by York, Mattie
“My life is started mom,” Alex said angrily. “And I’m happy with it.” Alex took a sip of tea and sighed. “I wasn’t going to tell you, because it’s none of your business, but I have a boyfriend. And he’s rich. And handsome. And he spoils me rotten.”
“Really?” her mother’s face brightened. “Why didn’t you say?”
“Why should I have to say? Why should it make a difference if I have a boyfriend or not?”
“See, I told you,” her mother laughed, “I just knew you were up to something. You can’t hide anything from me. You always get so quiet and stay away when you are hiding something.” Her mother came over and hugged Alex around the shoulders. “You don’t have to hide him from us, you know. We aren’t that scary.”
“What is his name?” Mary asked “When do we get to meet him?”
“His name is Joseph,” Alex said, defensively. “He’s away on a business trip right now. I don’t know when you will meet him. We haven’t even talked about meeting family. We are taking it slow.”
“Oh well, I’m sure he’s wonderful, dear. He must be if he is attracted to my daughter, right?” Her mother kissed her on the head and began spooning out the dessert. Alex sighed and pushed her tea cup away.
46
Dear Diary,
Ok. Something’s not right. Why is Chieko asking for more hours again? She’s already working more than most of the girls. She never complains. Ever since those first few appointments, she never calls after her appointments. All the men absolutely love her. She is fully booked.
Sure I can double her appointments easy. I could have a waiting list of men just to see her. But why? Is that wise? What is up with her? She doesn’t really talk with any of the other girls. Just Alex. I think they still meet for coffee or something. Damn. Maybe I should talk with Alex?
I’ve seen this before. But not so soon. Not to a girl so popular. Usually when girls start asking for more work it means trouble. But I can’t imagine that Chieko is involved in drugs. Maybe she has a demanding boyfriend? No, boyfriends usually make the girls quit, not work harder. God damnit! What are you up to Chieko?
I can’t lose Chieko already. She is a god damned gold mine! And such a nice girl. Damnit! But then, what can I do, right? I don’t own my girls. Escorting’s not long term anyways. Especially for pretty young girls with brains and an education. Who knew Chieko was the smart one? No, all I can do is get the best out of them when they are with me and keep them safe. As safe as I can. And I don’t want them working if they don’t want to. I only want them happy, perky and glad for the quick money.
I don’t know what the big deal is. Really. Why can’t I have normal girls that just want to work? Want to stay and work for more than bloody six months? Why do girls have to get so worked up about it? So crazy. Either they start feeling guilty, or sad, or they get all addicted to something. Or they get involved in a dumb ass relationship where they are treated like shit because they think that they are dirty and used up and don’t deserve better. Or they go nuts, get boob implants and flood the internet with their gang bang hard core porn videos. That’s the best one. Jesus H. Christ.
Relax ladies! God dam!!!! It’s just like a business deal; like selling your ideas, your music, your art. God. Like selling your goddamned car. Only you are selling your time. Really, what is the difference between selling your mind or your body? It is yours to give, right? You give other people pleasure. And when they enjoy you, they should return the favor and give you something in return, something you’d enjoy, like money. Simple as 1,2,3. My girls have the bodies that the men desperately want and the men have the money the girls are desperate for. Win. Win. So why does everyone get caught up in this sex is bad crap? Sex is good. It’s not sacred. It’s not just for pro-creation. It’s natural. Instinctual. Exercise! No other animal on the planet gets so wrapped up about it.
You know, if it wasn’t so god damned secretive, it wouldn’t be such a big deal. We need to be more open about sex. People need to talk about it more. Let girls know the real score. What is good sex? What is bad sex? Come on.
Angela closed her notebook and shuffled into the bathroom. The bathtub was almost full, so she turned the tap off and drizzled lavender oil over the hot steaming water. With a sigh, she dropped her robe and slipped into the water. Her tired muscles relaxed as she felt the hot water melt away the stress and tension of the day. She folded up a washcloth and rested it over her closed eyes then she slowly leaned back, letting her body get used to the heat as the water washed over her.
“It’s a funny business, this,” Angela sighed as she pictured a man, clear as day, sitting opposite her in the tub. She could almost feel his legs intertwining in hers as she stretched out under the water.
“What people want, what they really want,” he had said, “is to let go. To give and receive for free. How glorious is it to give yourself and have someone want to receive it, to accept you and thank you for your precious gift. That is when you get that high, you know, that earth shattering, orgasmic high that you can only get when two souls are joined together in ecstasy, in sex, in love. That is the closest a human can get to heaven. That is what I want.” He had stretched his lean naked body out like a cat causing ripples in the tub to flow over the edge, “but to get that, you need love. There is a story we say in my country. My mother told it to me when I was a little boy. Do you want to hear it?” Angela nodded as he pulled her feet up to rest on his chest, massaging them for her.
“There was this pretty young girl,” he said with a smile, reaching over the edge of the tub to pull the ash tray closer and picking up the waiting cigarette. He inhaled then slowly blew the smoke up into the steamy air. “She lived in the forest, because she didn’t have any parents. And she was very poor. She spent her days wandering in the forest and eating food that she found.
As her wandered she ventured to the edge of the forest, where she saw a grand estate. Starving and tired, she approached the gate and asked for a job. The gate keeper said she was too dirty to be allowed inside, but perhaps she could be useful to the gardener outside. So the girl returned every day to work in the gardens. She was fed leftovers from the kitchen and given spare scraps of material to fix her clothing.
The little girl worked very hard and never complained. She enjoyed working with the flowers and was happy to leave the estate at night to go sleep under the stars. But there was one thing that the little girl craved. She loved the colour red. She couldn’t explain it, but it just made her so happy. She loved it so much, whenever she saw anything red, she would take it and hide it away, saving all the red things in a special box in her hut. Eventually, she saved enough red scraps that she was able to make herself a pair of red shoes. Actually,” the man said, scratching his face, “she worked very hard on those shoes. She sewed all the pieces of material together with tiny delicate stitches. Oh, she loved those shoes.”
“Well, one day, the great lady of the house saw her out working in the garden. The little girl was really beautiful with long blonde hair and bright pink cheeks. So the lady, who was very old and lonely asked her if she wanted to come live in the big house and be her daughter. Who would say no? Of course, the girl said yes right away and moved into the big house. But there was one condition. The girl was not allowed to keep her red shoes. They were too dirty, the old lady said when the girl moved into the house. She took the shoes and threw them on the fire.
The girl was very sad about the shoes. But soon it passed as sadness does and the days went by and the girl was kept busy. The old lady was really very kind to the pretty young girl. She dressed her in fine silk dresses and taught her how to read and write, how to walk quietly in the house, how to eat without making a sound, how to wear a tight girdle, how to only speak when spoken too; all the things one needs to know to be a proper lady. And the young girl did her best, but sometimes, she would find herself sitting at the window staring at the tall green trees of the forest, remembering what it felt like to sleep under the stars. A
nd she would miss her little red shoes.
One day, the old lady decided the girl needed a pair of new practical shoes, just like a young lady would wear and so, she took her to the shoe makers. But when they got to the shoemaker’s store, right away the young girl spotted a pair of bright shiny red shoes. After that she couldn’t pay any attention to the dull practical shoes. She only had eyes for shiny red shoes. She had to have those shoes! Lucky for the young girl, the old lady didn’t see that well and so the young girl was able to pay for the red shoes before the old lady noticed.
The very next day, the girl wore her new shiny red shoes to church. She walked proudly down the aisle and sat with the old lady in the front row. All the ladies in the church were shocked. They pointed at the girl’s red shoes. But she didn’t care. Why would she? All she could think about was how beautiful her shiny red shoes were. After church, the ladies of the village told the great old lady about the young girl’s shocking red shoes. Of course, the old lady was furious and she forbad the young girl to wear them ever again.
But the next week, the young girl could not resist. She just had to wear the bright red shoes again! So she put them on but she pulled her skirt down low so no one would see the red shoes. It was her secret. All during the church service, she smiled to herself. Sometimes, just for an instant, she would pull back her skirt, just a touch, to peek at the tips of the bright shining red shoes. They were so beautiful. Just like ripe autumn apples. The little girl was so happy admiring her new shoes that she didn’t notice an old man sitting at the end of the row.
He noticed her though and her red shoes. He was watching them too. Watching as the sun glistened off their bright red tips. After church, he followed the girl outside. When the young girl stopped to wait for the great old woman, the old man walked up and stood beside her. He smiled down at her and then he bent down and lifted up her skirts.
“What beautiful dancing shoes,” he said as he leaned back against a pole and began to whistle. A low soft melody. The young girl smiled. She was happy he had noticed her beautiful shoes. As the man whistled, the young girl jumped up and twirled around. The old man laughed and kept whistling, so the young girl twirled some more, her skirts flying out so everyone could see her shiny red shoes. The old man laughed and sped up his tune, and the girl jumped and twirled down the street and over the gate. She twirled around the church and into the fields. She twirled and leaped and jumped and twirled again. She couldn’t stop. Her shoes wouldn’t let her.
Lucky for her, an old farmer in the fields heard her shouting as she danced and ran after her. He grabbed her and carried her back to the church with her dancing feet still whirling in the air. The great old lady ordered the girl to stop dancing. But the girl couldn’t. Her feet wouldn’t stop. So the old lady and the farmer tried to pull of the shoes. They tugged and pulled, but the shoes wouldn’t come off. The other ladies of the village helped. Together they all pulled and tugged and twisted and pushed and squeezed and finally, the red shoes came off.
Oh! The great old lady was furious. She locked the young girl in her room and forbade her to never ever put the shoes on again. And the red shoes were hidden away where the young girl would never find them.
And so, for a long time after that, everything was quiet. The young girl was polite and obedient. She did her studies. And said please and thank you. She acted like a proper young lady. But, she never stopped thinking about her red shoes.
And of course, one day, the young girl found her shoes. They were hidden on the top shelf of the largest cabinet in the darkest closet in a locked black box. When the young girl finally broke the lock, she couldn’t put the shiny red shoes on fast enough. Oh, they were so beautiful! She lifted her skirts and smiled as she looked down at them on her feet. Then she took one step. Then another. Then a twirl. Then another. And then another. She didn’t even realize she was in trouble again until she tried to stop. But of course, she couldn’t. The shoes wouldn’t let her stop. They twirled her out the door and down the street. They twirled her around the church and out into the field. They twirled her past the farmer and past the church ladies. They twirled her right to that whistling old man who was standing by a tree. He laughed at the girl. “Oh you silly girl,” he shouted.
“No, please,” the girl cried. “Help! Stop them!” But it was too late. The shoes wouldn’t let her stop. They kept twirling her and twirling her. For days and nights the shoes twirled the girl on and on. She was exhausted. Finally she came to a small house in a forest. “Please,” she called out as she twirled around the house. “Please help me.’’
The whistling old man came out of the door. It was his house. “Yes?”
“Please help,” she cried. “I am going to die. Cut these shoes off my feet.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, please,” she wailed. And so the old man picked up his ax and he sliced the bows off the shoes. But the shoes didn’t fall off. They were stuck on to the soles of the poor girl’s feet. “I don’t care,” the girl sobbed. “Cut off my feet. I will die if these shoes don’t come off. My life is not worth living with them on.’”
“Are you sure?” the old man asked again.
“Yes, yes, please hurry before they dance me away forever.” And so the old man lifted up his ax and chopped off the young girl’s feet. The young girl screamed and then fainted. And the red shoes with her feet still in them twirled away through the forest leaving a trail of bright red blood.
“What happened to the young girl?” Angela had asked.
“Oh, she lived,” the man had shrugged, “but she became a beggar girl along the road. Living hand to mouth by the kindness of strangers.
“Why the hell would you tell me that story?”
“Because,” the man had laughed, “don’t you see? Angela, you are the girl. And this, this thing between us, sex? It is our red shoes.”
Angela laughed. “So, you are the dirty old man that lifts up my skirts? You think you are so wonderful that all you have to do is whistle and I will dance for you?”
“Perhaps, Perhaps.” The man lit another cigarette, “but perhaps I am the old lady. Who burns the red shoes you made all by yourself. Just like I burn your heart.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Angela laughed uneasily.
“Oh, Angela,” he sighed. “I see it. I know it is in your eyes. But, it will not work. It cannot. I can’t love you. I wish I could. But I already paid for you. And for others before you. And after you. No, I can’t love you. To me, you are just a hollow copy of a girl I would like to love. Like the shiny red shoes made by somebody else. And,” he laughed, “You don’t satisfy me. Don’t get me wrong. This satisfies me.” He traced the outline of Angela’s body with his fingers. “Oh damn, does it satisfy me. But just my body, just for a few hours. It doesn’t satisfy my soul. Perhaps I am like the young girl. I need to find my red shoes. This, this sex we have, actually, it just makes it worse. Like the red shoes made by someone else. Little by little it is killing my soul. It makes me more desperate. I have to have you again and again. The thoughts I have about you. You would be shocked. I force myself not to think these thoughts. But they come. I want to get violent. I want to watch you with other women. With other men. I want to humiliate you and dominate you. Because I’ve already bought you. Can’t you see? Oh, Angela. Why can’t you see? Angela?”
“Angela?” Dora yelled through the bathroom door. “Sorry to bother you, but Alex is on the phone. She said it was important. She wants to talk to you.”
“Oh, ok” Angela opened her eyes. She shook her head and looked around the bathroom. “Randolph,” she muttered “That was his name. Yes, Randy Strausberg.” She stood up and wrapped herself in her long warm bathrobe. What the hell had made me think of him? After all these years? She shook her head and laughed. God, he was full of bullshit.
47
“That was delicious. Thank you my darling,” Joseph kissed Alex on the cheek and slowly got up from the dinner table. She
watched him as he grabbed the Toronto Star and settled himself down on the sofa then picked up her own glass and followed him. As she took a sip of her Perrier, she leaned back and breathed in that ‘fresh from the showroom’ smell. Joseph had really done a great job, she thought admiring their new apartment. She loved the way the creamy eggshell walls contrasted with the dark richness of the leather furnishings, and the gold velvet curtains and pillows. Very Nate Berkus. Oprah would approve.
A glorious sunset was just disappearing over the trees of Rosedale. What a difference from my small bachelor apartment on Isabella, Alex thought looking out the window. Her only concern now was to make sure Joseph was happy. And she was doing her best.
When Alex had moved in, she had been astounded at the detail Joseph had paid to the kitchen. He had replaced all the standard appliances with gorgeous stainless steel deluxe models. She now had a double oven, a stove top grill, a huge fridge with freezer, a dish washer, a garbage dispenser, a food processor, a blender, a juice machine, a cappuccino and coffee machine, a fully stocked spice rack, a deluxe set of knifes, a full set of pots and pans, a wok, and gleaming white china; all organized and stored away in the crisp white cupboards. Alex decided, since she had all this newfound free time anyways, it was time for her to learn to cook. Not just vegetable stir fries, chocolate chip cookies and Amy’s organic pizzas, but real chef-like gourmet meals.
There was a trendy little cookbook shop just down on Yonge Street. It was just the inspiration she needed. The store owner, Leon was a little wild. He made Alex laugh and he made a killer cappuccino. She found herself going into his little shop almost every day. It was nice to have someone in the neighbourhood to talk to; you know just about the weather, or her new apartment, or her kitchen. Alex knew it was cliché. ‘Kept woman hanging out in the cookbook store.’ But she kind of liked it.
