I hang up the phone and go about my day, instantly discarding the information Mother volunteered.
~~~
I get in around six this morning, after a night of partying with Sis at The Spotlight, one of the hipper clubs in town. For a few seconds, my thoughts venture to Vicki and her encounter with this fellow H earlier at the club. Too tired to wreck my brain about another thing, I hit the sack and fall asleep within minutes.
~~~
Around 15:00 Uhr this Sunday afternoon, the phone rings. Blundering into the room like a groundhog that sees light for the first time after a long hibernation, I search for the receiver. Upon finding it, I listlessly pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Ich bin’s, Vic. Are you awake yet?”
“Sort of. What’s up?”
“Remember that guy H from last night?”
Oh, no. Here we go…
(Not long before Vicki moved to town, I had a run-in with this H fellow at the discotheque. It was brought to my attention then that he was bad news.)
“What about him?”
“I think I am in love. He’s super nice.”
“That guy is trouble, but I guess you make your own decisions. Just be careful, okay?”
“I can look after myself. We are actually going out to dinner tonight.”
“Okay. I have to go right now. Take care.”
Today, two weeks after Vic and I last spoke, she proudly announces that she eloped with H.
“Do you know what he does for a living?” I ask.
“Yeah. He told me.”
“Does he ask you to make money for him?”
“He is really good to me, even bought me a puppy. I really don’t mind bringing in the dough. It enables us to have a very nice life. I know he loves me. He carries me on hands.”
A thousand words sit on the tip of my tongue. But knowing the pointlessness of arguing with stubborn Sissy and hardly being able to keep my own affairs in check, I keep it zipped.
I’ve Got the Power
I am sitting in the office catching myself counting the minutes to when I can finally go on my first break. The moment the pointer on the clock hits nine, I jimmy over to the corner store and buy a bunch of candy that I wolf down on my way back to the firm. The sugar instantly lifts my spirit. But a stinging restlessness tackles me again as soon as I return to my desk, now strongly pining for lunch recess to arrive. Franz, the head of the technology department, pops into my awareness. I remember the tickly sweet feeling that surged through me at the times he flirted with me in the past. Something about his mature sophisticated nature intrigues me, although if I had met him somewhere else, I would have not spared him a glance. Now that Franz is on my mind, the boring task of filing paperwork does not look so insurmountable anymore.
Ragelina: He’s got a girlfriend, but that shouldn’t be a hindrance because men are all pussy-whipped bastards anyway.
Armed with a bunch of folders, I venture over to the other side of the complex. Sweaty palmed, I turn the doorknob of the squeaking glass door that leads into his division. He spots me within a second. I see him nod his head “hello” with beaming countenance, while he meets me half way. We exchange a few insignificant words before he offers to escort me to the elevator. As we stroll along the corridor, my anticipation for him to say something I can work with grows. He must have read my mind because out of his mouth comes, “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”
“That sounds neat. What time shall we meet?”
“How about eight?”
“Super.”
He insists on picking me up.
Ragelina: If he ends up in my bed, it’s just one more piece of proof that all males are suckers, and that I definitely have got the power.
Hot Shot: It sure is something to watch a man set aside his labels, titles, morals and values, seeing his power drain, and mine increase, especially when he goes to the length of sneaking around his woman’s back just to freak me for a few minutes.
Avengelia: It makes this endeavor all the more worth pursuing.
Franz shows up at 20:00 Uhr and takes me to a reputable Chinese restaurant near my house. After dinner, we mosey over to my place. Counting on his middle age experience, Fantasia swears that he is going to show me a thing or two, but he falls short on that expectation.
Hot Shot: I can’t wait for him to leave.
“Come back to bed, and let’s cuddle for a while,” he asserts. I’m standing by the dresser, stressing about the fastest possible way of getting rid of him.
With great diplomacy, I tell him that I forgot about an engagement I needed to honor. Thankfully, he gets the message and takes off. Feeling hollow like a tomb, I perform a silent square dance around my grave inside my mind.
Abducted
I am scrubbing and mopping floors at my newly-acquired after-hour job at a law office in downtown. Frustrated, and exhausted from a full day at my secretarial job, I put the mop down and let my mind fade.
Hot Shot: I look hideous…and have you ever seen a hottie like me clean toilets? I’ll never become a model if I keep this crap up.
By the time I get done cleaning, it is clear that second-best, low paying jobs are better had for other people.
Today, the recurring pain of dwindling funds drives me to pick up a newspaper. I impatiently flip through the pages. “Escorts sought,” it says in bold letters. My eyes move across it a few more times, asking myself repeatedly “What exactly do escorts do?”
Hot Shot: It can’t be as simple as accompanying someone to a party or an event, can it? I certainly won’t sleep with a bunch of horny perverts who can’t get a woman any other way.
Disgusted, I put the paper down.
~~~
Several weeks go by. At 11 Uhr, the phone rings at my office desk.
“Hey, Sis. I need to see you right away. Can I drop by?” I hear Vicki’s voice sounding panic-stricken.
“What’s up?”
“Ahh, it’s H. Can you safe-keep some money for me again? Pleeease?”
“I suppose so. But you got to be here within the hour.”
“See you momentarily. Thanks.”
She slams the phone down. Thirty minutes later, she sits across from me, crying. “I really need you to do this for me one more time,” she sniffles.
“Fine. I’ll hold the dough. But that’s it. Be careful, alright?” I tell her before she leaves the office.
I worry about her. But I can barely see the forest for the trees myself, and therefore, I shove any and all feelings under the nearest rug. As I count the cash inside the envelope, intense emotions overcome me.
Big Shot Mama: How stupid am I, slaving away at this 1,800 Mark a month salary job that gets me nowhere?
Whip Cracker: You better believe it. Your Sis understands how it’s done. Look at your pitiful self, sitting in this life-draining office five days a week, unhappy, unloved with no fun, not able to afford shit.
Tough Gal: Shut up. You are a mad man. I am not going to listen to you.
Whip Cracker: Losers won’t make it in this town. You are going to die if you don’t wake up and go where some real money can be made.
Tough Gal: Fuck off.
Whip Cracker: Let’s face it. You are only good for taking care of a man’s cock. You fucked two guys for money, so you tell me, where that does not already make you a whore? Besides, even your parents will sell you out in a heartbeat. Believe me, they can care less if you become a hooker; otherwise, they would not have introduced Vicki to that shady place their friends run. So what’s to lose?
Tough Gal: Go to hell. I mean it. Oh, I forgot…you live there.
Scaredy Cat: But, but…the checking account is hugely overdrawn without a chance of improvement; bills and rent are way overdue; the city threatened to cut off the utilities; there is barely any money left for food. Going dancing to find relief from the misery is out of the question.
Doubt Cloud: Furthermore, you can’t pay the dentist co-pays and nee
d to let go of the gym membership. You have no friends, no man who loves you, you hate yourself, and even if you wanted to, there isn’t enough cash to start from scratch anywhere else.
Scaredy Cat: The only measly choice left seems to be moving back in with the “adults”.
I see myself in the middle of a burning building, flames engulfing me. The blazing inferno tears off the roof while I stand paralyzed, unable to move a finger. Cinders fly by my head, missing me by only inches. I stare deathly into nowhere, abide in place, even as extreme heat singes my skin and thick black smoke pierces my lungs. I scream, wave my hands above my head: “Mayday, mayday,” but no one rushes to my aid. I know I must jump from the window this instant, if I want to survive.
“Help, somebody, please help!” Nothing—so I leap.
“This patient will be taken off the respirator in exactly five minutes,” I hear a woman in white announce.
Something promises that, if I lie to myself, lie to the world, I will live. Whip Cracker’s idea of servicing several men in a twenty-four hour period, instead of one once in a while, suddenly makes a whole lot of sense. I figure, if I work escort the entire weekend and quit Sunday night, I will return to the office on Monday morning, not having missed a single beat. I come to…a new hope calming me.
CHAPTER 7
The Other World
The agency on the south side of town, run by a couple in their fifties, welcomes me with open arms. I hand the guy with the slick hairdo a bunch of modeling shots, which he adds right away to the Album of Drugs for hire. This is the book a client looks through to select the drug or person, if you may, that promises the best payoff and the longest action. The proprietor of the establishment describes in vague terms what is expected of me, although conveniently leaving out the detail of it being in my best interest to have sex with the customers if I want to last in the business. Capable of reading between the lines, I leave it at that.
On my way out, the owner’s partner, a woman with flaming red hair, hands me a paging device. The gizmo goes off as soon as I approach the subway station. Scaredy Cat, shaking incessantly, begs me not to go through with it. I coldly brush her off. Not to brag or anything, but it appears that gals in their early twenties are in high demand tonight because when calling into the agency, I am told that the rest of my day is already solidly booked.
The first assignment brings me to a man’s personal residence. I draw a bit of a blank around the specifics of this visit, but I do remember getting in and out of his place in less than thirty minutes.
The next engagement yet leaves a more lasting impression, as I show up at a five-star hotel in midtown to make two Saudi Arabian men happy, Mustafa, and his friend. After enjoying excellent room service, munching on the best appetizers the house has to offer, I spend the next couple of hours in two different tracts of the gigantic suite, hanging out with one guy at a time. During sex, both of them hit me up for rectal action. I do my best to accommodate the mighty painful intrusion for several minutes, but daunting concerns that the rubber might split and reaching the limit of what I find bearable has me reverting to less invasive methods for delivering the men their payoff.
Seeing a thousand dollars for a few hours of work drop into my purse hooks me in. Could it be that this is how hookers got their name? Because they get hooked on the money? Hmmm?
Whip Cracker: Now that you are broken in, things should go a lot smoother.
Monday morning approaches. My initial focus shifts to the pain that is coming from the tissue around my thighs and vagina. I feel jet-lagged, subdued by an encompassing fatigue that is keeping me glued to the sheet. I pick up the phone and tell the human resources clerk at the environmental company that I got a real bad case of the flu and that I will not be in for the next seven days.
I make myself available day and night this week. Aside from sheiks, their friends, and rich businessmen, I cater to all sorts of characters, creepy or not, as long as they are able to afford the fee. Aware that horniness never takes a holiday, I put the beeper next to my face when going to bed every night.
Most of my bookings lead me to hotels or johns’ private residences. Some men prefer coming to my place, which I hate. But the fact that I cannot say “no” to money gets me to adjust to even that in record time. Some tricks are content with using my body for just a few minutes, ejaculate, and go about their usual business. Others expect a set of events to transpire, like dinner or dancing, before and after screwing me, and sometimes between segments. My favorite assignments are the ones where the guy only wants to talk or jack himself off while I watch. But unfortunately, that only happens on rare occasions. So do the requests to escort someone to an event to piss off an ex-girlfriend.
Then there are those men who get so excited they come the minute I start unbuttoning my blouse, not having any physical interaction with me whatsoever. This type of assignment often leaves me to be out of there right after “Hello.”
A peculiar thorn in Ragelina’s eye are the johns who are impolite, ugly, unclean, or pester me with solicitations so bizarre that the encounters evoke ideas of going homicidal on them.
~~~
It being Thursday already, I got three more days to think about whether I should keep my day job at the office or make escorting a full-time occupation. Ironically at this moment, the agency calls asking if I can commit to four days in Paris in the coming week to party with Mustafa, the one I catered to in the very beginning while he was here on business. They tell me, he and several of his Saudi friends are looking forward to seeing me.
Big Shot Mama: Paris? What’s there to think about?
Determined to no longer stand in my own way of creating financial security, especially now that I have sunken to the bottom of the pit, I do not see how I can let this fabulous opportunity fall by the wayside. Besides, I have not had a vacation in years. Just thinking about my flesh’s potential moneymaking capabilities inflates me with super happiness.
Big Shot Mama: If I play my cards right, this body of mine can make me rich.
Tough Gal: Yeah, but on the flipside you have to answer to the head of the demon department.
Big Shot Mama: I am willing to give that a fair try.
Triumphantly, I tell my boss at the office this morning that she has seen the last of me. Now that my soul is no longer mine, Whip Cracker promises that there are great things in store for me. And so, Paris, here I come.
Arabian Nights
Paris, France – Mid 1980’s
The plane finally leaves the thick dreary cloud cover behind. Curiously, I put my nose up to the window glass for last glimpses of a now fully formed city. Ahhh…PAREEEE - Mecca of Couture and Amour. Amour, amour, amour. Excited, yet disappointed in its lack of glamour from the air, I let my eyes wander across the canvass for another minute.
Whip Cracker: You better strike that word ‘amour’ from your vocabulary unless you are referring to the other kind. In case you forgot, you are NOT here to fall in love. Are we clear?
Ja, ja…well aware.
For all I know, I am not even here to represent the human race really or largely mingle with it. Nope. I am here to make a delivery, a special, feverishly anticipated delivery—one that effortlessly passes through even the toughest inspections. Highly-trained sniffing hounds or not, no one can see or smell me for what I am, nor is anyone aware of my havoc-reaping potential, not even I.
Dear John:
I’ll soon be there to make you lose touch with reality, to induce you with the high you so desperately crave. The fact that you chose ME as your favorite drug of choice over all the other women, picked ME to be the star of your world, instills in me the feeling of importance, of being somebody. And although I know that, no matter how I look at it, in the end, I’ll still remain a whore, I’d rather have it this way any time than enduring the agony of waking up to another day of feeling like a Nobody.
But, please…don’t let this go to your head…I don’t enjoy your presence, nor do I like partakin
g in the duties of my job. Make-believe is my business; that is all it is—an act to assure that the transaction of flesh for money goes over as smoothly as possible.
Shall we?
Signed: Escort #27
After a few dramatic drops in altitude, the jumbo jet touches down at Charles De Gaulle airport. My watch shows eleven upon boarding the cab. “Hotel Du Jour, s’il vous plais,” I instruct the driver in broken French. Much to my relief, he remains mute because I sure as heck wouldn’t know how to carry on a conversation in the first place. I sit back and stare outside, my eyes closely following the day-to-day hustle of Parisian streets. I think about how much I dread this mission, although in some distorted sense I feel strangely elated.
My thoughts drift to segments of childhood family vacations, times when the “adults,” Vicki, and I toured some of these very roads. I can still see Sis and me emerging from the cozy comforter that covered us while kicking it on the spacey flat surface in back of the Volvo station wagon. I see us leaning out the window, gawking in amazement at the awe-inspiring scenery. This time around though, I can’t help but wonder…where the hell has all the magic gone?
Reaching my destination instantly kills further chances for reminiscing because Mustafa greets me with a shy smile inside the pompous foyer.
Everything inside me revolts against going further, yet hearing Whip Cracker mumble that I must finish what I started, I step to the edge of the cliff inside my mind and jump. Coming to, about a split second later, I brush myself off and place a kiss on the Saudi’s cheek, latching my arm under his. We walk down the quiet corridor that leads to his five-star galaxy suite. We enter. I excuse myself and hurry into the baroquely decorated washroom.
Romy: I hate you.
I ignore her. I must. Once I finish freshening up, I join the Arab in his bedroom. After relieving him of his sexual urges, we get ready for dinner. Mustafa introduces me to Mina and Lena, a couple friendly girls from Holland who’ve also been flown in to up the fleet of party drugs.
Dealing Flesh Page 7
