by EM BROWN
I make it to my morning class later than planned because I couldn’t resist hanging out on campus for a bit. I love the Berkeley campus and the college town that surrounds it. It reminds of Chapel Hill, where Lila went to college. While I love the hustle and bustle of students going to and from class and all the different eateries and hangouts that surround the school, my favorite part of the Berkeley campus is the creek that runs through it, shaded on both sides by tall trees and greenery. It’s like someone plopped a small piece of the forest right in the middle of all the large buildings of concrete and glass.
After sitting through the last hour of my morning classes, in which I’m distracted, thinking that maybe I should look into enrolling in a California State University school instead of Berkeley, I rush over to The Montclair. The umbrella Mr. Lee gave me yesterday came in handy as it started to rain on my walk over, but I plan to return the umbrella with a note of thanks.
I work the tenth and eleventh floors before taking a break and sit down to eat a turkey sandwich I bought from a Starbucks I passed on the way in. Making my own sandwiches would be a lot more cost effective, but when I come home from a long day of work and classes, I don’t feel up to going to the grocery store. Plus, since I don’t have a car, I’d have to get a ride from one of my roommates. Or I can Uber it, but that probably makes it a wash compared to buying a sandwich on the go.
“And my agent says this guy is willing to pay twenty thousand if you’re a virgin,” Sierra is telling Tracy, a receptionist who works in the front lobby. She also attends City College.
I sit at the other end of the table in the staff room from them and open my economics textbook to read while I eat my sandwich.
“Holy shit!” Tracy replies. “I wish I had my virginity still. I mean, for twenty thousand dollars, I’ll pretend to be a virgin.”
“You can’t pretend that shit. They’ll do an inspection.”
“They can tell by looking?”
“You’ve never looked at yourself in the mirror?”
“Not down there.”
“The hymen’s pretty easy to see. At least mine was. After I lost my virginity, it wasn’t there anymore.”
“I was told you can break your hymen riding a bike.”
“Well, even if you’re not a virgin, you can still make like a thousand dollars per night.”
“No way! Why would a guy pay that much? I mean, it’s got to be pretty easy to find a hooker for a lot less than that.”
“Because these men are rich. And maybe they don’t want some trashy disease-infested streetwalker.” Sierra slides a business card over to Tracy. “That’s my agent’s number. Call him if you’re interested.”
I try to understand the supply and demand curves in front of me, but my mind can’t get over the number Sierra had thrown out. Twenty thousand dollars. To have sex with a virgin? That’s crazy. Like medieval crazy. What’s so special about having sex with a virgin? The guy would have to be some pervert or pedophile to get a high from deflowering a woman.
Twenty thousand dollars. That’s eight months of pay if I worked full time. That would cover a full year of tuition and fees at Berkeley and some room and board.
My mind starts reeling. All for just one night of sex? What is my virginity worth to me?
Sierra and Tracy leave the staff break room to go outside to smoke. I finish my sandwich, and as I leave the table, I notice that the business card Sierra had slid over to Tracy is on the floor. Tracy must have dropped it. I pick it up and note the name of Dan Pullman, Pullman Model & Talent Agency. I pocket the card to give to Tracy.
The thought of having sex with a stranger in exchange for money makes me queasy. Though Lila only made it to church with me and Andre sporadically, it’s not how I was raised. Plus, it’s illegal. Even in California.
But damn. Twenty thousand dollars is a lot of money. I might never have a chance to make that much in one go. Not unless I win the lotto, and that’s not likely to happen. With twenty thousand dollars, I could definitely afford to buy a quality umbrella.
CHAPTER THREE
“Do you know much about Tony Lee?” I ask Judy Park, an older woman of Korean descent who is working Maria’s shift today. She and I spread new sheets over the king-size bed in the penthouse. All the sheets in The Montclair have a thread count of a thousand, which I’m told is what makes them so soft, but the ones in the penthouse suite have a thread count of eighteen hundred.
“His family very rich,” Judy replies.
I smooth the wrinkles off the flat sheet, wondering what it would be like to sleep in sheets this soft. “Is he from China?”
Judy nods. “He Chinese.”
“I didn’t know there were Chinese people that rich,” I say. Growing up in North Carolina, most of the Asian folks I come across are engineers or doctoral students at the universities. They don’t dress or look like Tony Lee.
Judy arches a brow. “The Lees, they in the Forbes 500. China has more billionaires than any other country except U.S. And that not include Hong Kong billionaires.”
“Does he come to the hotel often?”
She shakes her head. We finish the bedroom, and I go back outside to retrieve the umbrella from the trolley. I look about the living room to see where I should place the umbrella. I don’t want it to be overlooked, but I don’t want it to be too obtrusive either. I decide to lean it against the coat rack next to the door. That way he can grab it on his way out. I jot a thank you on a Post-it and stick it on the umbrella.
As I stand up, I hear male voices in the hallway. Rosa is still working on the bathroom, and we haven’t done the living room and dining room yet.
“You want, we come back later, Mr. Lee,” Judy offers as the man enters.
He wears a light colored three-piece suit, and I’m surprised that taupe can look so good on a man, but against his complexion and black hair, the color works well.
“You can finish,” he tells Judy as he takes off his coat. His vest hugs his body, accentuating the V-shape of his upper body. He glances at me but takes no further notice as he makes his way to the bar.
“Martini, dirty,” he says to the older gentleman who came in with him.
“Good memory,” replies his companion, taking a seat on the sofa. “So you gotta make nice with Drumm, eh?”
“That’s what my brother sent me here for,” Mr. Lee replies. “It’s a job my father and brother think I can’t fuck up too badly.”
I wipe down the dining table as quickly as I can so that we can be out of their way sooner rather than later.
The other man chortles. “Still, I’m surprised Jean-Jacques’s not out here himself. Seems a pretty important relationship since Drumm’s father could very well be the country’s next president.”
“Jean thinks Drumm and I can hit it off.”
Lee hands the man the martini but only has a glass of water for himself.
“To be honest, I think Eric Drumm is a twit—which is not to say that I think you are as well. Maybe your father and brother think you’ll do better ’cause you’re closer in age to Eric.”
I think Eric Drumm is about thirty years old. I’m not used to features like Lee’s, and he looks like he could be either younger or older than that. For some reason he feels older. Again, it’s the way he carries himself. Or maybe it’s because Drumm reminds me of a college frat boy based on what I’ve seen of him in the news.
“How long are you going to be with him?” the older man asks.
“Drumm invited me to spend a week with him. He wants to show me where he plans to develop a golf course and resort hotel.”
The men talk other business while I finish wiping down everything, dump out the wastebaskets and put new trash bags in them. Luckily, Rosa had taken care of the vacuuming first, so I’m wrapping up when Lee seems to be addressing me.
“Why is that here?”
I turn around, unsure that the question is directed at me, but he’s looking at me with those dark eyes of his. He doesn�
��t seem pleased, but maybe he’s just always on the serious side. I wonder if maybe I had dropped some trash while taking out the wastebaskets, but he glances over at the umbrella.
“Oh,” I say, “thanks for letting me use it yesterday.”
“I told you to keep it.”
“I thought it was a loaner.”
“Did you get a new one?”
“No...”
He raises his brows.
“I thought you or your driver might want it back,” I say, refusing to feel like an idiot for returning the umbrella.
“You don’t think I can get another umbrella?”
I don’t know what to say. I do feel like an idiot. Of course he could get another umbrella. Hell, he could probably get a million umbrellas if that many could be had.
“Take the umbrella,” he instructs.
Like, now?
Reading my mind, he says, “Now. And I don’t want it back. Do you understand? You’re not going to prosper in life if you don’t know how to receive things.”
Umbrella in hand, I feel like a chastened child. He didn’t have to be so patronizing. I was only trying to be courteous.
He turns back to his companion, having clearly finished with me.
Rosa has emerged from the bathroom, and we pack up quickly and leave quietly.
“He gave you his umbrella?” Judy asks me as we head to the elevator.
“He saw I didn’t have one yesterday,” I reply.
“You lucky. My daughter would dream to be his girlfriend.”
“He’s not married?” Rosa inquires.
Judy smiles broadly, shaking her head, and I think that she might have dreams of her own concerning Mr. Lee.
“I was trying to return his umbrella, and I think I upset him,” I think aloud.
“Can I see the umbrella?” Rosa asks as if she expects to find it jewel encrusted.
I’m glad to have the umbrella later as it keeps me dry on my walk to the MUNI station after work. On the ride home, I get a text from Talia that she received a letter from the landlord informing us he’s raising the rent after our lease is up in two months. Dang. I’m already paying two hundred dollars more a month because Alexia’s roommate moved out, and we haven’t found a replacement to split the rent four ways instead of three.
“You’ve got to go to Berkeley,” Lila tells me when I call to update her on what the financial aid officer told me. “It’s a damn good school. ’Course, I always dreamed you would be a Tarheel like me, but you can’t pass up an opportunity like this. It’s not easy getting into Berkeley, and you did it.”
“Andre’s coach thinks he’s good enough to get a scholarship,” I say as I sit down at the dining table in my apartment and sort through the mail that’s mine.
“We’re talking about you, Ginny. I was thinking about some extra work I could pick up to support Andre’s basketball so—”
“But you work enough hours as it is,” I protest. Lila does foster placement for the county social services department. That’s how she came across me and Andre. I had been with several different foster families, and Andre had been in a home. She has more cases than the county can pay her for, and I know she donates a lot of her time.
“This is your time. Your future. Don’t give up on it.”
Before hanging up, I assure Lila I won’t make any hasty decisions. I open my credit card bill to see that I’ve racked up another hundred dollars in interest. Dang. I’ve only been paying the minimum for the last few months, and at this rate, I won’t be able to pay off my credit card until long after I’m dead.
I slouch into the dining chair and stuff my hands into my coat pockets. My hand connects with the business card I have yet to return to Tracy. Pulling it out, I stare at it.
Twenty thousand dollars. Is that for real?
I consider the kind of trouble I could get into and shove the card back into my pocket.
“I raised you better than that,” I can hear Lila saying.
But what if...
I picture Andre going to this basketball camp and getting a scholarship, Lila working extra hours in between taking medication for her frequent bouts of arthritis and heartburn, and me enrolled at UC Berkeley, getting to stroll by Strawberry Creek every day, taking classes from world-famous professors, attending events like football games. Maybe Andre would visit me, and I’d take him to see the men’s team play.
Suddenly, it’s a simple decision.
I pull out the card.
CHAPTER FOUR
This is real.
I lay motionless on the examining table as the woman inspects me between the legs. I pretend I’m getting my annual wellness checkup. This woman inserts a gloved finger into me. It’s uncomfortable, but so is the speculum used by gynecologists.
The woman takes off her gloves and tells me I’m done.
I sit in the reception area of the Pullman Model & Talent Agency, which I half-expected to be located in an old building with no central air and in one of the less savory parts of the city, like the Tenderloin, given the nature of its extracurricular activities. But the office is nicely appointed and the furniture looks new. Headshots of beautiful women and men adorn the walls. I notice the photos of women outnumber the men two to one.
Forty minutes later, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline enters the office. “Virginia, eh? Dan Pullman.”
As I shake his hand, I wonder if I should have provided a fake name instead.
“Can I get you coffee or tea?” he asks.
“Maybe just water,” I answer. He doesn’t come across particularly sleazy, but I’ve only just met him.
He opens a mini fridge and pulls out a bottle of water for me. “So how did you come across my info, Virginia?”
“A co-worker of mine is a model with your agency.”
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
“Um, Sierra.”
He smiles. “Sierra is great. If she were just a few inches taller, she would be working actual modeling gigs.”
He looks me over from head to toe and now the sleaze starts to show. “Nice. I like what I see, Virginia. I think you’ll go for a great sum. You’ve got that innocent girl-next-door vibe. How old are you? Eighteen? I can’t take you unless you’re at least eighteen”
“Twenty-one.”
“You got proof of that?”
“My driver’s license.”
“Good. All you got to do is fill out some paperwork and wait for my call.”
He walks over to a desk and pulls out several sheets of paper. It’s as if I’m applying for representation from his agency.
“Is it true that I’ll be paid as much as twenty thousand dollars?” I ask as I receive the paperwork.
“You have to be chosen by a client first, but I had a model of mine just last week make thirty thousand. She had just turned eighteen. The younger the better. But you look like you can pass for eighteen.”
My stomach turns, and I begin to have second thoughts. Even though Talia said losing one’s virginity is just something to get out of the way, I have the feeling that a woman always remembers her first time. Do I really want my first time to be with a lech who likes jailbait?
“Do I get paid by the client?” I ask.
“They pay the agency, which takes its cut, and you get paid by the agency. Included in the paperwork is the W-9 tax form.”
“How much is the agency’s cut?”
“Twenty percent.”
I have no idea if that’s normal or not. On twenty thousand dollars, I would still get sixteen thousand, which is a mind-boggling amount for one night’s work. Or less than that.
“What happens if, like, people find out?”
“What people? How would they find out?”
“I don’t know. Just—could I get in trouble?”
“Look, Virginia, this is work. It’s an acting gig. My agency rounds up the talent, if the talent is selected and booked, my agency gets paid, and the talent gets paid. Some acting gigs call for t
hings like nudity. You’ve seen movies like Basic Instinct or Showgirls. It’s just like that.”
The thought that I’m just an actor playing a part reassures me. A little. But maybe I’m just trying to find reasons to justify a bad idea.
I fill out the paperwork, which includes a lengthy nondisclosure agreement. I hesitate before signing. “What if I decide, at the last minute, that I can’t go through with it?”
“Then you don’t. But the NDA still stands—to protect everyone’s privacy, you know. And of course you don’t get paid. But I bet you could do a lot with twenty thousand extra dollars. Buy yourself some nice boots. Take a trip to Hawaii. Pamper yourself with a spa and shopping spree.”
I look down at my pair of worn UGGs that I found at the Goodwill. They’re a little big on me, but they were a steal. Maybe I could indulge in buying a pair of brand new UGGs that are actually my size.
After I finish the paperwork, Dan calls in the woman who had examined me and proceeds to notarize the NDA.
“I started out as a notary,” he explains. He collects my thumbprint, then says, “You’re all set, Virginia. Welcome aboard the Pullman Model and Talent Agency.”
All of a sudden I feel like throwing up. I hurry out of the office and head to the restroom down the hall.
Just ’cause you signed some paper, doesn’t mean you have to go through with it.
At a sink, I splash cold water onto my face.
It’s a two-way street. The client has to like you, and you have to like him. Or at least find him tolerable.
But how could I find a man wanting to pay for sex with a virgin tolerable? And what if he’s not gentle? Will he ruin sex for me?
I spend the rest of the day vacillating on my decision. I even think about asking Sierra what her experiences with Pullman have been. I stop by the hotel to see if Sierra is there and if they need extra staff. That’s when I learn Mr. Lee has checked out. I find myself a little bummed. I wanted to get one more look at him—from a safe distance. I’m not sure why I find him intriguing even while he unsettles me. Maybe it’s because he seems like he’s from another place in time. Like he belongs in some 1930s gangster movie.