by Liv Morris
Running toward the curb outside my building, I flag down the first empty cab heading down Fifth Avenue. Once it stops, I jump in and give the driver my destination. I have an appointment to meet my mother at the Red Door Spa a few blocks down. Normally, I’d walk the short distance, since walking in the city is my main source of exercise. Not to mention that sometimes the traffic is so bad I can literally walk faster to a destination versus cabbing it.
However, I’m running late and it’s past the midday rush, so traffic is light. Yes, there are several rush hours here. Nothing about traveling around this city is easy, unless you have a driver like my mother has. That’s not my style, though. I’d feel too pretentious to have someone at my beck and call. I hated it as a child, especially during my teen years when I wanted to be my own person, able to come and go as I pleased. It didn’t help that at the time, my parents’ driver was a pervert, always staring at my chest and legs. The man was a certifiable creep.
My mother called this morning and asked to pick me up on her way to the spa. But I knew if my Tantra session ran late, she’d be upset and grill me with a ton of questions. Many of which would have answers that would make her extremely uncomfortable. She tolerates my career choice, but has decided to let the reality of my profession sit behind a shrouded veil.
I’m fairly certain today’s session would freak her out. The rebellious bad girl in me can’t help but smile wickedly at the thought. As progressive as my mother raised me, today’s Yoni massage would probably make her blush. Who knows, though? I like to think I am my mother’s daughter.
