by Clara James
“I did,” he replied.
“Well, I didn’t say ‘come in’,” I said, coaxing him around with a light touch at his shoulder.
He followed my silent guiding without hesitation or argument. “I’m sorry,” he continued. “Can I have some ice cream, though?” he quickly added, returning to his primary concern.
“Not right now,” I responded, walking down the hall with him.
“Ahhh, Mom,” he moaned loudly. “Please!” he begged, turning to me and pressing his hands together in front of his chest. “Please, please, please,” he rapidly added, his eyes taking on that dolefully expression he was so very good at.
Shaking my head apologetically, I hustled him ahead of me and we descended the stairs. “Maybe,” I softly suggested, but before I could get the rest of the sentence out, my young son was already punching the air furiously.
“Yes!” he yelled delightedly.
“Maybe,” I repeated, stressing the word this time. “If you eat all your dinner and promise to go to bed on time, I’ll see what I can do about the ice cream.”
“I love you, Mom,” he said, turning his big brown eyes to me and grinning broadly. It was his standard way of trying to keep me sweet. His father used to do something similar when we were younger.
With the promise of ice cream, dinner was a much smoother affair than usual and I made a mental note to use bribery more often. All three children, even Kate, ate every last piece of their meal, including the greens that typically got pushed around until I got tired of trying to coax them into a mouth. Lizzie offered to help me clear away, which was no doubt a ploy to get an extra-large scoop, but it was appreciated nonetheless.
Putting them to bed that night, I spent a little longer looking at their adorable, peaceful faces. They were growing so quickly, time had been passing me by and I’d been largely oblivious to it. The shock of Paul’s infidelity had caused me to put my existence into some sort of perspective. Almost thirty, and all I had to show for those years were the three kids who meant the world to me. Of course, they made me want to tear my hair out at times, but I couldn’t imagine life without their mischievous charm. I wouldn’t want to live in a world without them in it, my children were the only thing that made life make sense.
Closing Lizzie and Dylan’s doors, and leaving Kate’s fractionally ajar so she still had a little light from the hallway, I walked slowly back to my own bedroom. With a renewed sense of purpose, I settled in front of the computer screen and opened the email I’d received earlier that evening.
Hi,
I’m David, I read your advertisement and wondered if you’re free on Saturday night. I know it’s a bit short notice, but I have an unplanned stop in the state and I hate to be alone. Would love to learn more about you, and maybe see a picture? If you’d like to know what I look like, just say the word.
I leaned back for a moment, as the reality of what I’d done, and was planning to do, sunk in. Paul wasn’t coming home until Sunday afternoon, so I certainly had the night free. However, I hadn’t been expecting things to happen so quickly. I’d thought it would be at least a month, and probably much more, before I was actually working. I hadn’t really had a chance to mentally prepare.
In retrospect, no matter how long it had taken, I know I would never have been prepared. It simply isn’t the sort of thing that can be prepared for. But, at the time, part of me was arguing that I just needed a few weeks to really adjust to the prospect of selling my body.
However, something overrode that instinct, because I was already opening the many files of photographs we had stored on the computer. I managed to find a couple of me dressed in an evening gown at some fancy function Paul’s company had organized six months previously. Choosing the one I liked best, I carefully cropped my husband out of the image, before attaching it to a new email.
I wrote a quick message, telling him that I was available if he was still interested and that I didn’t need to know what he looked like.
As I clicked on ‘send’, I told myself his appearance didn’t matter. However, I knew that my subconscious choice had been more to do with ignorance being bliss. If he was in his sixties or seventies, with a beer gut and tobacco stained teeth, the anticipation of spending the night with him would be filled with even more dread than it already was. Sex, for me, had always been inextricably linked with love. It had never been purely physical, and because Paul was my first and only lover, it had always been with someone I trusted. The thought of giving myself to a stranger; a man about whom I knew nothing and who didn’t care about me, was entirely foreign and caused me to shudder.
However, I was forced to remind myself that that wasn’t completely true. I no longer knew Paul and, for the last few months at least, he’d stopped caring about me. The last time we’d had sex was certainly evidence of that fact. Was offering my body to David really any different than the last time I’d been to bed with my own husband?
It only took a few minutes for him to write again.
Hey,
Thanks for getting in touch. You’re a very beautiful woman, and I am definitely interested in enjoying the pleasure of your company on Saturday. You haven’t mentioned fee, but it’s not a problem. Whatever you charge, I’m happy to pay it.
I’m staying at the Hyatt, room 405. If you could be here at about 8pm, that would be good. Let me know. Thanks!
Before I had time to talk myself out of it, I wrote a reply confirming that I would be there at eight o’clock.
Breathing rapidly, as I pushed the chair away from the desk, I realized that it was done. I was really going to go through with it. I had just two days to arrange a babysitter and get myself ready for what would be the most bizarre date of my life. I quickly made a list of all the things that needed to be done; my legs, although always smoothly shaved, would probably need waxing; my small, neat patch of pubic hair would have to go, too. I’d never favored the Brazilian style, but I understood enough about what was popular among men to know that the hairless look would be expected. My nails required a fresh manicure; hair needed styling; and my tan lines from wearing a bikini had to be removed.
In short, I had to look perfect. There was a lot of work to be done.
Chapter Eight
First Times A Charm
Nervous doesn’t begin to describe how I felt as I walked down the hotel corridor. The backs of my legs shook so much that they felt weak, and I must have looked a bit like a newborn deer. Having felt so confident that I could go through with the night, I suddenly knew that it was nothing but bravado; intended only to convince myself.
Who was I kidding?
Having only ever slept with one man, I was almost as inexperienced as they come. Even when we were engaged and first married, Paul and I were never particularly adventurous in the bedroom. If this man had some peculiar tastes or fetishes, would I know what to do? Even if he didn’t want something weird, would I be able to please him?
“Oh shit,” I whispered, seriously contemplating turning around and bolting back to the elevator. “Oh shit, oh shit,” I breathed. Halting the movement of my feet, I forced myself to breathe deeply. Smoothing my hands down the skirt of my red cocktail dress, I released a steady, slow exhale. I glanced down at my cleavage which was thrust up by a brand new bra I’d bought the day before. My legs were covered in black stockings and my feet securely tucked into four-inch stilettos. Flicking my newly wavy hair off my shoulder, I swallowed the anxious lump in my throat. “Pull yourself together,” I softly mumbled.
When the temptation to turn back crept higher, I reminded myself why I was there. This was never about doing something that I wanted to, but what I felt I had to do. It was about putting my own fears and prudish concerns aside, because the end would justify the means.
Before I’d ordered them to do so, my feet were once more moving. The thoughts that had been racing discordantly through my head stopped and focused on the door numbers, until I reached ‘405’.
Quickly moistening m
y lips, I lifted my hand with the fingernails colored the same shade of red as my dress, and tapped softly on the door. I counted the deep thuds of my heart, while I waited for an answer. There were twelve. And then, slowly and gently the door was pulled open.
The man was much younger than I had expected, he must have been somewhere in his mid-thirties. He had dark, almost jet black hair that was cut in a neat Ivy League style, with a side parting. He was clean shaven, with soft features and dark brown eyes under quite long black lashes. As he looked at me, he smiled a little lopsided grin. “Hi,” he greeted warmly, pulling the door open wider.
“Hi,” I echoed, my eyes now taking in the view of the rest of his body. He was around six feet something, with strong, broad shoulders. He was wearing pinstriped black pants and a white dress shirt, with the cuffs undone.
“I’m David,” he said, continuing to smile, as he moved to one side of the entry way and gestured an open hand into the room.
“Thank you,” I nodded, managing a nervy smile in return as I stepped across the threshold. “I’m Arianna,” I murmured, remembering to use the name I’d chosen for my call girl persona, rather than my real one. All the girls used fake names, most of them were tacky: Destinee, Lotus, Candy that kind of thing. I wanted something that sounded a little exotic and mysterious, but was still classy. I unconsciously drew in a breath as I passed him and was met with the earthy, spicy scent of whatever aftershave he’d just used. Swallowing, I silently reminded myself that it didn’t matter what he smelled or looked like. I was here to do a job.
I couldn’t help but feel grateful that he was attractive, though. Faking an interest in him would be made easier by the fact he was easy on the eyes.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, closing the door behind him.
I stopped in the room’s small living space. It wasn’t quite a suite, but there were two comfortable chairs and a coffee table, with a brand new TV on the wall and a minibar in the corner. Beyond that, in the open plan space was the bed. It was a king size, with crisp white sheets, four plump pillows and a beige bed scarf with the Hyatt Regency logo embroidered in the corner. “Umm, yes, please,” I managed to softly mumble, remembering that he had asked me a question.
“What can I get you?” I added, already moving to the minibar. “I’m on vodka myself,” he said pointing to the one liter bottle of Smirnoff that was clearly not the hotels. “But you can have whatever you like.”
“Vodka’s fine,” I quickly stated. With my rising nerves, the stronger the alcohol, the better.
“Great,” he nodded. “Take a seat,” he urged, grasping two shot glasses and the bottle.
As I settled into one of the armchairs, keeping a hand on the hem of my dress to stop it riding too high, he took the few strides toward me and tossed himself into the other seat. With a tired sigh, he slipped the glasses onto the table and began unscrewing the bottle.
“So, umm,” I softly mumbled, trying to think of something to say. “What brings you here?”
“Oh, just work,” he shrugged. “I was supposed to be heading back yesterday, but my office messed up the arrangements and I had to stay longer than planned.”
“I see,” I nodded, watching him pour some of the crystal clear liquid into each shot glass. “Sorry to hear that.”
“It’s ok,” he quickly insisted. “I’m kind of glad now. If I’d gone home Friday, I would have never had the opportunity to meet you,” he smoothly said, placing the bottle down and lifting his glass as if to toast.
Carefully, I reached for my own drink and lifted it to his. We clinked the edges of the glasses together, before both swallowing the shot whole. It instantly brought a flush of tears to my eyes and a burning to my throat which I tried to mask, but a cough erupted despite my efforts.
“Okay?” he asked, chuckling.
“Yeah,” I assured him, hoarsely.
He grinned skeptically, before accepting my word with a brief nod. “Well,” he sighed, lifting himself from the chair just enough to reach into his back pocket. “I said money wasn’t an object, but I’d like to get it out of the way, if that’s all right with you,” he said, pulling the wallet out and flipping it open.
“Sure,” I replied.
“That way, we can get on with enjoying the night, huh?”
“Right,” I agreed. “Umm, exactly what services do you want from me?” I wondered, embarrassment causing my cheeks to warm. I hoped he might think the reddening was caused by the drink.
“I was hoping you’d be able to spend about six hours with me,” he unabashedly said. “Err, you offer full sex, right?”
My mouth suddenly went very dry and I could only nod in response.
“Well, I don’t want anything too strange or out of the ordinary,” he added. “I guess it’s called the umm, girlfriend experience?” he finished with a crease of his eyebrow.
Again, I nodded, my throat unwilling to cooperate in the making of any sounds. I’d seen the phrase ‘girlfriend experience’ on the many escort ads I’d seen online. And had been able to create an idea of what that would entail. I was beyond grateful that David didn’t have an unusual fetish he wished to act out with me. Girlfriend experience was probably something I could just about manage.
“So?” he uttered, his thumb slipping over a large wedge of bills.
“Oh, sorry,” I blurted shaking my head and realizing that this had been leading to me giving him a figure for my services. “Well, that’ll be...errr... $1800.” I spoke so haltingly and anxiously that I was worried my inexperience would be obvious to him.
He said nothing, while he flicked through the bills and then pulled out a fistful of them. Silently, he placed the cash on the table, before getting up and replacing his wallet in his pants. “Now,” he smiled, “that’s out of the way, we can concentrate on having a good time. Would you like something to eat?” he offered, visibly relaxing into the chair.
The casual way he’d dealt with the payment seemed so strange to me, and yet it was obviously necessary to separate the transaction and the ‘good time’. “Sounds great,” I replied, forcing a broad smile. In truth, I was so scared I didn’t think I’d be able to keep anything down. But if he wanted to have dinner, then it was my job to ensure he got what he wanted. Reaching forward I scooped the cash off the table and slipped it into my purse.
“You want to go down to the restaurant?” he asked, tipping his head to the door. “Or should we just get some room service and eat up here?”
“Whatever you’d prefer,” I offered warmly.
“Hmm,” he looked at me, while he thought for several seconds. “On one hand, I’d like to have you on my arm. On the other, I’d kind of like to have you to myself,” he chuckled.
I felt uncomfortable not only with the way he spoke about me; as if I were a commodity, but also by the way he looked at me. It was a hungry, appreciative gaze; a look that reminded me of the way a lioness eyes her prey. Of course, on the surface, I tried to let none of those emotions show. And, I had to concede, I was a commodity of sorts. I was bought and paid for.
“I think it’ll be nicer to stay up here,” he eventually said, cradling the back of his head in his hands. “We can really talk,” he added.
While I drained another shot glass of vodka, David called down to room service and ordered for us both. I don’t even remember what I had, I know I didn’t spend long choosing, sure that I wouldn’t touch any of it any way.
However, by the time the meal arrived, I’d had another shot and was beginning to feel much more relaxed.
David had professed an interest in learning more about me, but I’d successfully been vague in most of my answers and flipped the questions back to him. As he talked about his career as head of a sales team for a pharmaceutical company, I almost forgot the circumstances under which were we meeting.
“What about free time?” I asked, unconsciously sticking my fork into a piece of ravioli. “Any hobbies?”
“Ha,” he exhaled. “What
free time?” He was quiet for a moment, as he poured himself another glass of the red wine he’d order with the meal. “It feels like I’m always working, that’s certainly what my ex thought.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I quickly apologized when I noted the sadness in his eyes.
“Don’t be,” he dismissed with a wave of his free hand. “It’s not your fault.” Carefully placing the bottle back down, he picked up his glass and lifted it to his lips, flashing me a smile before taking a mouthful. “But it’s been tough since she left,” he admitted. “My ridiculously busy schedule makes it impossible to meet anyone and I’m the kind of person that hates to be alone, you know?”
I nodded, remembering what he’d written in his first email. However, it seemed insane to me that a man like him would need to hire the services of an escort. He was young, handsome and charming. There would be any number of women who would be happy to have a one-night stand with him if that’s all he could commit to.
However, his desires for the evening came back to the forefront of my mind: the girlfriend experience. He didn’t want a one-night stand per se, it wasn’t about a quick roll in the hay. He wanted companionship, he wanted to spend this time talking, sharing some laughs and for all intents and purposes, pretending we’d known each other for much longer than we had. If he just wanted a fuck, he could have gone down to the bar and picked up a girl or headed out on the streets to find a hooker. In fact, he could even have demanded that I get my clothes off as soon as I’d walked in the door.
“You’re a sweet man,” I told him, unaware of a compulsion to do so. The alcohol had loosened me up just enough to prevent my self censor from working properly. “I mean, someday a girl is going to be very lucky to have you.”
He grinned, as he lifted his napkin and wiped the sides of his mouth. “I’m sure you’ve heard this a lot,” he responded, tossing the napkin onto his empty plate and leaning back in his chair. “But you are an incredibly sexy woman.”