A 21st Century Courtesan

by Eden Bradley

  In moments he tenses, and I swear I can feel his cock pulsing inside of me as he cries out, shudders.

  We are covered in sweat, the scent of sex heavy in the air. Like some lovely, intoxicating perfume.

  He rolls off me, and we lie on our sides again, facing each other, both of us trying to catch our breath. His hand goes to my face, traces my cheek.

  “I'll feed you now, I promise.”

  He smiles, dazzling my already dazed brain.

  “Alright.” I slide a hand over his shoulder, his chest, loving his silken skin on my palm. Does any other man have skin like his?

  I know I need to eat. But all I want to do is kiss him. Touch him. I am obsessed. Reaching up, I trace the scar on his lower lip. Such a contrast to the lush flesh there.

  “How did you get this, Joshua? Let me guess; it was something innocent. A bicycle accident when you were eight.”

  “Why would you say it had to be something innocent?”

  “There's something a bit innocent about you. Even about this scar.” I touch it once more, feel the texture beneath my fingertip.

  He grins. “Oh, you think so? You have no idea how funny that is to me. To anyone who really knows me.”

  “Then tell me what's not so innocent about you. Let me know you. Tell me how you got your scar.”

  He shrugs one shoulder. “In a bar fight when I was eighteen.”

  “Really?” Why does this surprise me so much? Why does the idea turn me on?

  “It was a stupid college thing. Classic young, angry guy. That was before I realized I didn't have much to be angry about. I was still young enough to think the world owed me.”

  “What else? What else about your life is less than innocent?”

  He pauses, silent for several moments. Then, “When Dad died I took off and went to Europe. And I don't mean the usual tour of Paris, London. I wanted to explore the underbelly.” He pauses, runs a finger over my jaw. He's not really looking at me now. “It was a bad time for me. I went to Prague and drank absinthe until I puked. In Berlin I drank whatever was available, whatever they had in the clubs. Berlin is a hard place. I drank with strangers who stole my wallet while I was passed out cold on the floor of some girl's apartment. Who knows, maybe it was the girl who stole it. I went to Amsterdam and smoked hash. I went to the red light district and bought hookers.”

  I clench my teeth against the gasp that wants to come out.

  I look up and he's focused on me once more, watching me very carefully. I nod for him to continue. “Go on.”

  “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  I need to hear it, maybe.

  “I didn't go to the shiny girls in the windows. I looked for the cheap ones, but not because of the money. I sought out the pale girls all strung out on heroin, and let me tell you, there were a lot of them. That's what finally got me. That's when I realized I'd worked off enough anger, when I saw these girls for what they really were. How fucking sad it all was.

  “I went home. Went back to make a life for myself. To take responsibility for myself. To be a man. But I stopped off in San Francisco first and got my tattoo.”

  He pauses, and I touch the dark lines on his biceps.

  “Creating your own life,” I murmur.

  “Yes. It's all about choice. I could have chosen to be that pissed-off guy, wasting my life because I felt helpless over my father's death. Over the sense of responsibility I felt to be the man of the family at only twenty. Or not. I realized that.”

  “And you stepped up, took care of the family, the business.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Do you ever regret that?”

  “No. Not for a minute. But I also know I had to go through that, had to be that pissed-off guy. And it was probably better that I did it in Europe instead of in front of my mother, my sister. Most of it, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Europe didn't cure me. It helped. But I still had issues to work out. Stuff I've been working on since then. Making that choice was only the beginning. I have to keep reminding myself.”

  He glances away, gazing past my shoulder.

  I touch his arm. “Joshua?”

  It's several moments before he brings his eyes back to mine.

  “I should tell you something, Valentine.”

  “Tell me anything.”

  He's watching me, smoothing his thumb along my jaw. Then, “I've spent most of my adult life running. From my father's death. From that sudden responsibility I had to take on too young. From my own expectations.”

  “But you've been there, working. I don't know what you mean.”

  “Running can come in a lot of different forms. For me, it was sex.” sex?

  “That part didn't stop with those sad girls in Amsterdam. Not that I paid for it again once I got home. But I used sex for a long time. I went from one relationship to the next, looking for something I felt was beyond my reach. And I never found it. And when I didn't, I cheated. Over and over. That relationship break I talked about? That was two years. No women. No sex. Two years in which I dealt with my addiction.”

  It's difficult to know what to say. I don't judge him; of course I don't. But it is a revelation to me, this flaw in the knight's shining armor that is Joshua now. It makes my heart ache for him.

  “Shit. Maybe I shouldn't have told you. But you deserve to know.”

  “No. I'm glad you told me.” I reach up, stroke my fingertips over his scar once more. “I'm glad.”

  And I am. The fact that he's overcome these things makes him more real, more desirable, more noble.

  He smiles, pulls my hand to his lips, kisses the tender skin of my fingertips. Lovely. But my chest is tight with guilt. There is so much I should tell him, that he deserves to know. But I can't do it.

  We lie together for a while, watching each other's eyes. It is the most amazing yet simple thing. My heart is pounding still.

  “Come on,” he says eventually. “Let's get some food. There must be someplace that delivers around here.”

  He goes into the bathroom off my bedroom to clean up. Back a moment later, he pulls me up, and we go naked into the kitchen. His body is so beautiful, I'm distracted. He looks delicious surrounded by the stark granite counters, the shining brushed steel appliances. His cock is soft, lying golden and warm against his thigh, and even now it is beautiful. I dig around in a drawer for my small collection of take-out menus.

  “Here, there are a few Chinese places, some Thai, pizza. Pick whatever you'd like.” I hand him the small pile of paper menus.

  He takes them, takes my hand, and leads me to the counter, where he spreads the menus out.

  “Which one is your favorite?” he asks me.

  “My favorite?”

  I am too unused to a man asking me about my preferences.

  He waits for me to answer.

  “I love this Szechuan place. The food is pretty Americanized, but they have the best lo mein noodles in town.”

  “Then that's what we'll have.”

  He finds my phone, orders, then we stand in the kitchen while I make some jasmine tea, serving it in one of a small collection of teapots. I've been collecting for several years; they are all lined up on a high shelf in my kitchen, beautiful objects in porcelain and clay. This one is a stark clay piece from Japan, something I picked up on a job there last year.

  Don't think about work. Nothing else exists now.

  The food arrives and Joshua pulls his slacks on to answer the door, pay the delivery guy. He takes them off again while I make two plates and carry them back into the bedroom on a tray.

  We eat in bed, naked, surrounded by the aroma of sesame oil, soy sauce, and the perfumed scent of the tea. I don't even care when I spill on my good sheets.

  “Valentine, tell me about your orchids. They're beautiful,” he says between bites of Mongolian beef.

  “I love them. I've been growing them for years. It's a bit of an obse
ssion, really.”

  “I'm not sure I would have expected that of you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You seem far too controlled a woman to become obsessed by anything.”

  Is he teasing me? And God, if he only knew.

  “Am I really … controlled?”

  “Except in bed.” He moves closer, brushes a fingertip over my breast, his tone lowering. “There's nothing controlled about you in bed.”

  And just like that I'm hot all over again, needing him. But the bed is covered in food. Perhaps I can hold off for a few more minutes. And it's too good, simply being here with him like this. Like normal people.

  “Don't you have any obsessions, Joshua?”

  “Currently, a new one,” he says, picking up my free hand, lifting it to his mouth and kissing my fingers before sucking them in.

  “How can I eat when you're doing that to me?” I'm smiling, desire darting through my body.

  Letting my hand go, he picks up a few noodles and holds them to my mouth. “I'll feed you,” he says as I open my lips, take the noodles in, tasting his fingertips along with them.

  God, he is too much, this man. And I am aware once more of how unreal this all is. How magical. How fragile. This feels almost kinky to me. It's wrong, somehow. But it's also right for the first time in my life. My shallow life. How can I trust this?

  Just be here.

  Yes, I can do this. It's far too good to stop. I cannot send him away; not yet. I want to keep pretending. Isn't that what I've always done, pretended that what I do is okay? Convincing myself that being with this lovely man must be easier, surely. And I'm good at pretending.

  The harder thing will be knowing when to stop.

  Chapter Eight

  WE SPENT THE WHOLE weekend together, leaving the bed only long enough to eat again, to shower together. He made love to me over and over—enough times that I finally believe in making love, that I've forgotten to question it. Enough that I understand on some very deep level the way he handles me, that combination of rough, commanding touch and soft, sweet kisses, is what making love is really about.

  He has been inside my body for hours, touching me, kissing me. In my big bed, in the shower, in the kitchen while I was making omelets. They burned. It didn't matter. All that mattered was his hard cock inside me, his steady gaze on mine, his strong arms wrapped around my body.

  I have come so many times I've lost count. And I am amazed every time.

  We stayed up late last night watching rather horrible old monster movies, an entire marathon of Godzilla, Mothra, all those old Japanese cult classics. They are truly awful. But Joshua loved them, told me how it reminded him of being a kid, staying up late on a summer night. And I cannot resist him at those moments when I can see that child in him, beneath his sophisticated surface. Beneath the bad boy hovering behind that sophistication.

  I cannot resist him at all.

  I am getting to be far too sentimental. Something I have never been before in my life. Something I cannot allow myself to get used to.

  Too late.

  Oh, yes, those are the words, the doubts, that fill my mind as I sit here in the predawn light, alone. Joshua had to leave early to get ready for work. He has a late meeting, so I won't even hear from him until tomorrow night. I shouldn't talk to him at all, I know that. I should just let him go. But kissing him good-bye was like a blow to the chest.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Now all I feel is a sharp yearning to have the weekend back again. To feel that wonderful light sensation of pure happiness. Panic at knowing I can't really have this lovely dream.

  I cannot have this.

  Fuck.

  The air is cold on my skin, and I pull the blankets up, covering my breasts, my shoulders. I realize that for the first time in a very long time, since the early shock of turning my first tricks, I can hardly stand to be in my own skin.

  I try to go back to sleep, but it's impossible. By eight o'clock I give up, get out of bed. It's a gray day, which is fine with me. The usual L.A. sunshine would seem far too optimistic today. Snow White and her smiling fucking woodland animals.

  Oh, you are bitter.

  Yes, I am. Why shouldn't I be? I have let a man touch me, in all the important places, for the first time in years. Maybe the first time ever. And it was fucking wonderful. And I cannot allow it to happen again.

  I consider taking a slug of gin rather than my usual tea, but that's getting to be too pathetic for me. The drinking crap has got to stop. Instead, I go through my morning routine: brew my Earl Grey tea, water my orchids, shower. I throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and remember that I am supposed to make an appointment with the therapist Deirdre is sending me to. I wonder briefly what I'll talk about with her first. There is so much to choose from. My fucked-up childhood? My fucked-up current life?

  Just make the damn call.

  I dial the number The Broker gave me, talk to a receptionist. She can see me tomorrow afternoon.

  I hang up and immediately my stomach is in knots. I am already thinking about what I'm going to say to this woman. Because I know damn well I'm not going to a shrink because I'm too distracted to work. No, that's too simple. I'm going because I am lost. Because I feel as if my life is about to come crashing down around me. And I don't know how to stop it. I don't think there's an easy answer out there for me. Maybe there isn't one at all.

  My cell phone rings and I check the caller ID. Bennett. Damn it. I can't handle him today. I can't handle anyone. I shut my phone off and take my tea, get back into bed. I turn on the television, channel surf, looking for an old monster movie, but all I find are talk shows and soap operas. I turn it off, burrow under the covers with my bag of gummi bears, and sulk.

  LYDIA FOSTER'S OFFICE IS in one of those quaint old brick buildings in Santa Monica. As I ride the elevator to the third floor, I check my cell phone before powering it off. There are three messages from clients, but I don't even want to think about what they want from me.

  Her receptionist is one of those fresh young girls you see so often in this town. She's just filling the chair until she lands a good acting job. A film, a television show. Maybe on a soap. Half these girls end up in my line of work eventually.

  I give her my name and a door on the other side of the room opens and my new therapist walks out. She's fiftyish, with shoulder-length strawberry blond hair, a bit frizzy and wild. Large, kind blue eyes peer out from an elfin face. She is dressed conservatively, in a navy skirt and an ivory blouse.

  I'd expected her to be intimidating, more like Deirdre, for some reason. She is the exact opposite. Still, my hands are fisted at my sides and I have to force myself to uncurl my fingers to shake her hand.

  “You must be Val. I'm Lydia.”

  “Yes, nice to meet you.”

  “Come into my office.”

  She stands and lets me slip through the door, follows me, shutting it behind her.

  Her office is all soft neutrals. A light wood bookshelf lines one wall, full of books, small pieces of pottery. A large bronze Buddha is displayed in the center. She gestures for me to sit on a soft sofa piled with throw pillows. I sit with my purse in my lap, as though I'm at a job interview.

  What the hell is wrong with me? I set my purse on the floor, try to breathe normally.

  Lydia settles into an armchair across from me.

  “So,” she says, “tell me why you're here.”

  I laugh, a small, harsh sound. “I thought you were supposed to tell me that.”

  I immediately feel like an idiot. But she just smiles at me. “That's not my job. My job is to listen, to prompt you to figure things out yourself, in a way your psyche can accept.”

  “Oh …” I shift, cross my legs, tug on the end of my hair, twining a strand around my finger. “What do you want to know? ”

  “What do you want to tell me?”

  “Do you always answer a question with a question?”

  She smil
es once more. “I'm here to be a sounding board. You only have to talk about what you want to talk about. I'm not going to tell you what to do, what to say. You get to decide that, okay?”

  I nod. “Yes, sure.”

  Taking a moment, I let my gaze settle on the shelves behind her chair. There are art books there, among the self-help and psychology titles, books on spirituality.

  “Well … you know that Deirdre referred me to you, so you know what I do for a living.”

  “How would you describe what you do for a living, Val?”

  I look up at her, meet her watery blue eyes. “It's Valentine. If I'm going to be honest with you, open, you should call me Valentine.”

  “Alright. Valentine.”

  I can tell she is the kind of person who will remain calm no matter what I say, what I do. Frightening and reassuring all at the same time.

  I lean forward a fraction of an inch. It's really more a flexing of tight muscle. “I'm a call girl. A prostitute. I sell my body for sex. A hooker. A whore.”

  “You sound bitter.”

  “Do I?” I can feel my pulse racing. I have no reason to be angry with this woman. “Maybe I am. Maybe that's why I'm here.”

  She's quiet a moment, then, “Was there some incident that sparked your interest in therapy?”

  “I had a complaint from a client and Deirdre sent me to you.”

  “I meant, did something happen to you personally?”

  “What? No.” I curl my fingers into my palms, the nails biting into the soft flesh there and say, more quietly, “Yes.”

  She waits for me to elaborate.

  “I don't know how to do this,” I tell her. “This one-way conversation thing. Am I supposed to just spew my guts while you listen?”

  “Sometimes, yes.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, clasps her hands together. “I'll tell you a secret, Valentine. I can already see your intelligence. I have no intention of bullshitting you. Part of what we therapists look for, particularly on a first meeting, is body language. Your comfort level, or lack of comfort, in talking about yourself. It's part of how we get to know a client.”