the table in front of me, and served me one more. I downed it as well, and that’s when I started talking.

  “What was your name again, honey?” I asked, holding my glass next to my face, as if I were the most jaded street-hooker in New Orleans.

  “Adam,” he said.

  “Can I ask you a question, Adam?”

  “Sure,” he said, watching with wide eyes as I served myself the third little bottle of vodka.

  “Suppose that you meet a girl, the way you’re meeting me tonight…” He smiled and winked at me. I looked away and continued, “…and suppose that you pay her a few times to ‘be’ with you…”

  “Which reminds me…” he said, pulling a roll of hundred-dollar bills out of his pocket.

  “Thanks,” I said, avoiding his eyes. He placed the money on the table, but I didn’t touch it. I just continued with my speech.

  “But then suppose that one night this guy and this girl share an intimate moment”—Adam chuckled, but I ignored him—“and this girl felt this incredible bond that made her feel…special. It made her feel accepted, it made her feel as if each and every ounce of her body was…loved,” I said fighting a tear.

  “Talking about love…” he said, winking, and pushed the money closer to me.

  “Shhh!” I stopped him. “Let me finish.”

  I carried on with my story. “And suppose that that ‘intimate moment’ was the most loving and erotic experience of her life. But then, when they were done, and she was totally in love with him, and he should be able to see it because it’s written in her eyes—then he goes and pays her. Isn’t that fucked up?”

  “Yeah, I guess…”

  “I thought so,” I said as I poured myself the fourth vodka.

  “So…should we get down to business?” he said, pushing the bills even closer to me.

  “Wait, I have another question,” I continued. “Suppose that this girl that met this guy in this particular situation, has met other men, because she needed to learn that she was attractive in a way that she never could imagine. She needed to see herself through somebody else’s eyes to realize that she was beautiful in her own way. If she confessed something like that to him, would he believe her?”

  “I don’t know,” he said impatiently. “Would you like to come with me to the bedroom and get more comfortable?” he asked.

  “Wait, I have another question.”

  I noticed that he rolled his eyes, but I didn’t care a bit, so I just went on and on.

  “Why is it that sex changes things? Can we look at the person that we had sex with last night without shame? Can we say, ‘I did it because I liked you, because I think you like me too, not because I’m a whore, not because I want to marry you—simply because I like you a lot, and it made sense to have sex with you’? Tell me, Alan…”

  “Adam,” he corrected me.

  “Yeah, Adam, tell me: why do we have to be embarrassed about telling people that we like them? Can’t we just say it without fear of being rejected?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” Adam managed to interject in the middle of my monologue.

  “You don’t have to tell me anything,” I replied as if I were a washed-out drunk. “I’m the one who’s telling you: the world is fucked up.”

  At that precise moment, my red cell phone rang. I dug it out of my bag and noticed that it was a call from Alberto.

  “Give me a second, dear,” I said.

  I answered, but I only heard a crackling noise.

  “The reception is bad in here,” Adam said, “must be all the skyscrapers around.”

  I shrugged, put the phone back in my bag, and took another sip of my fourth little bottle of vodka.

  “Where was I?” And with that I continued talking for a long time. I talked about sex, and dating, and relationships, and anything in between. I caught him checking his watch a couple of times, but since I didn’t care, I just kept going and going, spilling the beans on my situation with Simon.

  I have no idea how much time went by. All I know is that at some point Adam interrupted me. “Excuse me…Are we gonna have sex or not?” he asked, exasperated, placing the stack of bills in front of me.

  How dare he? Couldn’t he see what I was going through? I could have punched this guy in the face then and there, but I was too drunk to actually attempt that. What I did manage to do was take the money and throw it at him.

  “Of course we are not going to have sex! Are you crazy?” I said disgusted. “For your information, I’m a ‘comfort provider,’ not a hooker, you asshole!”

  There was a moment of silence. He looked at me, arching an eyebrow as if sizing me up. That’s when my instincts finally kicked in, warning me that this guy wasn’t just like any other customer. Maybe he was a maniac or a serial killer. I held on to the armrest of my chair to try to get up and leave, or at least to be able to face him on my feet.

  As I got up, Adam bent over to pick up the money that had fallen on the floor, and then he pulled the lapel of his jacket close to his mouth. In an unexcited tone of voice, he then said, “Okay, let’s pull the plug and watch the game.”

  At that precise moment one cop came out of the bedroom, another one came out of the closet, and two female cops came in from the hallway. The shock was so enormous that I sobered up instantly.

  Adam—or whatever his real name was—sat on the couch, lit up a cigarette, and turned on the TV while the two male cops in uniform sat on the sofa.

  “Dude, I was starting to fall asleep back there. How’s the game?” asked the cop who had walked out of the closet.

  “Yanks are up four to three in the top of the seventh.”

  “Could you guys be more fucked up and insensitive?” complained one of the female cops giving them a nasty look. Then, turning to me, she asked tenderly, “Hey, doll face, would you like a coffee?”

  I was still speechless, but somehow I managed to ask, “Are you busting me?”

  “Not tonight!” Adam said, and the guys laughed with him. The second female cop gave me a bottle of water, patted me in the back, and with an honest tone of solidarity said, “I know this is none of my business, but I was listening to your story outside, and I could totally relate. Why don’t you talk to this Simon guy, and explain the whole thing? He’ll understand what happened.”

  “No, stay away from him. He’s an asshole and he ain’t worth your time,” said the first female cop, starting a she-said/-she-said routine.

  “He’s not a psychic! He doesn’t know how she feels about him. He can’t read her mind!” the second one replied, and then, addressing me, she added, “Don’t listen to her. Tell him how you feel. If he understands, he’s the guy for you; if he doesn’t, then he’s not.”

  The first lady cop stepped in again:

  “Listen, doll face, you’re a very handsome woman.”

  “Elaine, do not address the suspect as ‘doll face,’” the second one interrupted.

  “Shut up, Carol! She’s not a suspect anymore,” Elaine replied. “Listen, doll face, no man has the right to treat you like this. Look at you! You are a hot mama! I’m sure there’s tons of men and women after you,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m glad we’re not arresting you, but—what the hell—between you and me, I was kind of looking forward to the frisking.”

  “Elaine, please!” said Carol, frustrated.

  “What?”

  “She’s a lesbian,” Carol explained, lowering her voice.

  “Carol, you don’t have to whisper!”

  “Elaine, this is not the place.”

  “You wouldn’t whisper if I was straight. Why the hell do you have to whisper that I’m a lesbian? I’m loud and proud!” Elaine said, fighting back.

  “Too loud, if you ask me,” said one of the guys, and they all laughed.

  “Ha-ha!” Elaine replied sarcastically. “Very funny, you dickless moron!”

  “Elaine, one of these days y
ou’re going to get busted for harassment.”

  “This is not harassment, I’m just being honest.”

  Adam stepped in.

  “Can you keep down the girl talk? We’re trying to watch a game here!”

  “Shut up, you meathead!” Elaine said to Adam, and then quickly asked, “By the way, who’s winning?”

  The Yankees were still winning. Me, on the other hand, I was feeling like the biggest loser on earth.

  CHAPTER 32

  I don’t want to sound moralistic here, but this is the part of the story where I feel compelled to remind you that you should not try this at home. It’s fun to read about the secret life of escorts, watch the movie, hear the stories, but not everyone can pull it off. That night I learned that I couldn’t. I was just lucky—extremely lucky, to be precise. Maybe I went through this adventure and made it unharmed so I can tell you about it, and you don’t have to do it.

  All I can say is that there’s nothing fun about being arrested, or even almost arrested. If you’ve ever been through anything like it, you know what I’m talking about.

  To make a long story short, they couldn’t prove anything against me, so I was basically free to go. My crime would have been selling sex, but since I refused Adam’s proposal—and threw the money back at him—it became clear that I was selling my time, not my body. Selling time is not a crime; selling sex is.

  One of the positive consequences of the whole adventure was that the lady cops—or the “copettes,” as they called themselves—and I really hit it off. Elaine and Carol had worked together for a few years, but they acted more like a married couple than like simple colleagues.

  The girls offered to give me a ride home, so we left the hotel through the back door and hopped in their patrol. Alberto was probably waiting for me, but I would call him when I got home to avoid getting him involved in this. In the meantime, I took my first ride in a police car while hearing the sentimental advice of my new cop friends.

  “Men have no feelings. They are simply not equipped. That’s why women bear the children,” pronounced Elaine.

  “My God, you are so freaking radical,” said Carol.

  “It’s the truth!” Elaine insisted.

  Giving up on Elaine, Carol turned to me.

  “I had a high-school boyfriend, and I cheated on him with his best friend. It’s been twenty-five years and I still feel guilty about it. You gotta come clean. Do it for yourself,” said Carol with her thick Long Island accent.

  “Are you still thinking about that moron?” Elaine asked her.

  “It’s my life, goddamnit! I have the right to feel guilty about my past if I want to.”

  “You’re a lost cause!” said Elaine, and then, turning to me, she dropped a solid piece of advice: “Doll face, if you were dating a woman you wouldn’t have these problems. Check this out: good sex, artificial insemination, and you double your wardrobe.”

  She made me laugh so hard that I almost forgot all about that traumatic evening.

  “Stop recruiting!” said Carol.

  “Shut up!” said Elaine.

  We arrived at my building, and I thanked them both for their advice. I told them that they were the coolest chicks I had met in a long time, and we even exchanged phone numbers.

  The moment I stepped out of the patrol, my red cell phone rang.

  “Madame?”

  “Look to your right,” she said.

  Alberto’s black limo was parking right across the street from us. Alberto had followed us all the way from the hotel. The window of the backseat rolled down, and Madame, wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses, waved me into the car.

  I was still shaken by the events, but I wasn’t angry with Madame. I couldn’t blame her for this—if anything, she’d tried to dissuade me from going out on this date. I stepped into the car and she hugged me.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay. Alberto saw the police cars downstairs, and we figured out what was going on.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss B. I tried to call you” Alberto apologized.

  “I know, I know,” I said.

  “Did you ask them the safety question?” asked Madame.

  I looked down, embarrassed.

  “I knew that it was a bad idea to send you to a new guy.”

  “I’m an idiot. I put your business at risk,” I apologized.

  “Don’t worry. They’ve been after me for a long time, but they don’t have a case. It’s you that I’m concerned about,” she said, holding my hand.

  “I’m okay. It was a little scary, but I’m fine now. It’s not even worth talking about. But I need to tell you something. I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

  Madame looked me straight in the eye and—without trying to talk me out of it—she simply asked, “Is it because of these stupid cops?”

  “No.”

  “It’s Mr. Five in a Row, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, and started crying. Madame held me like a child in her arms.

  “Why don’t you just talk to him?”

  “No way. He thinks I’m a whore.”

  “A whore!” she said, rolling her eyes. “That is such a stupid word!”

  “But it is the truth! He must think that I’m a cheap, pathetic whore. That I had sex with him just for the money,” I cried.

  “Honey, first of all, this is not about sex, this is about love. And who do you think is more pathetic: someone who charges for love, or someone who has to pay for it?”

  Madame was right—as usual—but I just couldn’t think anymore that night. I kept my head down as I wept. She took my hand with true tenderness and continued.

  “Honey, I don’t know if he thinks that you are a whore, or if he thinks that you are a saint, but I do know that you really like this guy, and he’s dying to talk to you. Let me get out of the way so you two can talk directly and figure it all out.”

  “No,” I said stubbornly. “He should have known.”

  “Should have…could have…I hate those words,” she said.

  No hay peor ciego que el que no quiere ver, we say in Cuba: The worst blind man is the one who doesn’t want to see. In this case, the worst deaf woman was the one who didn’t want to hear. And that was me.

  “All I can tell you,” added Madame, “is that, if you feel so strongly about him, he’s one lucky guy.”

  “Please don’t tell him anything,” I whispered.

  “I won’t.”

  “Swear?” I asked.

  “Over my children.”

  I gave her a long, deep hug and left the car.

  I took two steps into the street before I turned around to ask her one last question.

  “Madame, do you have any children?”

  But she couldn’t hear me, because the car had left and was about to turn the corner.

  CHAPTER 33

  The day after my “bust” was a Sunday, and—surprisingly—I woke up serene, almost in a good mood. I decided to call Lillian, and invite her out for brunch down in the Village.

  We strolled down the street, chatting about anything, until we got to my favorite vegetarian restaurant. I actually eat meat, but I love this place because they make the best pancakes, and they have real maple syrup.

  Once we ordered the food, we sat quietly for a minute until Lillian broke the silence.

  “B…I wanted to tell you something…”

  “Wait, before you do, I want to tell you something.”

  She looked at me suspiciously. “Are you going to apologize to me?”

  “Maybe…Why? Were you going to apologize to me first?”

  We cracked up. Turned out we were both planning to say sorry to each other.

  “I know I’m self-centered and narcissistic,” Lillian began, “but I don’t do it with malice, I swear. I love you, and I love hanging out with you. Not because I consider you my sidekick, but because you are smart, and funny, and way more courageous than I am.”

  “Shit, Lil—you’re gonna make me cry.”

&nb
sp; “Oh, shut up! Go ahead, now! It’s your turn!”

  “I’m…very, very sorry. I’m a loudmouth, and I speak before I think. I didn’t mean to hurt you with the things I said the other day. I was just afraid that you could be right…and, sure enough, you were…”

  “What?” she screamed.

  “I’m not going to tell you all the details of the last forty-eight hours, but I promise that I will, as soon as I feel a little stronger. What I want you to know is that I’m not working with Madame anymore.”

  Lillian took a deep breath of relief.

  “Well, one thing I can tell you,” Lillian said, “is that you got a sparkle when you started your part-time job, but it’s turned into a less flashy, more solid glow now.”

  “Gee…thanks,” I said, knowing that she was somehow right.

  “Do they sell wine here? We still have to toast your promotion!”

  We got a couple of glasses of sulfite-free wine and toasted to my success.

  “So what are you going to do now that you have Bonnie by the balls?” Lillian asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, looking away, embarrassed. Lillian thought that I was promoted because of the UK Charms slogan. She didn’t know anything about the bathroom recordings, and how I’d blackmailed Bonnie. It’s true, I deserved that promotion, but I wasn’t proud of the way I got it, and that was a sign—a sign that there was a pea under my tower of mattresses. The next morning I would have to go back to work and—though I had a better title and a window office—I would still be working for Bonnie, and I wouldn’t be any better than she was.

  Film Forum, an art-house theater in my neighborhood, was playing a restored version of Juliet of the Spirits, another Fellini movie. I dragged Lil to watch it with me, and though she fell asleep halfway into it, I loved every frame of it. Obviously, the movie made me think of Simon, but—I don’t know why—I wasn’t hurting so bad anymore.

  I went home after the movie and found a couple of messages on my answering machine from headhunters who’d heard about my promotion and wanted to congratulate me and ask me if I was interested in offers from other agencies. How the hell did they figure this out and get my home number so fast? I immediately thought that Mary Pringle had been spreading the good news in the advertising world. I love that woman.