Blue Money

by Janet Capron

  “This looks great,” I said.

  “Supremely functional. Beds are all-around practical, the only kind of furniture worth having. You can do anything on them: sit, eat, read, sleep, fuck, anything. What else do you need?” Sigrid said. “Want some tea?”

  I was quietly speeding. My pupils were crowding out my irises, otherwise you couldn’t tell. But, as always, the drug made me romanticize. What was really getting to me was the china-blue, angel-blond, porcelain look of my hostess as she elegantly poured the boiling water into a potful of bancha leaves. Even though she was wearing jeans and a faded-blue man’s shirt with a hole in the shoulder and padding around in bare feet, there was a quality she had that I was sure inspired men to throw their coats over mud puddles in her path, send her flowers. She was a lady, a very white, delicate lady.

  “The thing is, I’d like to move in immediately if I could, except I don’t have a lot of cash right now,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s easy, no problem. I know how to get money any time,” she said.

  Sigrid made it sound like getting money was a hobby, something to do when you had nothing better to do.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “OK, but I don’t know what you’d be up for. Maybe it would bother you,” she said.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Good. Then I’ll let you in on it,” she said, pouring the tea into two mugs and sitting down across from me, where she proceeded to tuck one foot over her opposite thigh, then the other one, lotus style. She took a dainty joint out of her pocket, lit it, and passed it to me. It was very good dope.

  “I’ve got these friends, Vincent and Candy,” she said, sucking the smoke into her lungs and holding it. “You never met anyone like them, a trip, really. They run this, well, how should I put it, ‘emporium,’ I guess you’d call it, off Times Square. There’s a big theater in the back, where Vincent stages these live sex shows, only they’re actually morality plays that he wrote himself, allegories, you know? They’re really beautiful, except I don’t go in for that, that’s not my bag.

  “But in the front, he’s got this mini–massage parlor going. It’s just a roomful of massage tables with screens to simulate privacy, you know? Here’s the best part: each customer gets a timer. Fifteen minutes. Hand jobs, that’s all. It’s a piece of cake. Twenty-five dollars for a hand job. We keep fifteen of it. Do ten of those and you got the rent plus mad money. And you can do it for as long as you want. The guys are lined up in the hallway. It’s so easy, it’s like having a trust fund. Any time I’m feeling broke, I just call Vincent. We could pop down there on Monday if you like.”

  I shivered. Hand jobs—that is cold. I didn’t mind going to bed with someone for money. That had turned out to be a cinch, but mainly because it mimicked ordinary life and normal relations between a man and a woman. I could fantasize anything during the act; I could pretend, if it helped things along, that the john was my lover. But hand jobs? They were mechanical acts that exposed the whole enterprise for what it was: orgasm for money. Everybody likes to come, but men could and would pay for it. Even the poor ones would pay to come. The only sentimental note is that they preferred a delicate female hand to their own for a change. Meanwhile, I would be stuck with the reality of what I was doing. Hand jobs. But I looked at the fair Sigrid, the lovely lady who would inspire gallantry in the worst of heels, and I had to admit my attitude was silly and impractical.

  “I’ll definitely think about it,” I said.

  I went home and packed the few clothes I hadn’t lost or ruined somehow and generally got ready to move in with my new friend, Rose White. Before I left, I kissed and hugged Maggie good-bye, as if I were a kid on my way to Europe for the first time. She kissed and hugged me back, always willing to jump into the charade of a loving, uncomplicated parent-child relationship. We were the same size, so whenever we embraced, our bosoms collided. We were standing there in the hallway, pap to pap. It made me nervous. I had told her that my roommate did a term at Swarthmore, which was true, and that now she was studying to be an actress, which was also true.

  Maggie seemed relieved. She would go to bed that night telling herself I was just a child of the sixties after all, rebelling in a harmless and probably short-lived way, and all was right with the world. It made me sad. I didn’t enjoy in the least deceiving her and disappointing her over and over again. This was because despite years of the best adolescent therapists money could buy, despite one eerily removed professional after another telling me to get away from that destructive bitch who actually unconsciously loathed me (one guy did say exactly that), in spite of all this, a part of me had to admit, as I stood there in the middle of the warm hug, that I wanted desperately to please my mother. Even though I knew I wasn’t supposed to love her, because in enlightened psychiatric circles you had to hate your mother first before you could finally love her, I was never able to bring myself to go through the required healthy hating part. OK, so she neglected me when I was a kid. OK, so what. We also had a lot of laughs then. Right after I started third grade, my governess, Josephine, quit because, she said, she only took care of young children, and, at the age of eight, I was no longer one. From that time on, my mother hired a series of live-in maids who did their best to keep their distance. After Josephine left, there had never been anyone else. It was Maggie then or nothing.

  No Frills

  The taxi sailed downtown along the East River, on its way to deliver me to my first whorehouse. Corinne had referred me to her colleague Evelyn for a week’s work. She said it was part of my initiation into the Life. The late-morning, late-August sun poured its benign light over the dirty water, and the oily rivulets seemed to dance as if fish were chasing each other just below the surface. A compact little tug scooted under the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, reminding me of lives lived in the open. Mick Jagger’s taunting alto blasted over the car radio. I was preening again in the large hand mirror I had brought with me and singing along, occasionally catching the young, long-haired driver’s eyes in the car mirror staring at my shiny black hot pants that twitched to the rock ’n’ roll beat.

  In an hour’s time I would be sequestering myself with the first of an endless trail of strangers, all of whom would be sticking their strange penises into me, from eleven A.M. to seven P.M. for the next five days straight. And the truth is, rather than gritting my teeth, I was jumping with excitement, behaving more like a bobby-soxer on the way to her first hop than a prostitute booked for a week’s work. Appealing visions of iniquity danced in my head: satin sheets the color of wine, heavy drapes blotting out the street, and foreign men who looked vaguely like Marcello Mastroianni drawing on long cigarettes and appraising my delicate limbs through hanging corridors of smoke.

  Imagine my disappointment when confronted with the most ordinary of garden apartments, a floor-through on an equally unremarkable side street somewhere in the no-man’s-land of the teens. In fact, the single detail that might suggest “bordello” was the beaded curtain dividing the bedroom from the rest of the lackluster apartment.

  The madam, however, stood out against the backdrop of her beige-carpeted, brown-laminated living room.

  “You’re chicken pussy,” she said, “am I right?”

  “Excuse me, I’m what?”

  “You know, fresh. Take off your clothes. I want to be sure, have to check you for needle marks, sores, that stuff. My clients don’t want junkies, and they don’t get junkies. Capiche?”

  Evelyn had a nose and a chin that looked like they were going to get closer as the years went by, but those eyes were like shots from the soul, and her body was out of this world, slim and curvy like something out of a jerk-off magazine. She was wearing a tiny, fringed vest that just covered her breasts and silk hip huggers. Her straight brown hair hung down below her shoulders suspiciously like a hippie’s, I thought.

  As I stripped before the madam, who scrutinized the inside of my arms and the cheeks of my behind, I continued to look around. Finally, I couldn’t h
old back anymore.

  “But I don’t get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “I don’t know. I expected somehow something more, you know, sexy. This is strictly dentist-office decor.”

  “Rented. Everything in the joint. Rented. By the month,” Evelyn said.

  “Well, how’s a guy even supposed to get it up in an atmosphere like this?”

  “Put your clothes back on and sit down. We’ve got a client coming any minute,” she said.

  I did as I was told. “Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

  “No, no. I’m not offended. OK, let’s put it this way. Janet—that is your name, right?”

  “Yes, Janet.”

  “OK,” she said, sitting down next to me and poking her face into mine. “OK, Janet. Here’s the point: you got a lot to learn about men, girl, a lot. That’s obvious.” She leaned back, crossed her legs and stretched both arms out along the back of the rough brown plaid sofa.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because,” she said, pulling her arms down and putting her hands on her knees after uncrossing her legs until they hung wide open, “a stiff prick don’t need atmosphere. That’s the last thing a hard-on wants is atmosphere.”

  After she spoke, Evelyn paused for what seemed like a long time and trained her eyes on me as if she were looking for signs of life on the moon.

  “This is a whorehouse, honey. A whorehouse is no different than a men’s room, and we whores are the toilets. Capiche?”

  “I see. Toilets. Uh-huh.”

  “OK, I’m crude. But you might as well know what it is you’re getting into. Illusions don’t make life any easier. We’re douche bags, baby, that’s all. Still, it’s a quick buck, can’t take that away.”

  “I guess I never thought of it quite like that,” I said.

  “Nah, not too many girls in the Life do. The truth is tough to take.” She patted my knee, stood up, and stretched. “Ten to one you didn’t get into this on account of your high self-esteem.”

  “The hell with self-esteem. OK, maybe I don’t have any, but I don’t want any either. I don’t estimate myself at all. Maybe I’m great; maybe I’m shit. What measure would I use? It always comes down to what other people think, other people’s opinions. I’m not interested,” I said, glad to vent one of my pet theories.

  “Good, that’s a good trait for a ho to have,” Evelyn said, glancing at the electric clock on the wall. “OK, sixty-forty split. Blow job is fifty, straight is seventy-five, half ‘n’ half, a hundred. Up front. That covers it. Nothing fancy—my clients don’t go in for it. They’re meat ‘n’ potatoes, salt-of-the-earth, happily married, two kids, two cars, Long Island, New Jersey kind of guys. You’ll sail through this week. All my girls love it here.”

  Evelyn’s little no-frills whorehouse was an ideal introduction to the Life. If I’d had to compete with other comely young things, as I later would, or if I’d been expected to cater to those kinky, hard-to-please types (those idle, jaded whoremongers, usually remission men, who haunt the fancier cathouses around town where they spend hours sizing you up before they finally pounce on you), then I’m sure I would have bolted. But as it was, I could ease into it. In fact, hooking at Evelyn’s with her benign, singularly unimaginative clientele was less of a challenge than my own private love life had been for a long time.

  The first john of the day’s name was Frank. A mild, curly-haired Jewish fellow from the Five Towns, he sold appliances wholesale, lived happily, just as Evelyn had said, with his goyisha wife, Marion, and three kids somewhere out there on the flat moraine.

  He shared this information proudly (as so often was the case with these men, he was exceedingly proud of his domestic life) within the first fifteen minutes in the living room, where we three sat while he drank his highball, after politely requesting a coaster from the hostess. I don’t know why he thought I needed to know all this about him, but meanwhile, I was afraid he might be stalling because he wasn’t attracted to me. Finally, when he sensed he must get to it—time is money after all—he smiled shyly at me and stood up, offering his hand. It was the first intimation I had that he liked me. Probably too eagerly, I took it and waltzed off with him through the beaded curtains into the simulated motel-chain bedroom.

  I indiscriminately loved hard-ons. This made whoring a lot easier. I told myself freedom is loving the opposite sex—or, if you’re gay, your own sex, same difference—freedom is loving the whole thing because you love desire itself. Why is it women still aren’t free to love desire itself? I believed that I had dodged societal repression, that I was breaking out into a wild zone beyond male jurisdiction. In fact, my lust did act to save me. Only the palpable feel of a man, his very foreignness, could literally and otherwise penetrate my bad-dream state. Drugs and booze fixed it, too, but sex most of all.

  This was perhaps why my first inclination was to make love to the stranger, allowing him to undress me, as I never would later on. He got more than his money’s worth that lunch hour, tousling my funny hair, which was growing out in all directions, and playing with my clitoris until I came. I was still just a lover then, a sweetheart of a girl, no more sophisticated than the local high school slut when it came to sex. I wanted to be loved; some part of me wanted Frank and every other man to take me home to meet his mother.

  Evelyn was quick to set me straight. “You spent too long in there. I heard you moaning, too. What the hell is that all about?”

  I blushed with shame.

  “Janet, Janet, honey,” she said, pushing her face up against mine again, “you don’t make love to these clowns. That’s why they call it a ‘trick.’ Capiche?

  “Listen, now, to what I’m going to say. It’s the best piece of information you’re ever going to get. Lay the chump down and squat on him. Push your tits up, hold ’em there all squished tight, show him your cleavage, and make him come. The sooner the better. Save your juice for the pimp or whoever. But come on, kid. Get with it. You’re a whore now. You’re a pro. Act like it. OK?”

  To illustrate her point, Evelyn had grabbed her own large breasts and shoved them together while she talked. They were staring at me accusingly.

  “Yeah, OK,” I said, still weak with shame, remembering how Frank had actually hugged me there in the pitch-dark, and I had hugged him back.

  One thing I did get for my trouble was that he took my number. Frank was my first whorehouse trick and the first entry into what would become my own sizable book of clients, a valuable commodity that retiring whores sell to other whores, sometimes for thousands of dollars, just as a doctor sells his list of patients. Stealing a madam’s john is sure grounds for immediate dismissal, if you get caught. Corinne had warned me of this, and it was the first thing Evelyn had said to me over the phone. But every whore I ever knew gave out her number whenever she got the chance. And madams will look the other way, as long as they like you and as long as you don’t get greedy. Anyway, not every john will ask for your number. It helps if you happen to be his type. You wait to be sure you’ve hooked him, or otherwise he might even snitch.

  But Frank went for me. When he finally came to see me at Sigrid’s, he behaved like an ardent suitor, showering our humble digs with presents: an electric grill, a steam iron, a water pick, and a state-of-the-art clock radio. For this reason, Sigrid tolerated him, although she was pretty uncomfortable with the whole idea. According to her code, it was OK to jerk off anonymous strangers, but turning tricks with men who knew your name was another matter.

  One more aspect of Evelyn’s business that worked in my favor was the unhurried nature of it. Often, I grew restless, and eventually, I came to resent the empty hours I spent waiting for the next call or the next appointment. But it gave me a chance to ease into the job.

  Evelyn liked to smoke reefer; I preferred to duck into the bathroom and snort lines off my big hand mirror. Finally, toward the end of my first week, I told her about it. She did a line with me but regretted it immediately. Speed made her too h
yper, she said.

  “I don’t see how you can do that stuff and then just sit here, without even booze to take the edge off,” she said.

  Liquor during working hours was forbidden by Evelyn, as it was at most of the smaller houses; not so the big ones, where drinking at the bar with clients went with the job. But usually if a house featured only one whore, that one had to be self-contained, almost demure. The long afternoons did not in any way resemble a party there in the garden apartment; rather, each john’s visit was meant to be a restful interlude, and I was offered up as the equivalent of a soothing tonic.

  The time I spent at Evelyn’s was tranquil and easy once I got the hang of turning fast, efficient tricks in the darkened bedroom. A shaft of southern light trained itself against the vacant living room wall, and I would sit there for long stretches watching motes of dust and threads of smoke swim slowly inside its circumference, dreaming my drug-induced dreams of Michael McClaren and me living blissfully in a thatched-roof hut in the Irish countryside. Sometimes I wandered outside into the erstwhile garden, now reduced to two dirt plots divided by a path of stepping-stones. The remnants of bushes and other living things, the thin, bare cords formerly of ivy that climbed the brick wall, made me long for I could not then have said what.

  Evelyn taught me how to play backgammon, but we didn’t gamble. Money was too serious to her. Nevertheless, we played ferociously, both of us hating to lose. My madam began to warm to me. She dropped her bravado as if it were a clunky burden to be discarded all of a piece. We talked about ourselves, or at least Evelyn did. She was more forthcoming than I was, because I was ashamed of my background. I don’t know why I was so reticent about having been brought up on Park Avenue. Perhaps I sensed that the details of my childhood were too much of an anomaly, too far-fetched. I alluded to my past, of course. I had to acknowledge it in a general way, or else Evelyn would have known I was lying or trying to hide something. She would have known because even though I continually censored myself, eliminating ten-cent words before they could spring from my mouth, my private-school diction gave me away.