by Britney King
Looking out at the houses that line our street, it’s obvious that he was right. Fitting in here should be a piece of cake.
I flip the handle on the faucet and fill an empty glass, making a mental note to drink more water. Half your body weight in ounces, the church says. Here everything is about improvement. Gains. I toss the pills toward the back of my throat and chase them down with the water. Not too much, though. Not before they’ve had a chance to work their magic.
Thankfully, it shouldn’t take long. My stomach is empty; I haven’t eaten since yesterday. I’m supposed to cut weight. This happens sometimes after a busy week. Another reason I can’t afford to miss Pilates.
I stare down the tree-lined street and consider a run. The weather is perfect for it. God, I love November. Particularly early November, before everyone starts focusing on Christmas and you can just exist. I bet Christmas will be lovely here, but I can’t think about that right now.
My eyes have landed on the Harris family, out for an evening stroll. They pass another neighbor and stop to chat. That’s what people do here.
This is the kind of place I imagined growing up in. The kind where bikes are piled in driveways, neighborhoods hold cookouts, and women are allowed to speak their minds. This is the life I always wanted. Security. Freedom. The chance to be different. Ease rushes over me as the effect of the vitamins begins to take hold. The feeling starts in the pit of my stomach, working its way up, the euphoria spreading outward like fingers.
I just hope it lasts.
Scheduled sex. It’s ironic, really. I always thought it was something old married couples did. That’s if I really thought about it at all. Where I come from, sex was only discussed in terms of producing as many offspring as one can bear in the name of serving God’s purpose. Thankfully, I knew a few things before walking down the aisle. I knew that a woman is forbidden to refuse her husband. I knew that even if she doesn’t enjoy the act, it’s a sin to suggest otherwise.
It’s too bad more women don’t think like that. I might be out of a job.
On average, I have twenty-one clients. Give or take. It’s hard to say because sometimes they’re on the wagon, meaning they are trying to be on their best behavior. They are trying to remain faithful. Mostly, though, they’re off.
Sometimes I get new ones, and sometimes the old ones die.
The reminder alarm chimes on my phone, letting me know my next appointment is in fifteen minutes. I disable it. I’m already here. Turns out, they did add a client to my schedule. I wasn’t happy about it. It meant breaking my promise to Matthew, but Sean says sometimes these things can’t be helped.
Yes, my husband is aware of my occupation. But that’s a rather long story. Anyway, here I am. Client number seventeen has suggested a drink before our appointment. He’s an out-of-towner. The notes on my schedule said he didn’t want to have dinner alone.
I wasn’t prepared for actual conversation, but sometimes this is a part of the act. This time, however, it sends up a red flag; he’s never requested this before. Not to mention the fact that it’s a Friday night. I have to be careful. It could signal that he’s looking for a date. I’m no stranger to the girlfriend experience—one does what one has to do—but I’m a minimalist, and it’s important we get this out of the way. Most people think men are void of emotion when it comes to sex, but that’s a false assumption. Their needs may be slightly different, but this doesn’t make them immune to wanting more.
Of course, it could be none of these things. It could simply be the church’s way of testing me, of seeing that I’m still in the business of recruitment. I’m not stupid.
I am, however, back to blonde, at the client’s request. This tells me a few things. He’s important to the church. Only the largest donors get their way regarding hair color. Most of them don’t care one way or the other. The dangerous ones, they always do. Danger is subjective, of course. Something to be measured carefully. In ounces, if you’re smart. Better that than pound for pound. Let it get to that point, and you’re in real trouble. I learned the hard way.
Typically I see one or two clients per day. You learn a lot about people with the right amount of variety. Client seventeen is not too keen on much of that. He’s careful. Precise. Nevertheless, tonight he wants me in a restaurant with a piano and people everywhere. So maybe there’s hope yet. Whatever the case, he picked the place, and I don’t hate it. I can’t say it always turns out like this. My clients often pick the locations; it comes with the territory. Helps them feel in control. Still, there are limits, and every appointment, client, and location is carefully vetted. The Men’s Alliance assures me of this.
A man approaches me. “May I join you?”
He’s handsome. Dark hair, interesting green eyes. Tallish. Solid, through and through. Not my type. But handsome nonetheless. Not that I have a type. Even if I did, he wouldn’t be it. I finger the stem of my wine glass, drawing his attention away from my face. In my line of work, it’s better not to be too known. “I’m expecting someone.”
He looks disappointed, although he had to have expected as much. Sometimes they sense what I am, and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes it’s subconscious. “That’s too bad.”
He goes on to introduce himself, which is annoying. I don’t care if he’s the King of England. I have to get rid of him before my client gets here if I want to look professional. It’s quite possible—likely even—someone from the Men’s Alliance is watching, and this little inconvenience will only lead to trouble.
It’s unfortunate, but the more unrealistic part of me chooses otherwise. Maybe I’m just tired, or bored, but I decide to have a little fun with the disruption. Let it serve as an easy opener to the “this is strictly sex just in case you had any notion as to it being anything more” conversation with my client. It’s also possible his mere presence will do the trick, and it needn’t come to that. Men either love or loathe competition, so I have to be careful. It’s a risk that can backfire easily. Sometimes they only chase harder.
Number seventeen arrives, and thankfully it goes exactly as I’d hoped. When the guy excuses himself, I can see my client has seen me for what I am. I almost feel bad. Seventeen looks different, younger in this setting. Early fifties. Unmarried. My least favorite kind of client. The more difficult kind. I prefer the married ones. They have the majority of their needs met elsewhere.
Alas, number seventeen does not.
“I’m not sure about this place,” he says.
“No?” I survey the room. I like it just fine. But he’s paying by the hour, so what I like is irrelevant.
“There’s something about it.” Paranoia has always been a strong suit of his. Perhaps my worries are unfounded. Perhaps that’s the reason for the switch-up.
I glance at the time. “We could just head out,” I say. Time matters to him, for obvious reasons. Me, in this case, not so much. He isn’t a member of New Hope, but he is a target although his donations are such that the time limit in which I have to recruit him is not as stringent. In other words, the Men’s Alliance has not determined he is actually worthy of membership. This is why I must report even the most minute of details. This is why I agreed to meet for the drink. I’m almost grasping.
There’s a hotel two blocks down, he mentions. He tells me he’s already checked in. I’ve settled my tab, so we waste no time heading in that direction. People on the street pass us. He doesn’t take my hand, but he sticks close. To the untrained eye, one might assume we’re a couple out for date night. But when we arrive at the entrance, he sets things straight when he asks me to wait seven minutes before following him up. Like I said, he’s nothing if not precise. He doesn’t want to be seen together, at least not here. Not in the context that comes and goes within the hour.
In his room, he doesn’t make time for small talk. I’m not offended. Seventeen prefers sex in a ritualistic manner. Meaning, the same every time. First, he asks me to disrobe. Then he ushers me to the shower where he sets a timer and proc
eeds to scrub my body clean using a special loofa he packs in the lining of his suitcase. I don’t ask why he hides it, and he doesn’t say. What I do know is it’s never the same one, which is too bad because this way you never break them in.
He scrubs until my body is raw. He hums a tune. He is hard the entire time. He prefers my hands at my side and my mouth shut. He wants my eyes straight ahead. When he’s satisfied with the washing, he finishes by massaging soap into every crevice, slowly and carefully, as though I might break. He has no idea.
From there he takes me by the hand and leads me to the edge of the bed where he orders me onto my knees. He mounts me from behind. He lasts anywhere between twenty-three and thirty-seven minutes. We do not change positions, and he prefers complete silence. He brings his timer from the bathroom. Seventeen never goes over his hour. He doesn’t want to pay the overtime fee.
Chapter Four
Elliot
The sun is just barely peeking through the clouds when I nudge the blonde with my knee. “Jenny?”
She doesn’t stir. She doesn’t open her eyes. If I couldn’t see the rise and fall of her chest, I might start really panicking.
“Jenny.” I nudge her again. “Jenny, I have to get to work.”
As I prattle around the room, making unnecessary noise, she wakes slowly. Painfully so. Eventually, she sits up and rubs her eyes.
“I’m late for work.”
She blinks rapidly, as though the idea never occurred to her. When I hand over her clothes, she shrugs. “I can just hang out here…”
“Um…no. You can’t.”
She lowers the sheet and arches her back. I’ve seen strippers be less obvious. “I’m very good at occupying myself…”
“I have to go out of town.”
Her eyes narrow. “Am I going to see you again?”
“Not like this.”
She tilts her head. “Oh.”
I extend my hand and offer her purse. I have a feeling this one is going to bite.
“So you used me then?”
I don’t answer. If no response is better than any you might give, that’s how you know to keep your mouth shut.
Suddenly, she’s out of bed and next thing I know she is throwing her clothes on, and I am reminded of what a woman looks like when she’s angry. It should make me happy because it means I’m one step closer to getting her out of my apartment, but something flickers in me, and I know what that feeling is. It’s a memory threatening to break free.
“Really? You’re not even going to offer me breakfast…coffee…nothing?”
“I’m late,” I remind her. I watch as she dresses. She’ll do well for herself.
“I can’t believe this,” she mutters under her breath. She repeats the sentiment at least three times in the excessively long duration it takes to pull on her clothes.
When she’s finally dressed, I gently place my hand on the small of her back and lead her to the entryway. She doesn’t move away from my touch. She should be repulsed. She still thinks I’m going to change my mind.
“It was a pleasure,” I say, opening the door. I hold it open wide. “Take care.”
“What. In. The. Serious. Fuck,” she huffs.
I open it wider. I don’t think it will go any further.
Jenny shakes her head. “You are seriously kidding me. This has to be a joke.”
If it is, then I missed the punch line. I glance down at my watch and will her out with my mind.
Thankfully, it works.
But when she stops and she turns, I hold my breath. “You weren’t even good in bed!”
“I’m sorry for that,” I offer before moving to close the door. I’m careful. I take it easy, slow at first. She could be the ninja type—the kind that pops back in, just for one more insult, like a jack-in-the-box. I’ve learned the hard way.
Her eyes meet mine. She holds my gaze but she doesn’t pop back in. She waits until the door is closed, and then she pounds on it with her fists.
The expletives are impressive. Like she’s practiced.
It goes on for five solid minutes. At least.
I place my head in my hands. The insults keep coming. Motherfucker.
Later, after building security has cleared the deck and I’ve showered and dressed for work, I’m standing in the hall, locking my door, when I hear my name. There’s still a part of me that half-expects Jenny to pop around the corner. Stranger things have happened. Only when I turn, it isn’t the blonde from the bar. It’s my neighbor, Mrs. Dunn.
No. No. No. I brace myself. She is the last thing I need right now. I know what’s coming, and I can see by her expression that she’s well prepared for the opportunity.
“Mrs. Dunn.” I nod.
“This has to stop.”
“You’re right.” I hold my hands in surrender. “I’m sorry.”
She stammers. Just barely. “I realize a man of your age likes things a certain way. But this can’t go on.”
“I—”
“This is the third time this month I’ve had to contact security.”
“I know,” I say. “And I’m really very sorry about that, Mrs. Dunn.” I refer to her formally, the way I was taught. I keep my answers repetitive. This way she has nowhere to go.
“It’s Josie.”
“My apologies. Josie.”
Her brow furrows. Her gaze lasers in on mine. She’s trying to figure me out. She won’t. “It’s really not that hard to keep a woman happy, you know.”
Apparently, I don’t. I pull the key from the lock and stuff the ring in my pocket. I wonder if Josie here knows how fast an unwanted encounter can occur. I wonder if she’s ever been on the receiving end.
“You should give it a try sometime.”
“Next time,” I say. “I’ll really give it my best shot. For you.”
She shakes her head, reprimanding me without words. “It sure would make it a lot more pleasant around here,” she chides, and I have to admit, she’s attractive. But scary as hell. The way she stares, it’s like she can see right through me, all the way down into the marrow of who I am, down to the things I thought no one could see.
“You could not be more right. Again, I’m sorry.”
She folds her hands over her chest and rests back against the wall awaiting a response. “I’m late,” I add, hesitating for a second, not fully certain she’s had her say. She seems like the kind of woman who needs to have her say. I like that kind. The others just disappear.
Finally, she steps back, allowing me to pass.
I watch as she retreats into her apartment. I don’t mean to stare. I find her interesting, and I can’t say that about most people.
I almost call out to her, assure her that it won’t be long before she has her way. In the meantime, I’ll figure something out. I’m not sure what. But whatever it is, it has to be something other than this.
Chapter Five
Vanessa
It’s still early in the day, and already I’m out of steam. Gina came to stay with Matthew. I had a client added to my schedule at the crack of dawn this morning. But now I’m on my own—at least to the extent that’s possible. One is never really alone in this congregation. I wish I’d asked her to stay, especially considering I have an event tonight. Matthew is needy, as kids tend to be, and I have a thousand things to do.
Adam has texted, asking for notes on my client from this morning. The church requires this; my observations help with matters that are important to leadership, and I know how he hates to wait. I don’t expect it to take long, but Adam and a child who wants to go to the park are one and the same—equally impatient. Thankfully, it was client number four this morning. He’s simple, and that helps, particularly on a day like today where neither my heart nor my mind were in it. I know his real name, of course, but discretion is key, and it’s best to keep a certain level of detachment where my work is concerned. He’s older, mid-sixties. Married. The quiet, introspective type. He’s fit, which is more than I can say fo
r the majority of my clients in his age range. But his preferences are as vanilla as they come: little to no foreplay, missionary position, eyes shut eighty percent of the time. Comes prepared with his little blue pill, and fortunately, is usually quick.
He always pays for the full hour. Rarely uses it.
While the majority of my work is to recruit new members, I also have to keep the existing ones content. Number four is a longtime member of New Hope. According to the Men’s Alliance, it is not a sin to be unfaithful to your spouse when it is ordained and arranged by the church. Donations to a religious organization are a lot easier to explain away than paying for sex outright.
That’s not to say simple always means easy. This morning was particularly taxing, for whatever reason. Sometimes it creeps up on you that way. There is the preparation it takes to see a client, and then there is the aftermath. You can dress it up all you want, but my job, the world’s oldest profession, is a job like any other. No one wants to think of a sexual act in that way, but that’s exactly what it is. It’s tricky—no pun intended. Even when there’s no emotion involved, there’s emotion. Even when there’s no commitment, there’s still a certain level of commitment. At least if you count time and money, and believe me, I do.
The act itself has to be arranged, same as anything else in one’s life has to be arranged. What most people don’t realize is it goes far beyond the time you spend between the sheets. Every encounter requires a bit of seduction. Even if it is pretend, even the most basic of clients—the ones who hardly speak, the ones who are quick to jet afterward—want to be seduced in their own right. They want to know they have the power, the means, and the control it takes to get what they want. Above all else, it’s significance they seek, and significance can be a dangerous thing.
