A 21st Century Courtesan

by Eden Bradley

  I roll my program up in my hands, my fingers tightening around the glossy paper as I look around the auditorium. Why can't I calm down?

  Finally, he turns to me and asks, “Are you waiting for someone?”

  “No. My friend had to cancel.”

  “Ah, mine did, too. Well, my mother, not my friend.”

  “Oh.” I don't know what else to say. I can always talk to men. It's my job to talk to men. Among other things. What on earth is wrong with me?

  “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude,” he says, mistaking my tied tongue for offense.

  “Oh, no, it's fine. I'm sorry, I was … distracted. It's lovely that you come to the opera with your mother.”

  “She loves the opera. I've learned to enjoy it, although it's taken years. But I like ha Traviata. I like the tragedy of it.”

  “Most operas are tragic,” I say.

  “Yes, but no one does tragedy like the Italians.”

  I smile. “True. Unless it's the French.”

  We sit quietly for a moment, and that's when I notice he's looking right at me. I don't mean that in any sort of romantic terms. But I'm used to men seeing me as an object. That doesn't offend me. It's a requirement of my occupation. But when a man really looks at me, sees me, I notice.

  This man is obviously far too nice a guy to be talking to a woman like me. Not that my clients aren't good people. But this nice man thinks he's flirting with a nice woman. If he only knew.

  But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it, does it? Just an evening of innocent flirtation. It's fun being a bit of a tease now and then, something I rarely get to do. When you get paid for sex, everyone knows up front what you're there for, even when a client simply wants me to be arm candy at an event. Of course, even those evenings usually end in sex. It's far too easy for the guy. I'm right there, paid in full. Why wouldn't he want to have sex with me? Or a quick blow job in the car, at the very least. I am every bit as good at being a companion as I am at sex. But it's nice to play at it for a little while. To simply be myself, to savor this sort of attention.

  The house lights dim, go dark, and the orchestra begins. I let the music wash over me, trying to ignore this man seated only inches away. This man who I have no business flirting with.

  The opera is wonderful, the woman singing the part of Violetta is beautiful and incredibly talented, a lovely, pure soprano. But I'm unable to become lost in the story. I am much too aware of his scent, his presence. I swear I can feel the heat emanating from him like an invitation.

  I glance over at him, looking for a moment too long, and he turns and smiles at me.

  I look away, flustered now. Embarrassed.

  When was the last time a man managed to fluster me?

  I force myself to focus on the music, on the costumes. It really is a wonderful production, the sets colorful, dynamic, the costumes gorgeous. And the singing is superb.

  Hours later, or so it seems, the lights come up. Intermission. God, I need a drink. I rise quickly and make my way to the lobby bar.

  It's crowded, as it always is during the intermission. Voices, laughter, mingled with the clink of ice in glasses, the flash of jewelry. I look around, scanning the crowd. I realize that I'm looking for him.

  I realize that I have turned into some sort of foolish schoolgirl. I shake my head in disgust.

  A voice just over my shoulder. His voice.

  “It's impossible to elbow your way to the front at these things, isn't it? Let me order a drink for you.”

  “Oh, no, that's not necessary.”

  His gaze catches mine. I can see flecks of green and gold in his eyes in the bright lights of the lobby. He's taller than I'd thought.

  “I'd like to buy you a drink.”

  I feel momentarily stunned. Whatever is wrong with me? “Well. Alright. I'd appreciate it. A Tanqueray and tonic.”

  “Don't go anywhere,” he says, giving me a wink.

  I watch as he makes his way to the bar, shifting into the crowd. Utterly confident. Polite. Graceful.

  There is a certain kind of man who moves that way. Men of power. Men who are entirely assured of themselves. A small shiver runs through me.

  He returns in only a few minutes, handing me the drink and a paper napkin. I notice he's drinking scotch on the rocks. I can smell it, a nice blend.

  “Thank you. I'm Valentine Day, by the way,” I tell him, giving him my full name. My clients know me only as Val. Only Enzo gets to call me Valentine. Only Enzo knows my last name. But my name is mine. I have to draw the line somewhere.

  He takes my hand in his. “I'm Joshua Spencer.”

  A current flashes up my arm, shafting deep into my body. Heat. Desire. I pull my hand back, trying not to do it too quickly, trying not to appear rude.

  “So,” I ask, pausing to sip my drink, covering my discomfort, “what do you do besides taking your mother to the opera?”

  “Professionally? As in ‘what do you do’?”

  He's grinning, but there's nothing mocking in it; he's just being nice.

  “Professionally, personally. Whatever you'd like to tell me.”

  “My job is fairly boring. I'm in real estate development. A family business.”

  “I don't think that's boring at all.”

  He shrugs. He has the broad shoulders of an athlete. Nice. “It doesn't make for exciting discussion unless you're also in real estate. Are you?”

  I can see he's teasing me, but I like it. “No. I'm definitely not in real estate.”

  “Ah, good. Because I really hate to talk about work.”

  “Tell me something else, then.”

  “Something else?” He pauses. “I play hockey twice a week. I'm on a team. I run sometimes in the mornings. I don't have time for much else. The occasional play. Or the opera with my mother. Or without my mother, as the case may be.” He flashes a boyish grin. “And I love art. I like to go to the Getty at least once every couple of months. I'll see whatever's there.”

  “I love the Getty.”

  He steps closer, his voice lowering, as though we're having a private conversation. Perhaps we are. Another shiver runs up my spine, long and slow and warm. Exactly as I imagine his touch would be.

  He says, “Let me guess. You like the Impressionists. Paintings from the more romantic eras.”

  “I do like the Impressionists, especially those who came into the game a little later. But I'll admit what I really love are the Neoclassicists. Leighton, Alma-Tadema, Collier. Waterhouse, of course.”

  “Ah, but still romantic.” He gestures with his drink, then takes a sip. I watch the muscles in his throat work as he swallows.

  I smile. “Yes, I suppose they are. But I'm afraid my taste in art isn't very sophisticated. I like it to be pretty.”

  “A feminine trait. Not necessarily a bad one.”

  He moves in a step closer, a few inches, really. But I feel as though we are in our own bubble, apart from the crowd around us.

  “What about you? I'd guess you like something completely masculine, the more modern artists. Pollack? de Kooning?”

  “Actually, I prefer the surrealists. Hockney. Dalí.”

  I nod my head. I love a man who knows art; it really makes me swoon. Or maybe it's just him?

  “So, what do you do for work, Valentine?”

  I freeze for a moment. I have a few standard answers I use in order to sidestep this question. But suddenly my mind is a blank. The lies won't leave my mouth. I lift my drink, take a long swallow, letting the gin go to work, loosening my insides. I still have no idea what to say.

  The house lights flash.

  “Time to go back in,” he says. “Let me get rid of these glasses.”

  He takes mine, holding it between his fingers along with his, brings them to the rapidly emptying bar while I stand there, feeling a bit lost. Then he's back at my side, his hand going to the small of my back as he guides me through the theater doors.

  His palm is warm through the thin silk of my dress. A
nd my sex is going so damp from this nearly innocent touch, I'm almost afraid to sit down. To try to hold still for another hour or more, next to him in the dark.

  I manage to do it. But the entire time I am more aware than ever of his tall, muscular body next to mine. I don't dare to look at him. I don't have to. I can feel him. And I'm soaked the entire time.

  Torture.

  When the show is over we stand and I feel awkward again. Do I simply leave and say good-bye?

  “Did you drive?” he asks.

  “I took a cab.”

  “Let me find one for you.”

  His hand at my waist again as we walk out of the theater. I can hardly stand for him to touch me. To touch me but not touch me.

  At the curb he waves a taxi down.

  “I won't be so rude as to ask for your address, so you'll have to tell the driver where you're going. But I hope you'll call me.”

  He pulls a business card from his pocket and slips it into my hand, grasping it with his fingers for a moment. He's looking into my eyes, and even in the dark I swear I can see a dim green and gold glow in his. He is too beautiful, this man.

  I want him to kiss me. I want to pull him into the cab with me. I want to take him home and fuck him. But I do none of this.

  “Thank you for the drink. And for the conversation.”

  He gives my fingers a final squeeze. “It was my pleasure. Call me, Valentine.”

  I smile, nod, and he hands me into the cab. He shuts the door, and I give one last shiver.

  The cab pulls into the night, and we are immediately stuck in traffic. I don't dare look behind me to see if he is standing there.

  Joshua.

  I clear my throat, smooth a hand over my hair. His card is in the other hand. I should tear it up. Toss it out the window. But instead I slip it into my bag. I can throw it away later. That's exactly what I should do. Anything else would be ridiculous. Unrealistic. And life has taught me to be realistic. I am the poster child for accepting reality, no matter how ugly. It's this beautiful, nice man who's thrown me off balance.

  I know what I should do. But I close my purse, my fingers tightening on the metal clasp, as though I am still holding the card in my hand. As though I really can call him tomorrow, go on a date. One in which I don't get paid.

  I'm not the sort of woman who can afford to indulge in this kind of fantasy. I will toss the card the moment I get home.

  Won't I?

  Chapter Two

  I LET MYSELF INTO my house, the heavy wood door swinging shut behind me. The moment my feet hit the small rug in the entry hall I step out of my gold stiletto heels, curling my toes, enjoying the warm flow of blood. I love the way my legs look in a good stiletto, but they hurt like hell.

  I flip on lights as I make my way down the short hall and into the living room, flopping onto the long dark-brown leather sofa and lying back against the Indian and Moroccan pillows piled there.

  I love this house. It's a big Spanish style with an open floor plan that makes me feel like I can breathe. So different from the oppressive environment I grew up in. But I don't want to think about that now. No, now I just want to enjoy my house.

  I've been decorating for the last four years, ever since I bought the place. It's my favorite thing to do. Besides sex. I love picking out individual pieces. Exotic imports are my favorite; I have a lot of heavy, carved pieces from India, Spain, Southeast Asia. My artwork is a mix of those same ethnic cultures and a few pieces from Japan. I love the stark esthetics of modern Japanese art; it's soothing. And all the dark, rich colors put together feel homey to me. I adore the exotic fabrics of these countries: the embroidery and damask, the dark, earthy tones mixed with bolder accents. And then there's my collection of orchids.

  I know, I hardly seem the type. But there's something special about orchids. They seem so fragile, but they're stronger than they look. I can't help but admire that. And they look like the darkest, loveliest part of a woman. I'm not the first person to make the comparison.

  A small collection of orchids sit on the window seat built into the wall of windows facing west, into the hillside, so they don't get too much sun. I have a particular fondness for the white varieties, but I have some in shades of purple, from pale lilac to deep amethyst.

  But enough about my flowers, my house. What I really want to think about is Joshua Spencer. I eye my satin bag, sitting on the table in the entry hall. My fingers itch to take that card out. To feel the papery smoothness between my fingers. To dream of the impossible.

  Because being with a man like him, being with any man when it's not a business arrangement, is entirely out of the question. These things do not happen to girls in my industry. And I've been in it far too long to delude myself.

  Almost ten years. Has it really been that long? I was barely twenty when Enzo found me, and thirty is on the horizon. I suppose I should retire someday. But not yet. No, retiring now would mean giving up the only sexual satisfaction I can attain. Why would I even consider doing that?

  Because maybe then I could have a normal life, a small voice tells me. But no, not me. I will never be normal, whatever that is.

  I'm brooding now. I hate when I get like this.

  I get up and pad across the cool floors into the kitchen. Pale red granite on the counters, brass pots shining on hooks over the sink, a few more of my precious orchids on the windowsill. It's a great kitchen. Too bad I work so often at night; I love to cook. I love to experiment with Thai dishes, delicate French sauces. But right now all I want is another drink.

  I pull the gin out, a glass, some mixer. The ice cubes hit the side of the glass, the sound seeming to echo in my quiet house. I don't mind. I like the peace. I mix the drink, take a long sip, then another.

  I don't like myself when I drink. It makes me feel pathetic. But I need it tonight. All these broody thoughts. All because of him.

  I am suddenly questioning myself. Just because I want a man. But it's more than mere want. No, it's not wanting in the usual way. It's this ridiculous yearning, craving, that won't let me go. My body is stirred with desire.

  I take another gulp of the gin. No use in giving in to this kind of desire. Not even here by myself. It never works.

  Damn it.

  Throwing back the rest of the drink, I feel the alcohol buzz into my system, and head toward the bedroom.

  Just get to bed. Forget about him.

  I unzip my dress and wriggle out of it, hang it in the closet. Naked, I reach into my nightstand drawer and pull out a gummi bear from a plastic bag I keep there. Silly, I know, but this has been my bedtime comfort since I was a kid. I pop it into my mouth as I crawl into the big carved four-poster bed from Indonesia, beneath the heavy silk duvet cover done in shades of pale blue and deep chocolate brown. Soothing colors. But as I lay there in the dark, I don't feel soothed. Even the gin hasn't done its job. And I'm not enough of a drinker to get up and have some more. Not after growing up with my mother.

  Shit, I really do not want to think about her right now. No, better to think about Joshua Spencer. About what I can't have. Makes it all the more tempting, doesn't it?

  He's tempting enough all on his own. Those eyes, like amber flecked with malachite and silver. He has long, dark lashes. Lashes any girl would love to have. It's the one thing about his face which looks completely innocent. The rest is all rugged bone structure, and that lush mouth that looks too purely sexual to be at all pure.

  Just thinking about him is making me hot all over, my nipples going taut, my sex damp. I squeeze my legs together beneath the weight of the covers. It doesn't help.

  What would his skin taste like beneath my tongue? What would his cock look like, feel like in my hand? In my mouth?

  I take in a deep breath and imagine his scent on the air. And I'm absolutely drenched now, the naked lips of my sex swollen and needy when I brush my fingertips over them.

  I really do need another drink.

  Instead, I roll over and reach into the drawer o
f my night-stand, pull out the big, phallic vibrator my friends Regan and Rosalyn gave me for my last birthday. I rarely use it. It's of very little use to me. But I need something, need it badly enough to try.

  I lie back on my pillows, switch it on, and lower it between my thighs. And in my mind is Joshua Spencer's face.

  I can feel the buzz of the vibrator as I touch it to my aching clit, and there is that lovely, momentary shock of pleasure. But as soon as I feel it, it's gone.

  No.

  Think of him. Joshua.

  Imagine what he'd look like without his shirt on: strong pecs, arms heavily muscled from playing hockey. Washboard abs.

  I lick my lips, try the vibrator again. And once more, that one delicious moment before it dissipates.

  Concentrate.

  His pants have to come next, revealing strong thighs. And in between them, his beautifully erect cock. Yes, now my mouth is watering. Smooth golden skin, the purple head glistening with pre-come. And I take him into my mouth, the swollen head hitting the back of my throat, the scent of him, of desire, filling my mind.

  I run the vibrator over my clitoris once more, savor the thrill of sensation, the image of Joshua's cock going down my throat, sucking him, hearing him moan. But that's not where I need him most.

  Moving the big vibrator farther down, I part my thighs as if for a lover. I'm so damn wet I don't need any lube. As wet as though there was a pile of cash on the night table, waiting for me. Oh, yes, my pussy gives a hard squeeze at the thought.

  Joshua.

  Yes, think of Joshua …

  Think of him entering me, his cock slipping inside as I spread a little wider to take the tip of the vibrating shaft into me. A shiver of sensation, the low thrumming buzz of the pink, plastic machine. I angle to hit my G-spot, and another shock of pleasure shafts deep into my system.

  Oh, yes …

  Joshua …

  His face, his fine hands. I'd looked at them at the opera. He has big hands, beautiful skin, yet a real man's hands. Strong looking.

  Oh, yes, touch me … fuck me.

  I plunge the plastic shaft deeper, and the vibration is really starting to get to me. I pump my hips, thrust it deeper, using the heel of my hand to press onto my hard clit.