Nearly an hour later, I'm finally sitting down to eat with Natalie.
"She said that?" she asks, listening intently. "I mean, she's usually hard on everyone at first until they find their own way."
I nod. "What do I say to that? Like, thanks? I'm glad to know I give a good blowie? I think I need to work on my O game. Apparently I don't know how to fake it." I exhale, frustrated. "Nat, he sounded like he had an entire carton of Newport cigarettes for breakfast. He was grunting and making noises like he was dying. It made my skin crawl. How do you fake it to that when you keep looking over your shoulder to see if he's about to croak?"
Natalie is laughing so hard she has tears in her eyes.
"That's terrible," she says when she catches her breath. "I guess you just focus on the money. You're getting paid to perform. The better you are, the more you get. And once you start raking in the dough, you'll want more and you'll work even harder to get it. It's addicting."
I glance across the street and watch someone jaywalk. "Did you feel dirty after? Shameful?"
She nods, cupping her hair behind her ear. "Yeah, I did, but that's normal. It took, probably, a handful of times for the grime to wash away? I mean, it doesn't ever go away completely. It just gets easier. Listen, for the most part, they're clean-cut men, not dirty slobs, so the way I see it, it could always be worse."
I rub my arms, holding myself. "You have a point. I just hated how I felt last night when I got home. I stayed in the shower until it ran cold."
Natalie takes a sip of her water. "That sounds about right. It'll get easier…unless you don't want it to?"
"No, I do. I can do it again. Sex isn't a big deal to me. It’s just sex, you know? No-strings-attached sex, like any other time, just cash is involved. It shouldn't change anything, but it does," I say, and she nods in agreement. "I just have to not be so nervous and panicky…and be a little dirty. I think I was focusing too much on the rules and what I should and shouldn't be doing."
"A lot of girls don't return, which is understandable. It's not for the faint of heart. Like you kind of have to have low principles to do this."
"Or be poor and struggling and not want to worry for once."
She tips her glass of water toward me. The ice cubes clink together. "That too. Why do you think so many women strip? The money is good and quick, and they want security."
As we eat, I muse over Natalie's words. I wonder if it'll ever get easier, if I'll get to a point where I don't feel as disgusting afterward. At least a little. I can't imagine anyone ever feels normal working in the sex trade. I'd think one would feel shame even long after they stop. But I also think it could give a sense of strength having gone through a chapter of their life no one is truly proud of to talk about and still come out on top from it.
"I think I've come up with a solution. If I don't feel differently after three jobs, I'm going to walk away and just go back to working myself to the bone rather than boning everyone else to take care of myself and Grammy."
"If that's what you need to do, then do it. I think it's a good idea, honestly. What are you going to do about this O issue you have?" she asks, dipping warm bread into the seasoned hummus.
"No clue. Practice?"
Her eyes light up and she's grinning from ear to ear. "Can I be there to laugh at you while you try?"
I bundle up my straw wrapper and throw it at her. "You're an asshole. Of course."
The check comes and for once I pay for it with ease. It makes me feel good that I can, then we head back to our apartment together.
Once we're in and the door is locked, I take out an old book and Natalie helps me carve out a deep square for my new money. Eight thousand dollars, just like Christine promised. I wrap the hundreds in stacks of thousands and use a black marker to write the number one on each band to represent my first job, then I place the banded stacks in the book and close it.
Living in a city rich with sin and opportunity, I was always under the impression that if I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.
And I would.
Come Hell or high water, I refuse to be another statistic that New York got the best of.
And yet, that’s what I felt like I was quickly becoming. A working girl with no set business hours on the corner just trying to make a quick buck to get by.
Twenty
I frown at my phone while trying to get to class on time, wondering why Grammy wasn’t picking up. She usually gets up before the sun rises to feed her cats, so it's highly unusual that she’s not answering her phone. A shoulder bumps into me but I keep going, mumbling an apology. I can't be late, but her not answering doesn't sit well in my stomach.
I decide to try her again after class.
Social Science Statistics. I chuckle to myself. I feel like most of my classes were a forewarning to my new job and I just didn't know it until now.
After the two-hour lecture, Grammy still isn’t answering, which only worries me more. This isn't like her. She always answers or calls me right back. With each step I take down the street, there's an underlying, rapidly growing fear in my chest. A sickening feeling starts to bloom as I make my way to my last class.
Despite the anxious feeling in my stomach, I stop to buy a pretzel from one of the nearby street carts to appease my rumbling stomach. I contemplate skipping class to hop on the subway so I can check on her when my phone lights up with her name. Relief courses through me and I answer the phone midchew.
"Grammy, where have you been?"
"Oh, sweetie, I slept in. I can't believe what time it is. I woke up to the cats crying and one of them was licking my face."
I grimace. I hope I never wake up to someone, or something, licking my face.
"You never sleep in," I say.
"I guess my body needed the rest. Are you okay? I saw a lot of missed calls on my caller ID. Now you have me concerned. Are you okay? Is something wrong?"
I take another bite. "I'm fine, everything's okay. I just wanted to make plans to take you out for Thanksgiving, but then you weren't answering and I got worried."
"Aubrey." She almost seems exasperated and that makes me smile. "You don't have to mother me."
"I know. Anyway, I want you to pick any restaurant."
"That's a month away and it's not necessary. I will cook."
I knew she'd say that. She loves to be in her kitchen.
"Nope. I'm taking you out, so pick a place by the end of the week, that way I can make reservations. Now that I've heard your lovely voice, I can breathe again and head to my last class. Love you."
"Love you too, sweetheart."
Hanging up, I chuck the pretzel wrapper into the trash and slip my phone into my purse, never my back pocket, and walk a couple of blocks to one of the many tall concrete buildings that make up the best city in the world. Stepping inside the lecture hall, I take a seat.
As the class quiets down, I hear my cell phone vibrating. Blinking, I sit up and reach into my bag, thinking it's Grammy calling me back, only to realize it's my Valentina phone.
My heart freezes. This weird blend of anxiousness and dread swirls around in my stomach. I'm excited but I'm not. I shoot a glance around the room to see if anyone is watching, but no one is.
Placing my phone in my lap, I slide my thumb across the screen to unlock and read the message. It’s short and to the point.
Another job. Seven thousand this time. And it’s at Sanctuary Cove.
What the fuck does the client want for that amount of money?
Apprehension comes with the territory, but it's churning in my stomach and hardening the food I just ate to stone. Fuck, I'm nervous. Natalie was right. It's only two days away, and if I had known a week beforehand like she did, I probably would've canceled.
Seven. Thousand. Dollars.
I have to admit, the money is starting to change my tune.
I cross my legs, my foot bobbing. My fingers are jittery, and the anticipation is quickly rising to the surface. I can't tell if it's
a warning sign or just performance anxiety, or the fact that I know it's wrong and I'll end up in Hell for this.
I take a deep breath, then send Madame Christine a reply, agreeing to the job. After all, after that first asshole, how bad could this one be?
* * *
"Natalie," I blurt into the phone. "Nat? Are you there?" I repeat urgently, my voice filled with shock. I'm so disturbed right now I can barely form sentences. "Where are you?"
"Just getting home. What's up? You sound sketched."
Relief courses through me and I close my eyes. I hear her keys jingle in the background and then a door shut.
"That's because I am! Break out the bottle. I need to tell you what the fuck happened with this client. Never in my life…" My voice trails off. "I just got off the subway. I'll be there soon."
"On it," she says, then hangs up.
I didn’t bother with a town car for the ride home. Instead, I had it drop me at the nearest subway entrance, then I walked underground to jump on the train and took it to my usual stop. It was faster, and I felt better being surrounded by normal people.
I climb the flights of stairs leading to and from the subway in record time wearing four-inch strappy Tom Ford heels. At this rate, I'm going to have the best legs on the block just from the station stairs alone. One of them is over a hundred and fifty feet below level. Meaning, a lot of fucking stairs.
Natalie must've heard my click-clack coming down the hall because she's waiting for me with a double shot of tequila the second I throw the door open. I drop everything and reach for it. I don't wait for her. I tip it back and let it burn the back of my throat. The hair on my arms rise, goose bumps coating every inch. I wave to her for another one.
"Damn. I can't wait to hear what happened with this John."
"The biggest fucking weirdo you've ever seen."
She clucks her cheek and hands me another, then takes one for herself.
"I'm sure I have some stories that'll make your head spin."
My eyes narrow. I'm not sure she can top this story, but in a strange way I hope she can. Maybe that would help me feel better about all of this. I swallow the second shot, then yank off my pumps and drop them to the floor in a clunk.
"He had a serious Hannibal Lecter fetish."
Creases form between her eyes. "What do you mean?"
I walk into my room, needing to get out of these clothes. As Nat follows me, I consider the odds of surviving a bleach bath.
"What I mean is"—I pull down the straps of my beige dress, the one he requested I wear because it's the color of my fucking skin—"I had instructions to walk into a room at Sanctuary Cove and lock the door. The room was freezing, like it had to be thirty degrees. I found the John sitting in the dark, buck naked, with a fucking mask on his face, Natalie. The one Buffalo Bill wears in Silence of the Lambs. I almost ran from the room."
Just thinking about it again makes my heart fucking hammer against my ribs.
Once the dress is on the floor, I reach into my dresser and grab a baggy shirt that goes to mid-thigh. I unsnap my bra and let that fall too. Tugging the shirt over my head, I sit on my bed and pull one knee up and just stare at her, trying to figure out where I should start. I’m still shaking, and I feel like I need a hug and for someone to tell me it's going to be okay while they rock me in their arms. I also desperately need a shower, but I feel like I have to get this out first.
"What did you do when you found him like that?"
"For one, he had his dick tucked between his legs, so I didn't even see it," I say, and Natalie looks concerned. "I froze because I literally thought I was going to die or be mauled by some freak in a leather mask with a hidden dick."
She chuckles then. "You're kidding me?"
"I wish I was. He poured a glass of red wine the moment I walked in. I would later realize it was Chianti. I don’t know why he was pouring it, since there was no way he’d be able to drink through his mask. Anyway, he doesn't even say hi, he just gives me a blank fucking stare while he's petting a dog."
She frowns. "A dog?"
I nod fervently. "Yeah, like that cute, fluffy white one in the movie. So he tells me to strip. No biggie," I say, shrugging casually. "I do, but he's talking really slow, and asking me to strip really slow, like extra slow because he yelled through the mask for me to turn around and bend over to touch my toes." She acts like this is nothing shocking and so I continue, though I'm extremely exasperated while I'm telling her. "He asked me to spread my cheeks and push. Push, Natalie. Push as in you have to take a shit or something." She's starting to laugh now but I don't find it funny. "The whole night was mortifying and extremely demeaning. I wanted to tell Christine to never book me for him again. Of course I didn't after she handed me the seven grand." She's laughing even harder now. "I wanted to die. Thank God I got that awful waxing."
"Wait… Did you push?"
I flatten my lips. "Of course I did. I could see him over my shoulder. Once I started pushing, he reached between his shaved legs and started playing with his dick."
She covers her mouth, fighting the fit of laughter trying to break free. "And here I thought I had worse stories than this."
Brows raised high, I hold up my index finger. "Then, then, he grabs a bottle of lotion from God knows where and starts rubbing it on his dick. He stands and rolls a condom on. I thought the condom would slide off since he lathered himself up first, but it didn't. So I bend over and silently question what I got myself into when the next thing I know, he's literally ramming into me so hard I fall forward and he pops out. I hit the fucking wall."
"Ram Jam strikes again!" she yells, laughing. "Did you really fall?"
I nod, lips puckered together. I feel the liquor warming my veins and my shoulders relaxing a bit.
"Yes, my head hit the wall and I fell to my knees. I probably have a bump." I reach up and touch my head, feeling for it. "I wasn't doing anything but bending over at the time, so I had nothing to hold onto when he rammed me with his vanilla bean scented dick. I was so caught off guard that it took me a second to get up. Apparently I didn't move fast enough because he grabbed me by my hair and told me he wanted to wear my skin because it's so supple and soft. First of all, what the fuck? And second of all, what man says supple?"
"Buffalo Bill," she says, smiling.
"You know the rule that we can't come until the client does? It won't be an issue with guys like this nut job. Any more clients like him, I'm gonna dry up permanently and become a sister of God. Anyway, after he fucks me while making these slithery snake sounds, he made me rub lotion on him."
Her jaw drops. "Okay. You're making this up."
"Hand to God, I'm not."
"Keep going."
"He told me he wanted me to rub lotion on his body, so I did. All I kept thinking was that I'm getting paid good money for this or else I would've left. He had me put it all over him, every inch, while still wearing the mask. Mind you, he's hairy as fuck, so it's triple gross. Then, he made me rub lotion on myself. He wanted me to go really slow over my nips and vag, and then he freaking asked me if he could suck my toes." I exhale a stress-filled sigh and shiver in revulsion. "You know how I feel about feet, but I let him anyway, because hello, money. Once he was done, he asked if he could pretend shave me with the dull side of a butter knife."
Her eyes widen and the laughter dies down then, her expression turning worried.
"Of course I do, but at one point I felt like in his mind he was peeling off my skin because his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his dick got hard. Once he wiped the lotion off my body, I cursed myself when he said to put the lotion on both of us again. Again! How much lotion does one man need? Nat, I was sliding off the plastic-covered couch already, and I didn't feel like lubing us both up again. Plus, the cream he wanted me to use had a really strong scent."
"Plastic?" She looks confused.
"Yeah, he had a clear plastic cover on the couch, like people did in the sixties. I was slipping all o
ver it and sweating at the same time."
"That's bizarre."
"Yeah, so I shake my head, telling him no more lotion. I didn't want to be fake shaved again, and I knew that's where he was going. He got too close to my goods with the butter knife the first time."
Natalie’s face falls and she pales like I just told her I’d killed the guy. I know we're not allowed to, but there are some things that I'm realizing I will say no to. Rules be damned.
"You told him no? Tell me you didn't." Her voice is full of dread.
"Yes, I did. I was nervous with that fucking knife! He even ‘shaved’ my back and got extremely close to my exit zone. Don't tell me you would've said, ‘Yes, please give me more.’ How do I know he wasn't going to stab me with it?"
She purses her lips. "You have a point, but I wouldn't be surprised if he goes to Christine."
I pause for a moment, thinking about the finale of imposter Buffalo Bill’s creep show.
"He won't be going to her. You can trust me on that."
Her brows furrow. "What do you mean?"
"When I told him no and I shook my head, he legit said, 'It puts the lotion on its skin or it gets the cock again.'"
I pause and take a deep breath, wondering why this is my life and what I did to deserve it. Natalie covers her mouth, trying to not laugh over the worst night of my life.
Lowering my voice, my shoulders slump forward, and I say dejectedly, "I got the cock again."
Twenty-One
I didn't hear from Madam Christine for an entire week, which was a blessing in disguise. She probably knows the last test John she sent me is certifiable. I would bet a whole job payment that none of the girls want to work with him.
Natalie said Christine did this sometimes—knowing that her girls will never request time off, if the client is more demanding than the others, she would sometimes give them a few days to recuperate before texting them with a new job. It was her own way of being nice, I guess.
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