The next couple of times Dale called, I cringed at my phone. I looked at my finger, then back to my cell, and decided no amount of money was worth giving up finger foods for life. But this morning was different.
I’ll be off from work for a little while to deal with my health stuff and I was hoping to pile on the appointments to make up for the upcoming loss of income. And I'm well, not desperate, perhaps just a bit more open-minded today. Hence, my willingness to see Dale.
When Dale called this morning, I cringed, but I answered. I still can't go through with the finger trick, I told myself and he’d have to deal with it. Dale needs to find a woman to fulfill this specific request. I’m his body rubber, not his prostate massager. I'm putting my foot down today though. When he grabs my finger, I'll shake my head. And it's okay if he never comes back. Boundaries are the only way to stay sane in this business and I've learned that the hard way. I'll just have to be sure to get payment upfront.
But when Dale grabbed my finger, I caved. Which is the story of my life. I'm a sucker for a good sob story and I feel for these guys who don't get what they need from their wives.
Dale told me his wife was unwilling to tickle his fanny, let alone do insertion, claiming it was "gross," a word that deflates the libido. Someone's gross is another's kinky.
"Have you tried bribing her?" I ask.
Dale nods vigorously. Purses, shoes, you name it and he's offered. Is this woman crazy?
So, given all that, how could I hold back? So I did it. Because I do the things wives won't. And most days I'm okay with it.
Later that day, I kept thinking about what I had done with Dale. Most times, a client is out of my mind as soon as they are out the door, but my session with Dale lingered. So I went into Google Voice and blocked his number. It’s probably best if Dale finds someone else. I’m always such a pushover when it comes to a sad story of what a guy’s wife won’t do, but even to me, it’s not worth the money. Maybe I’d feel differently if he were my husband. But luckily, he’s not and a girl like me gets to choose her clients.
Thirty-Seven
I’m officially moved in. My Crate and Barrel curtains are hung, the furniture has been arranged and re-arranged, and my cupboards are full of healthy food. The place is perfect, although I’m slightly freaked out at the notion of living at Cole’s parents’ property. In moments of calm, it relaxes me to feel as if he’s looking out for me. When I’m anxious, I feel trapped and worry about him finding out about Jack or any of my other clients. Or Jack finding out about Cole, which was a no-no condition of our Sugar Daddy relationship.
I’m pushing all of that out of my mind right now because Ana is over at my mother’s for the night and Cole is coming over to celebrate my acceptance into dental hygiene school. I told Cole it wasn’t a big deal, but he insisted on taking me out to dinner. And then I insisted on making him dinner.
He also mentioned over the phone that he “has something to tell me.” If I know Cole, then I know what he’s going to tell me: He thinks we should be a couple. His voice had that wiggle to it as if this suddenly strong and capable guy was questioning himself. It’s the same voice he had used two years ago when he asked me if I wanted to be his girlfriend.
We were at a party at his house. He was no longer living with my ex-boyfriend, but he still had a couple roommates that he shared the split-level home with. It was crowded, noisy and we both had quite a bit of beer from the keg. In the beginning of the evening, Cole had rushed around being the perfect host and making sure I had been introduced to everyone, though when I lingered too long talking to his roommate, he cut into the conversation and gave a subtle head nod to the other guy. When it was the two of us, he pushed a blonde strand from my face.
“Want to sit down?” he asked as he leaned close to my ear.
I nodded and then we sank into the earth-tone plaid cushions. Cole is one of those people who never gets cold, not even in the winter. So, even when it’s snowing outside, he’s dressed in a T-shirt. I appreciate that because I get a peek of his gorgeous biceps and there is no hint of a beer gut, unlike his roommates. Though he was drinking all night, he still smelled of Cole: warm milk and cotton candy. And in that moment, something could have exploded a few feet away and I wouldn’t have noticed because he was within inches of my lips. I wanted him to grab my hand and take me to his bedroom upstairs, undress me and pull my body into his.
“Alexa,” he began, taking a deep breath. He looked up as someone knocked into the arm of the sofa, spilling beer near my foot. “I think we should be together.”
“Be together?” I wasn’t sure what he meant. Most of my relationships had consisted of hook-ups that segued into hanging out.
“As in be my girlfriend,” he said. I’m fairly certain no girl has ever turned him down. All night, he focused on me and didn’t even notice the brunette eyeing him in her low-cut v-neck sweater, stilettos and painted-on jeans.
Cole sensed my hesitation and looked puzzled. I hated to see that look. He was correct to pick up on my attraction to him.
“I can’t,” I said quickly, figuring I had ruined the evening. I shook my head a couple times and looked around to see if anyone was watching us.
“Okay,” he said, leaning back. “It’s not a big deal,” he said. “We’ll just continue being friends.”
“Exactly, I really do want to be friends,” I said, holding back on giving him the it’s-not-you line, although it was true. My business was in full swing at that point and I was addicted to the money and freedom. I was up to date on my rent, had actually gotten to the point of paying a week early and I just couldn’t drop everything to date a guy, even if it was Cole. And like I’ve mentioned before, I know Cole isn’t the kind of guy that’d be okay with a sex worker girlfriend. And I cared too much about him to lie.
I was surprised when Cole kept his promise and we continued to be friends. We went to parties, movies, dinner, and somehow we managed to become even closer despite my rebuff. In the back of my mind, I always thought I needed to hurry up because some lucky girl would snatch up Cole, but he only intermittently dated after that night. And he never mentioned the idea of dating again. Until a few days ago when he told me he had something to talk to me about. He didn’t specifically use the word “dating” but he had that same tone that he had that evening. Like he was working up the courage to ask me something.
And I’m happy to say that I’m prepared to jump in. Since Cole called the other day, I’ve decided it’s time to quit massage, well perhaps not stop completely but “titrate down” as William’s doctors call it: fewer and fewer amounts until I’m down to nothing. I could live with that. I’ve done some saving and now that I’ve been accepted to school, I can live off financial aid and a part-time job. I think. I could see myself working in a library. I love books, quiet and the simple task of shelving. It’ll be perfect and I’ll never have to think about what I was.
With thoughts of Cole, I can’t help but put extra effort into my appearance, selecting jewelry that I can’t wear while I work. Necklaces and body slides on lotioned men don’t go together. I usually let my hair air dry, but tonight I’m blow drying it and using the flat-iron so it falls like a golden curtain around my face.
The spinach lasagna that I made is in the oven filling the house with the subtle smell of spices and good company. I feel different tonight than I ever have before. I have a beautiful and happy daughter, Cole, and a cozy home. I feel more hopeful than ever.
When I hear his truck pull into the driveway, my stomach tightens as if it’s a first date. It’s just Cole, I tell myself and take a quick final look in the mirror to make sure I don’t have lipstick on my teeth.
I open the door before he has a chance to knock, which is probably playing it wrong, but I can’t help myself. After all these years of holding back, I’m finally ready.
“Smells great,” he says as he hands me pink and yellow daisies. I take a sniff and I’m reminded of Spring, which is a mere two months away
. He follows me into the kitchen and I pour him a glass of wine.
“How’s the new kitchen working out for you?” he asks, opening and closing the cabinet doors as if to double-check his work.
“I love it.” I hand him his wine and put a hand on his warm back as I smile up at him.
“Toast?” he asks. “To the new home?”
“And new beginnings,” I say. The snow has started to fall outside, small flakes, the kind that’s more ambience than accumulation.
The dinner is perfect and Cole sits across from me keeping me entertained with work stories. My mind drifts while he talks, anxious to get to the meat of the dinner.
“Am I boring you?” he asks with a laugh. “You should stop me before I get going on work.”
“Of course not. It’s interesting. But I’m curious...what did you want to talk about?”
“Oh right, you have a good memory,” he says, looking past me and out the window.
“Can you look at me?” I ask.
He turns his head and looks me in the eyes. “It’s nothing big,” he says. “I just wanted to tell you that I met someone.”
“Who?”
“It’s not a big deal, but I just thought I’d tell you because we’ve been spending a lot of time together.” He crinkles his nose as if he’s trying to sense something.
I look at him, thinking someone else has been kissing those lips and holding his hand. He’ll be doing things for her that he used to do for me: flowers, moving her shit from place to place, and maybe they’ll eventually move in together. And if she can sense anything, she won’t want Cole spending time with me.
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long have you been together?” I ask.
“We’re not really together, just dating.”
I look at him, waiting for an answer.
“A couple months.” He shrugs.
“Why did you wait so long to tell me?” I ask, getting up from the table and feeling light-headed.
“I wanted to see if it worked out.”
“And it has?” I ask, pouring myself another glass, glad that I don’t have to drive anywhere.
“So far, so good,” he says, cocking his head. “I didn’t think it’d bother you.”
“It doesn’t.” I walk back over to the table and begin clearing the dishes. I need a task to complete. I don’t want to keep firing off questions.
He puts his hand around my wrist. “Let me get it,” he says. “You cooked, I’ll clean up.”
I nod without looking at him and put on a phony smile. I can’t tell if he sees the act I’m putting on. This news is the opposite of what I expected. I was ready to go to bed with him tonight and here he is squeezing me between his dates with whats-her-name. And now he’s this untouchable guy.
“Why did you tell me this tonight?” I ask.
He turns around from the sink. “Because she’s out in the car. I want you to meet her.”
“What!?”
“I’m kidding, relax,” he says, turning around to fill up the sink. “Who knows, maybe it won’t even work out.”
I was glad his back was to me so that he couldn’t see me roll my eyes. This is just my luck. When I’m finally ready to make a go of it, Cole has moved on.
“What if she doesn’t like that we’re friends?”
“Then it’s over,” he says, pausing to turn and look at me.
“Over?”
“With me and Kayla,” he clarifies after he sees my horrified expression.
Kayla. It’s worse hearing her name. Like now she’s real. And I continue to ask him questions, pretending like the whole thing is so cute, whereas I want to puke up my dinner. On Kayla. Wherever she may be.
Things are going to be different now. If they get serious, she’s not going to want him sniffing around here, even if we are “just friends” and have never actually dated. It’s a competition now. I’ll get him back. I’ll put my plans on hold for phasing out rubs.
Thirty-Eight
“Did you think he’d wait around forever?” Aubree says. “He’s hot.”
Aubree and I are taking a walk at a dog park. It’s Wednesday morning, so the park is filled with mostly retired people.
“Thanks for reminding me.” I say, kicking a stone with my foot.
“Oxley, stop humping that dog,” she screams. Aubree is house-sitting for a client, which essentially translates to her soaking in his hot tub, eating all his food, exploring his wine cellar, and taking his retriever out for an occasional walk. All bachelors have dogs and most strippers are pet-less, or at least the touring ones like Aubree.
“I thought I had time.”
“No guy waits around that long. Seriously, do you think he’s a saint? And why in the world haven’t you slept with him? It’s not like you’re getting any at work.”
I dragged my shoe in the sandy dirt. Aubree has never been a one-guy kind of girl, but she’s the only friend who knows my predicament.
“I had no idea he was even looking for a girlfriend.”
“All guys are looking for something. Even Oxley and he’s neutered,” she says.
The park is near a middle school, a well known city-owned property where dogs can run off lease. It’s popular because of a small pond where all the dogs like to swim. On sunny mornings, canines can be seen running ahead to meet up with other dogs while owners lag behind holding bags of poop.
Aubree received an “advance” of $2,000 from Al so she’s not doing rubs anymore, just packing up what little she owns and preparing to leave in a couple weeks. She assures me she’ll be back and it’s not a big deal, but I have a hard time saying goodbye.
“True. I was caught be surprise.”
Aubree picks up a stick and throws it into the water. “Don’t look so depressed. It’s not like it’s game over.”
“Cole never breaks up with anyone.”
“Oh please, he would with a little intervention.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“If you really want him, don’t wait around. Where’s your competitive spirit?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Aubree occasionally listens to self-help audio books in her car and repeats the platitudes. I wasn’t sure if this “take control” attitude was coming from her new favorite destiny-wrangling guru.
“I’m not sure either. But if you really want him, I can figure something out.”
“You’re leaving soon,” I say.
She stops and looks at me, squinting in the sun. “In two weeks. That’s plenty of time. Let me think about it and I’ll come up with something.”
Aubree was full of ideas, usually ones that only benefited her, so I was flattered that she’d scheme for me. This is true friendship between sex workers.
Thirty-Nine
Still feeling depressed about losing Cole, I decide to throw myself into my work. Without a potential relationship holding me back, it’s time to get back to making buckets of money. I’m taking as many body rub appointments as I can during the day and although I thought I was done with stripping, I take on a stripper-gram gig.
I have a regular, Ted, who runs Steamy Strippers USA and he claimed I’d make a flat fee of $100 to show up for the party and that I could keep my tips. I was hesitant at first. I might be more easily recognized. It was more plausible that a guy I knew would participate in a bachelor party versus a body rub. I also worried that the odds would be against me, meaning the ratio of guys to me would be difficult if things got out of hand. It’s also quite possible that I was paranoid, but better to be overly cautious than too carefree.
I mentioned my concerns to Ted and he suggested that I team up with another steamy stripper, however, if I did that, I’d have to split both the payment and tips. He assured me that they never had problems and did a quick background check before they booked. I decided to go it alone and keep mace in my purse.
“You’ll want to go to 8540 Greenwood Dr.,” Ted told me over the
phone. “And be dressed up as a schoolgirl,” he says.
“Okay.”
The schoolgirl costume was one of the easiest ones to patch together from thrift store items: knees-high, short skirt, white blouse. And then I’d put my hair in braids with little bows and call it done. I spent many years in catholic school. Who knew I’d be sporting that look again for income.
“Are these guys cool?” I ask Ted. “I mean, what do you know about them?”
“You’ll be fine. They’ve booked with us before,” he says. “A little young and immature, but harmless.” Usually young meant lousy tippers, but maybe I could make up with it in numbers.
I pulled up in front of the party house, which was a tri-level. I wore a long coat to hide my hookerific outfit from peering neighbors. My pockets were stuffed with my body rub business cards. I hadn’t asked Ted if it was okay for me to pass out my cards, pretty much because I knew the answer would be “no.” I didn’t see it as competing with his business and in any case, there isn’t a sex worker out there who wouldn’t try to cut out the middle man at every opportunity.
Before I got out of my car, I checked my hair and makeup for the hundredth time. A crowd of guys was a completely different situation than a body rub. I considered myself more of a one-on-one girl rather than one who could work a room. I become introverted in a crowd, but I was going to fake outgoing and bubbly tonight. Guys don’t tip wallflowers, even if they are naked. And any sense of weakness from me, such as wishy-washy boundaries, could be detected by the pack of hyenas. I did not want to be the descended-upon doe. Coy, flirty, vivacious Victoria—that was me for the night.
Wrapped tight in my coat to avoid the biting winter wind, I knock, hoping these guys won’t leave me waiting long. Au contraire, a near-naked woman always gets ushered in quickly.
“Hi, I’m Victoria,” I say, unbuttoning my coat and holding it out for the greeter to take. “Where’s the bachelor?”
Confessions of an Erotic Masseuse: A Memoir Page 14
