by Candice Dow
“A photographer?” I asked, with a perplexed stare.
“Now that you’re in the club…” He paused. “You are committed to being in the club, right?”
With all the money I just spent, I thought, how can I not be in the club? I nodded. “Yeah, I’m in.”
“Good, I’ll need to put you in the portfolio.”
“Portfolio?”
“Yeah, grab the one on the island in the kitchen on your way up. It’s outdated, but you’ll get a clue of what I include for my clients’ perusal.”
He seemed short with me, but I didn’t know what that was about. Maybe we’d transitioned into the more professional phase of the process. I didn’t like it but I had to handle my business. As I headed up the stairs I tried psyching myself out. This is a job. Thorne is your boss, not your friend.
Before jumping in the shower I browsed through the portfolio. Each girl had her own profile with several head shots, a summary of her likes and dislikes, her measurements, her educational level, and her profession. It simply amazed me that some of these women had doctorate degrees and professional jobs, many were business owners, but they still chose to do this. It made me feel almost honored. It seemed like almost every girl had at least a bachelor’s degree. I’d been looking at it as just sex, but the clients obviously had requirements. Apparently any old girl would not do. They were willing to pay the price for the pedigree Thorne offered.
I took a quick shower and put on the brand-new robe that was lying on my bed. When I headed downstairs the family room had been transformed into an all-out spa. There was a massage table in the middle of the floor. The makeup artist introduced herself to me. After wiping her hands with an alcohol towelette she began touching my skin. She asked, “What type of skin regimen do you have?”
I shrugged. “Neutrogena, witch hazel.”
She laughed. “You have pretty skin, so you can get away with that for a while. If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”
“I’m twenty-three.”
She nodded like she could tell my age. “As you get older, your skin won’t shed the dead skin cells as much. So you need to adopt a healthy skin regimen now. A facial every two months or so will have you flawless.”
She explained that prior to making up my face she was going to give me a therapeutic facial. I lay on the table and it felt like she was doing some sort of wax-on-wax-off with creams and scrubs. My mother got facials at least monthly and it never seemed to do much for her skin or her attitude. I lay there thinking this was a huge waste of time. After the makeup artist was done she handed me the mirror and said, “Look at the difference in your skin.”
I rolled my eyes, feeling a little doubtful. I didn’t believe that a difference would be immediately apparent, but I was shocked by my reflection. My skin felt like a baby’s bottom and my complexion was completely blemish-free. I kept touching it and she laughed.
I said, “Oh my goodness, it feels great.”
She told me that she would apply the makeup once my hair was done. Shortly after, a flaming gay guy stormed in. I assumed he was the hairstylist and it was confirmed when he introduced himself. He stood behind me and hesitantly picked through my hair.
He said, “Oh, honey, we got to do something about these glued-in tracks.”
Neither the makeup artist nor the hairstylist was making me feel pretty. If I’d been asked twenty-four hours earlier about my cute factor, I would have rated it pretty high, but I was feeling pretty subpar as Lenny continued to critique me. “Where did you get this hair, honey?”
“The hair store,” I said apprehensively, because the frown on his face stated that wherever I got it wasn’t the right place.
He laughed. “Once I’m finished with you, you’ll never go back to a homemade weave.”
I never considered my weave to be homemade. I’d actually gone to a professional stylist and I usually got a lot of compliments. Frowning, I said, “Probably not.”
He said, “Trust, honey.”
It was clear that Lenny knew he was the hair king. In the portfolio all the girls looked like models, and certainly, if I wanted to increase my clientele, I needed to be sure my pictures represented me appropriately or at least made the best of what I had.
Lenny literally ripped all those tracks from my hair and left me touching my scalp wondering if any of my own hair remained. After giving me a treatment, Lenny cut much of my hair. That was fine because it had been a long time since I’d worn my own hair, so that length didn’t bother me. He blew the short mushroom hairstyle out and the roots felt bone-straight. He began sewing in tracks in strategic places throughout my hair. After he trimmed the hair he let me touch it.
“Feel that, honey. See, that glue stuff is played.”
I smirked slightly, but it felt good and quite natural. The long hair flowed down my back. It was light and bouncy. His technique was certainly better than what I’d had. I wanted Thorne to see me but I hadn’t heard his voice the entire time I was getting polished.
The makeup artist came back to the family room with a large suitcase full of makeup. I was thinking, That’s a lot of face painting. She sat me down in a brightly lit place and quickly got down to business. It felt like she was literally putting layers and layers of mud on my face. I began to feel uncomfortable, wondering if I looked like a cake face, but I assumed that this was the same beauty team Thorne had used many times before. Knowing him to be a perfectionist, I was certain that if I didn’t look right, he wouldn’t have a problem asking to have my face redone. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she told me that she was done. I stood and walked to the bathroom. I stared in the mirror at a beautiful stranger. I had never known that I was capable of looking so flawless. It felt like I should be on someone’s runway instead of in someone’s bed.
As I admired myself, I heard Thorne’s voice. “Where’s London? We have to get a move on. The stylist is here. Let’s go!”
I rushed from the bathroom. “I’m ready.”
“Go in that room right there.”
When I walked in I saw a white English bulldog in a cage. “Hey, buddy,” I said, stooping by his cage.
He lazily looked up at me and Thorne came in the room. “Hey, I’m glad you two are getting along. Your shoot is going to be done with Oscar.”
Speaking to a young lady with a real earthy, Zen vibe, Thorne said, “Nori, get her clothes on.”
Her Afro was about ten inches high and she wore an entire arm of metal bangles. How the hell did granola girl become my stylist? She removed the cover from a rolling rack of clothes and grabbed a cream-colored straight-cut three-quarter-length trench coat with a butterfly collar and large gold buttons. Handing the hanger to me, she said, “This is your first look. We can go in this room right here.”
When I walked into the bedroom, there were large gold accessories lying on the table and gold platform shoes on the floor. I dropped my robe and asked the stylist, “Should I keep on my underclothes?”
“Just your panties,” she said, as she held the coat out for me to put on.
As I unsnapped my bra I felt a little bashful. When I looked at her this-is-just-business expression, I quickly pulled it off and slipped into the coat. She hooked a gold slave choker around my neck. Then she grabbed the bracelets. “Here, put these on.”
She stepped back and looked me up and down. Her face squinted like there was something not quite right. She unsnapped the necklace. “Let it hang off of you a little.”
It was as if I were a three-year-old being dressed by my mother. Considering that I think of myself as relatively stylish, it was a bit of a challenge to let this lady have complete control over me. Finally, after she swiftly switched and swapped accessories, she nodded. “Okay, you’re good.”
She opened the door and I said, “Can I look in the mirror?”
“Go ahead, but we have to move fast. We don’t have all day.”
Trying my best to ignore her frigid demeanor, I pranced over to th
e mirror and offered her a partial smile. She smirked with an arrogant shrug, like she was thinking, I know I’m bad. I was looking good thanks to Thorne’s glam clan and I knew it. I strutted out of the bedroom and into the room where the photographer had set up a studio. Lights. Camera. Action.
There were a white backdrop and huge studio lights in the roomy space. Thorne entered the room with Oscar, who seemed to be quite calm. He lifted the heavy dog and put him in my arms. I nearly toppled over. “Wow, he’s solid.”
As the photographer instructed me, I sat down and lay down on the floor. Lenny rushed over to fix my hair to make it spread out like a fan. Thorne placed the well-trained Oscar on top of me, almost like a baby resting on its mother’s breast. The photographer stood over us and took several shots. With each snap of the camera the energy in the room seemed to increase, and everyone nodded with approval. We then moved to the fireplace, and the photographer had me stand with my legs apart and Oscar at my feet. Then he took some shots without the dog.
We moved to the next outfit, black lingerie with leather trim and thigh-highs. I posed in various positions with a silver dog chain. As I knelt on all fours with the dog chain in my mouth, the photographer turned on a fan that made my hair blow. Thorne clapped. “That’s the money shot.”
A part of me hoped that meant we were done. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case. I changed clothes two more times and the photographer took what felt like a thousand more shots. I was exhausted and irritated with people shouting instructions at me by the time we were finished. I really just wanted to go upstairs and take a damn nap.
Before everyone rolled out, I headed up to my bedroom to prepare for the night. I sat on the bed thinking that if I could just snooze for fifteen minutes I would be good. It was thirty minutes later when Thorne knocked at the bedroom door. I popped up and looked at the clock on the nightstand. My heart raced as if I were doing something wrong. I rushed to open the bedroom door and a weird-acting Thorne entered.
He had seemed strange all evening, but I assumed it was because he was in business mode while conducting the photo shoot. Clearly there was something on his mind, as my smile was greeted with a raised eyebrow and a disappointed expression.
“What’s up?” I asked, letting it roll slowly off my tongue.
He kicked aside the bags sitting on the floor as he sat down on the bed. “Is this what you plan to do with your money?”
“No. I just picked up a few things.”
“London, I want you to be smart. It’s easy to get caught up in this lifestyle and want to spend every dollar you make, but that’s not the point. You want to secure your future doing this. Always save a portion of your money. In a couple of months you’ll have the spare change to splurge on foolish things. But if you’re doing it with the little money you just made, you’ll always be working just for today.”
There was nothing I could really say, but no matter what he said, I had needed that shopping spree to rationalize my actions. I said, “I understand.”
“Did you spend all of your money?”
“No, not all of it.”
“Keep your mind on your money. That’s why I told you to shelter your money in a business account. If you don’t, mark my words, you’ll wake up at forty wondering where all the money and time went.”
I hoped to have more self-control in the future. He gave me the details and location of my appointment. Then he left the room without his extra affection, and it left me longing for one of his hugs or kisses on the forehead. It didn’t feel good, but work never does.
11
The only information Thorne provided me about client number two was that he was a professional football player. He had selected me from a snapshot that Thorne provided him. The driver pulled up to the W Hotel in Westwood. My heart raced a bit faster than the evening before. It seems like the first time you do something outlandish it’s easier. I slowly stepped out of the car, wondering if it was too late to turn around. Did I really have the gall to do this night after night? Could I wake up to a stranger every day? Would the money always be enough to keep me going? With each step I contemplated, but came closer and closer to the hotel room door of my second client.
To reduce the anxiety spilling out of my pores, I rubbed my hands together and gently cupped them over my nose and mouth in a prayer-like gesture. I took a few deep breaths and finally tapped gently on the door. A few seconds passed. Maybe I should just leave. Just as the thought entered my mind, he opened the door. I prayed that my expression did not reflect what I felt inside. Utter shock. As I stood there looking at one of the most popular football players in the league, I scrambled to find what I was supposed to say or do next. What were the chances that I would get the opportunity to be with a man I loved on my second encounter? I was starstruck. One side of me was honored, but the other side was nervous as hell. I didn’t want to mess up. With him, I felt like I had something to prove.
I smiled because I didn’t know what else I should do. The door opened wide to reveal all of him. He wore nothing except a white towel wrapped around his waist. He was taller in person than he appeared on television and his muscular arms looked like works of art. His chest was rock-solid. Tattoos spanned the length of his arms, although I could barely make out any of the symbols. His skin was the color of onyx and it glistened as if he had just taken an oil bath. I instantly wanted to slip and slide all over him. He was fresh, clean, and smiling back at me as I entered his suite.
“Hello,” I said, brushing past him.
As the door slammed shut he grabbed my arm and pulled me to be face-to-face with him. “What’s up, ma?”
“You,” I said, as his sensual scent captivated me.
Getting down to the reason for my visit, he dropped his towel and guided my hand to touch him. My hand struggled to surround the circumference of his endowment. It felt like he had implanted a can of Lysol in place of his penis. As I stroked up and down, I thought maybe Thorne should implement a size pay scale: Anyone over a certain length should be required to pay a bonus.
“Take this shit off,” he said, referring to my dress.
I raised it over my head and stepped out of my heels. He backed up and sat on the bed. I knew what he wanted next, but I wasn’t sure I was capable of stretching my mouth that wide. As if he could see the hesitation, he looked down at the stiff monster protruding from him and said, “Kiss it.” I coaxed my brain to crave him so that I could produce enough saliva to manage the task at hand. Slowly, reluctantly I knelt down and began handling my business. There was absolutely zero pleasure for me, just jaw pain and irritation, yet I pretended to be indulging in a tantalizing treat. I prayed he would climax so I could just stop. Finally, he said he wanted to feel me. I yanked off my panties and grabbed a condom from my purse. He said, “Naw, I got my own condoms.”
He grabbed a condom from a pile on the bed and quickly rolled it on.
“Lay on your back.”
He climbed on top of me and looked into my eyes as he attempted to fill me to capacity. He made distressing facial expressions, and I took deep, long breaths. Finally I received him. He ground passionately and I studied his every move. I hoped, I wished, I wanted to be pleasing to him despite the torture for me. I screamed and talked dirty. We moved from position to position. I stared at the clock, wondering how much longer.
Finally he humped rapidly and I kissed on his chest, hoping that yes, this was it. When he collapsed on me I was like Thank you. He rolled onto his back and we both faced the ceiling in the dark room. He turned over on his side and propped his head up on his hand. He slung his other arm over and began to play with my nipples. It was awkward because I wasn’t sure what we should be talking about. I wondered when he’d ask me to leave. He sat up and grabbed another condom.
“Get on top?”
You have to be friggin’ kidding me. He was serious, though. In less than ten minutes, this man was ready for another round. I climbed on top of him and went to work, hoping to put him to
sleep, but he showed no signs of fatigue. Round two lasted longer than the first. Not only did he endorse an energy drink, he obviously overdosed on it too. I was completely worn out, but that didn’t seem to matter to him as we had rounds three and four. It was no wonder he had to pay for sex. I couldn’t imagine that anyone would volunteer for this abuse. I hoped I’d still have some left after being with him.
Finally he began to snore. Please don’t wake up, I prayed. After about twenty minutes passed I assumed he was done. I tried to slide out of his strong embrace to shower, but when I moved, he moved. I didn’t want to wake him, so I lay there looking at the sunrise. My mind went back to my conversation with Thorne. This was not free money, because I had earned every penny that night. I planned to find a way to make my money work for me.
He got a wakeup call at around eight in the morning, less than two hours after he had dozed off. Ugh! I was so irritated and exhausted. I lay there praying he didn’t want any more and that he would just let me rest. He sat up on the side of the bed and walked over to pull the curtains back. The sun beamed right into the room. I stretched and turned in the opposite direction.
“Good morning, soldier.”
Assuming he was talking to me, I said, “Good morning.”
“You up?”
As a rule, you stay until the client asks you to leave. I hoped that was next as I sat up, yawning. “Yes, I’m up.”
He scrambled in his luggage. “You good?”
Aside from my vagina being chafed, my legs muscles being sore, and my head spinning from the lack of rest, I was okay. I nodded and offered a fake smile. Just say thank you so I can leave!
He headed toward the bathroom. “I’m ordering breakfast. You want something?” He tossed the room service menu onto the bed. “Here you go.”
As I perused the menu he told me what he wanted and asked me to call it in whenever I decided. He walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to spend the day there, but I was ready to go. I wanted to shower and take a nap. Instead I picked up the phone to order breakfast.