by Kailin Gow
“Oh yeah? How do I get in on all this gold, huh?”
“Julie's the real ringmaster, but you've got to get into the clique first. Then, once they let you in, you'll be making an untold amount just for opening up your legs to the right man. Fuck your way to the top, baby, then everything after that is golden.”
For some reason, hearing Sky talk that way about sex sounds so vulgar, even as an outsider. But I'm suspicious. There's something off and then on with this girl, who is so willing to open up to strangers like me about this clique she's supposedly so fascinated by and whom she's trying to impress. Is she genuinely friendly but a little dumb, or did the clique send her as bait to test me.
There's only one way to find out. I'll have to follow this Sky girl around, and figure out who she really is after all.
Chapter 5
Jaymie
Stranger and stranger. That's what Alice said when she went down the rabbit hole, and that's what I'm feeling now. The Blue Room is a labyrinth where every dark turn brings you deeper into the madness. That's what Staci told me before she hired me for this job. And that's what I'm starting to believe. I'd believed that maybe Staci was exaggerating, that the Blue Room differed from the places I'd known and worked at in some degree, maybe, but certainly not this kind. Corruption and sexual politicking were rife when powerful men, beautiful women, and money all collided – why should the Blue Room be any different? But somehow I'm not feeling it. Somehow I'm feeling something else – something that kindles my suspicions. It's this aura that nothing is as it seems. You can't trust anybody. You can't rely on anything. There is no such thing as truth here. Sky might be my best friend or my worst enemy. She might be a dupe and she might be a trap.
There's just no way of knowing. But she's gotten me one piece of valuable information at least. Julie is the one they want me to think is the ringleader of the Blue Room clique. She's the one who's presented as the lead. Maybe this is just a front: another lie. Maybe not. I don't know. But if there's one thing I do know it's that when you're desperate you have to follow any lead you can. And in my case this means following Julie and figuring out what she's up to. I want Julie to trust me, to not be suspicious of me the way she was of that “stuck-up bitch Staci.” Staci never made friends at the Blue Room. She never got the inside scoop of that sort of thing. She was a virgin, shy, unsure, and the other girls picked up on it. Maybe they were even jealous of it. She could never laugh about sexual positions or bad sex stories the way the others could. That wasn't even part of her vocabulary. That's where she went wrong. And that's where I have the possibility of going right.
I can laugh. I have banged a fair few men in my life. I have plenty of experience to share – hilarious and horrifying and titillating alike. I know how to get women to like me, to trust me. I don't do the special snowflake thing the way Staci did – getting men to fall in love with me. Men want me, but I have a much more important skill. Making women like me. Love me, even. Trust me. Making me the ultimate big sister. Being their best friend.
So when Julie leaves the lunchroom to head to the ladies' room, I follow her. She's applying makeup – lipstick and mascara – in the mirror. She doesn't turn her head at all, but only looks at me through the mirror.
“So...” purrs Julie as I enter. “How's my color?”
“Hot Ginger?” I say. “It looks great. But to be honest, I think you're more of a Spiced Fig girl myself.”
She looks me up and down, pursing her lips. Then she takes out a tissue, blots her lips, wipes off the makeup, and throws the tissue down to the floor without so much even looking at it. Then she smiles and takes out a different, darker tube from her Birkin handbag.
“Well...” she says. “You do know something, at least.”
“I try to stay educated on the latest trends. And I can read people well. You're much too classy for Hot Ginger.”
“You passed.” Julie's smile is tight. “First test, at least. Which is more than I can say for a lot of the simpletons here. Are you that good at figuring out men's tastes, too, I wonder? Or are you a blushing virgin like our latest success?”
“I'm not a virgin. And I don't blush. Ever.”
“Thank God.” Julie takes out a cigarette and lights up. “They don't like us to smoke, here. So ironic, huh? This den of iniquity and yet we're not allowed to have any little vices? Between the steamed broccoli and the kale smoothies and the two-hour long fitness sessions....we barely get to be bad at all!”
“But we get to be bad at night,” I wink.
“That's true,” Julie grins a more sincere grin this time. “If it weren't for that I'd think we're living like nuns. But we certainly know how to make men think we're being...naughty all the time.”
“I certainly do.”
Julie takes a drag on her cigarette.
“Normal stuff? Or kink?”
“Everything.”
“The S or the M?”
“The S, mostly. But I can do the M. I prefer being a dom to a sub, personally. But I don't mind a bit of switching things up every now and then. Keeps things interesting.”
“Finally, someone who's interesting,” Julie yawns. “I've spent so much time around virgins lately I might as well be in a convent after all. That Staci – she was the worst. Came in here a little virgin, acted like she was better than all of us because she hadn't had a cock in her yet, fucked management for free, got off with Mr. X – who we were all dying to land – and then turns out to be a magic little billionairess and heads off to marry Terrence? Some fairy tale, huh?” She scoffs. “Well I like my stories real, and my happy endings earned. Or rather...other men's happy endings help me earn mine.”
“Mr. X?”
“We don't know real names here. We're not supposed to know anything at all. Twenty-six clients at any one time, lettered A to Z. So we won't leak anything. And lest we get too comfy they switch up the names too. I guess that's what happens when you're powerful and rich and famous. You get to pay for the best security in the world. At least, that's what the men who run this place say. But you know about men, don't you...” she smiles.
“I think I might...that's true...”
“Men always think they're in control. When really it's the women who run anything and everything they can.”
“Oh,” I laugh long with the little inside joke. “I see...”
Now, this intrigues me. I decide to dig a little deeper, learn a little more. Julie's piqued my interest, now, making me curious and suspicious alike.
“Well, they say knowledge is power. And having such intimate details about such famous and powerful men – it's a power that goes beyond money. Or at least, you can get more money for it than you can for just sleeping with some guy. I mean, it's one thing to be a hooker. It's another thing to use this job to start up a gig as an...enterpreneur.”
Julie looks surprised, at first, but then a smile settles on her face. She runs her fingertips softly over my arms, caressing me with sensual and skilled movements. “It's so great to find another sympatico pro – I thought I'd be alone here forever. Most of these girls are amateurs. They do whatever that stick-in-the-mud Mrs. Walters says – they want to please a man, think that the right hair or the right makeup or the perfect clothing will help them do just that. But come on, please. Once we're booked, they don't care about the hair or the makeup or the dress at all. We're not even individuals for them. The lights go off and then they take us like they own us, like we don't even matter. They close the door and bend us over and fuck us from behind so they can't even see our faces or know who we are, even. We're just tight cunts for them to fuck. And so I think I'm perfectly justified if every now and then I decide to fuck them right back.”
“I'm with you right there, sister. Got you all the way. I see how this place is supposed to be run, but rumors around these parts is that you're queen bee her. And I'd love to supplicate you...sometime. About how to bring the most pleasure.” I shoot her a flirtatious smile. “Got any ideas?”
“It's been a while...”
“I'm sure you're not out of practice...”
“There's always...scissoring.”
Julie's eyes light up. “Is there, now?”
“Two bodies. Thighs apart. Legs apart. Pulling each other close. It's something too few women have tried. I mean, you should try it on a patron, of course...”
Julie smiles. “I can't wait to try...”
“It's important to be enthusiastic about these things.”
“I can tell how enthusiastic you are,” croons Julie. “It shows in every part of you.”
“When you've been fucked by an incredible lover, the first time, the way I have, you can't get enough. You keep searching for that feeling...and it's never as good as it is that one perfect time. No man has ever come close to my first fuck and, well, I'm eager to see who can fill those shoes.”
“Sounds serious. What happened?” says Julie.
“I married him,” I shrug it all off. “Then I left him. That's all.”`
Chapter 6
I don't want to think about my ex-husband. At least that’s what I think the man who is always present in the back of my mind…someone I once loved, was. I don't want to think about my past. Thinking about my past brings up too much pain – things that I can't stand to call to the front of my brain right now. Things that has brought up only dead ends. I want to focus on the present: on my new life, on my job. The person I was beforehand doesn't matter. I cannot remember the person I was, once upon a time. Now I am Jaymie Wakeley, Private Investigator. I am not in love with anybody. I love my body and the body of other people – warm, sinewy bodies that twist and turn against my own, beautiful bodies I can hold and hug and kiss and caress and do all sort of perverse things to, that I can make contort in pleasure. I love to fuck. Even if I hadn't been doing it for money, I think I would have been a certain kind of whore. I was born for it. My body was made for pleasure. As much as I admired Staci, who only gave her body to the two men she really loved, that wasn't me at all.
Sex was about love, maybe, but a different kind of love from the kind Staci felt for her men. For Staci it was about romantic love, a hunger for someone you want to be with for the rest of your natural born life. But for me it was something else. For me, sex was about sharing the love of a moment, an hour, a day, or a year. It was about finding the individuality and the beauty and the poetry in every single individual living person – appreciating who they are, what they mean, what they can do. Having sex with someone is more than just a physical experience. It's a look into all their neuroses, all their vulnerabilities, into what makes them tick.
You can learn a lot about a person by how they fuck. Sometimes they surprise you. The quiet ones are the most violent; the most outspoken and brash are the most shy; the ones who talk about hot chicks in the locker room are the most interested in dressing up in women's heels and corsets. And you know what? You learn quickly, in my profession, not to judge. The hulking jock in a pair of Victoria's Secret panties is just as beautiful, just as worthy of love and affection and real erotic happiness, as the stereotypical Adonis who just wants to jackhammer away until he comes. That's what you realize when you do a job like mine. Everyone has secret, shameful desires. Everyone has kinks they don't fully understand. And my job, as a prostitute, isn't just to please them or make their dicks hard. It's to make them feel safe. Understood. Make them feel like there's a place in the world where they can truly be happy, be themselves, where nobody is going to judge them for the images and actions that make their synapses fire.
So I guess you can say I like my job. Certainly, it prepares you for work as a private investigator, where you're always supposed to know everyone and everything. You learn to observe people in that job, too. See how they work. Open them up and make them tick. The difference is that you don't fuck the people you're investigating. Usually. Sometimes an insider's approach is the only way a person can truly understand somebody.
I head back to my room after my final lesson of the day – the art of styling my hair. You'd think, after being primped and poked and prodded all day long, and having my hair cut and colored, my hair would be just fine, thank you very much, but a German man called Hans gives me lessons in how exactly to pin it so that it has that precise Grace Kelly shine and bounce. Now what a vulgar, ballsy, brassy girl like me doing looking like Grace Fucking Kelly is anyone's guess, but I figure that's what men like these days, and who am I to complain? I'm just a Blue Girl, after all.
Not that I have any time to relax. A handwritten note from Mrs. Walters – or is that Jenny Simmons – informs me that I've been booked for my first patron that night.
Please await Mr. F. at eight o'clock sharp in your room.
Yours sincerely,
Josephine Walters (Mrs.)
The handwriting is as polished and precise as the rest of her, but I still recognize it. Once upon a time, she wrote Of Mice and Men on college classroom chalkboard, and whatever else happened since then, I know that writing to be true. This is really getting more and more suspicious.
Mr. F., I think to myself. F for Fucking. Perfect.
I head next door to Julie's room, 1207. I figure she might have a few pointers.
“Hi...” I coo, in my sweetest voice. “I missed you.”
She looks me up and down with a lascivious smile. “You too, dollface. What's on your mind?”
“I've been feeling a little...rusty, lately,” I say. “You see, I've just got my first client and I'm a little nervous.”
“Your first client?” Julie's mouth tightens into a smile. “That's exciting stuff, my dear. Which member of the alphabet have you got today?”
“Mr. F.,” I say. “F for Friend or F for Foe?”
“F for Fucking Hard,” she laughs. “Oh, honey, you're getting thrown in off the deep end. Guess after Staci they figured our harder-core clients need servicing. From everything that you've said to me earlier, my dear girl, Mr. F. is right up your alley. He's a real stallion – and into all the kinky shit. He has this whole fetish about cowboys and rodeos. Don't be surprised if he asks you to put on spurs and leather chaps and a Stetson – oh, and of course you'll get to play with a whip. Real leather ones used in rodeos. He wants to be your nice, strong bull, if you get my drift...”
“Oh, I do.” I try to act excited, although I can't say Stetsons are exactly my clothing of choice. “Sounds like a real fun job.”
“Don't get me wrong, though, he's hardcore. He'll want to break you in, just the way he breaks his horses –and his steers. If you haven't been broken yet he'll break you soon enough.”
I search her face. Is she trying to scare me?
Well, I'm not afraid. I don't scare easily, that's for sure. I've experienced a lot weirder than a Stetson hat in my day. I wonder if her logic here is trying to throw me off the scent. Maybe she wants this Mr. F. for herself and wants me to run away screaming the way Staci did. Well, I won't. I'm too strong for that. I've seen and done a lot of things in my life and sure, maybe when I was a kid I would have run screaming from a lot of them. But I don't scream now. I'm used to the toughest, the weirdest, the worst. I'm used to getting my heart broken and stomped on and my body used and abused in the worst and the wildest ways possible. I'm not afraid anymore. Not of anything. Not of men like Mr. F.
Or maybe she's genuinely trying to help me. Maybe she genuinely thinks her advice will take. But I don't know. I don't know her well enough. I certainly don't know her well enough to trust her or to trust a single word that she's saying. But my options are limited, and I have to take what I can get – and learn to the best of my ability.
“Got it,” I say. I don't want her to think I'm weak – not for a moment. Nobody puts Baby in a corner, or so they say, and nobody puts Jaymie Wakeley, PI, on the defensive, either.
/> “There's just one thing you need to know,” her smile is like treacle sliding across the floor.
“Oh yeah? What's that?”
“Don't let him kiss you on the mouth.”
I let out a startled laugh. What is this – Pretty Woman? Come the fuck on – I've kissed as many men's mouths as there are in the Viennese National Opera.
“Come on. I'm no Julia Roberts,” I say. “I know not to get attached.”
“Not for your sake,” Julie says, furrowing her brow and looking at me with serious concern on her face. “For his.”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen up, Jaymie. I know you're probably pretty experienced with those possessive types, but Mr. F – he's different. Real different. If he kisses you on the mouth, it sets off something weird in him and he'll get possessive real fast. Try to book up all your slots and get wildly, insanely jealous if you see any other patrons. If you let him do that, he'll stop you from exploring.”
“What's so wrong with that?” I asked. “I thought our goal was to be made exclusive.”
“To the right patron, maybe,” says Julie. “But you won't know what your options are until you're able to assess...the competition. We may all be competing with each other for the best clients, but the clients are competing with each other for the best girls. Unless you see all that everyone who might love you has to offer – I'm talking jewelry, clothing, property, the whole works, don't sell yourself short by jumping into a monogamous arrangement with the first man who asks for one. You want to get yourself in a real good position, Staci. Line as many patrons as possible up for you. Do you understand me?”
I nod, looking her up and down, trying to figure out what angle she's working here. I'm at a loss. “I understand,” I say.
Julie smiles. “Good,” she says. “I always knew you were a quick study – and a fast learner. Good luck with your first big client. If you aren't too tired out, come over to my room later and we'll have a celebratory drink. First one's on me.” She sighed. “It's just so nice to have someone I can truly talk to around here. Someone who understands me. I'm sick of these stupid bitches. Everyone knows it's smart women like us who run the world.”