I gave her a hesitant, grateful smile.
"And for the record," she said, smile growing playful, "I'm insanely attracted to you too.”
After eight months of stripping, my life felt very well-rounded. I danced at Jez for money four times a week, spun around poles fully clothed at Swivel under Anya's tutelage five times a week, drank wine and watched movies with Justine when she wasn't at Avery's, hung out with Faye and Schro, paid bills, did laundry, bought groceries, and had sex with Dr. Turner for pay. I felt great, inside and out. I could honestly say that I loved my life. The fact that I'd recently purchased a new BMW didn't hurt either.
After eight months of our arrangement, I trusted Dr. Turner. Not with my real name or anything personal, but I trusted him to not fuck up the good thing we had.
It wasn't a winning sexual arrangement in terms of my own pleasure, since he had yet to make me come. A few times he'd paid extra to watch me masturbate to orgasm. It had been surprisingly difficult, and I'd left more tired than usual. It required a lot of energy to let go around him.
Every weekend when I arrived, we'd chat for ten or fifteen minutes. At first I felt it was blurring the lines between our no-strings sex arrangement and dating, but I realized that it probably assuaged his guilt about the whole situation. That made me feel a bit tender for him, seeing the hints of guilt that crept up.
His guilt showed up in the way he asked if I'd be around the week of Christmas, and if our arrangement was working out for me. He would rub his palms against the fabric of his slacks as he sucked in air before asking. He looked like a high school boy for just a moment before he slipped back into his rehearsed role with me. I always maintained a smile, assuring him I would give him notice if I left town or wanted to make changes to our arrangement.
When Christmas rolled around, he gave me my usual pay plus a mishmash of gift certificates to local clothing shops. Considering I didn't wear clothing for most of the time I was around him, it seemed ironic. But he had probably absorbed a bit of the rescuer complex I'd experienced a few times in the Private Pleasures Booth: men who paid me to talk but never asked me to touch myself or role play with them, who chatted until they felt they had enough buy-in to try to talk the me out of stripping and save my soul. The other girls at Jez sometimes laughed at these men, calling them suckers, and sometimes were relieved to find one simply because they made shifts more interesting and less scary. Personally, I liked them. They were well-meaning and often smart. Rescuers never tried to negotiate illegal extras. They just talked and hoped their money wasn't going to drugs.
Only once did I ever use my stripping money to buy drugs. I bought Justine a bag of pot for her birthday and we made pot brownies together. I made sure to let her know the pot had been purchased with stripping money, and she shook with pot-infused laughter, saying that we were literally getting high off my ass. I cackled and fell forward onto her, repeated again and again, "High off my ass! High off my ass!"
When I got to Dr. Turner's one night about eight months into our arrangement, I could tell he'd already had a few drinks. His smile was slightly uneven, but he had his wits about him, and he wasn't stumbling. At the first sign of him being unruly, I would have left. But I trusted him. He wasn't the type to get out of line after a few drinks.
He ushered me into the living room and sat on the couch, adolescent smirk in place as he lifted his beer bottle to his lips.
"How you feelin' tonight, Vi?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows.
I smiled my Violet-smile and perched next to him, resting one hand on his shoulder, tracing his muscle. "Pretty good. Glad to be here," I lied.
"Good," Dr. Turner said. "Me too." He grinned and took another sip. "Whataya say you give me a little show?" he asked, grin growing wicked.
"You want me to strip?" I asked, my voice airy and coquettish.
"And make yourself come," he said, low and excited.
I plastered on a smile I hoped was tinged with eagerness, while inside I grimaced and steeled myself for the hard work he was asking me to do.
"You know my price," I said, leaning in to run my tongue up the crest of his ear.
Dr. Turner's ears were especially sensitive. He loved when I was vocal, he loved when I talked dirty, and he loved when I licked and nipped at them. He was always willing to pay me for extras when I stimulated his ears.
He shuddered. "Two-hundred on top of your hourly.”
I tucked my tongue back into my mouth and smiled. I loved the power I had over him in negotiation.
I hummed and stood, taking his hand to lead him to his bedroom, but he held me back.
"I want to do it out here tonight." He looked up at me with a wicked smile.
"Why Anthony, you naughty boy," I said, knowing I was walking a thin line between flirtation and mocking. "Sex in the living room?"
I straddled him and his hands immediately gripped my ass.
"With a whore," he said, taunting me.
I let out a playful gasp and rocked my pelvis into him. "You are dirty, aren't you?"
"Not as dirty as you, baby," he mumbled, settling back into the couch with a grin as he gave my ass a firm swat.
I rose off his lap slowly, stretching out the time he'd bought. I walked over to the stereo and turned on some music, hoping it would be suitable for stripping.
After a few minutes, I was naked except for my lingerie, and Dr. Turner had slipped into his familiar loose-jawed stare. As I'd gotten better at stripping, he'd asked me to do it more and more often. I wasn't complaining. It decreased the time we actually had sex, and I was making on average eight hundred dollars every time I saw him.
Not bad for sixty minutes of work.
When I was down to my panties, I swiveled my hips toward the floor in a move Anya called "sexy down.” Then, quirking my eyebrow as I stared at Dr. Turner, I slid my hand down over my breasts, down my stomach, and into my panties.
And then I had to shut my eyes or I'd be there the whole night while nothing happened. Call it artistic integrity or something, but I didn't want to fake it.
I pretended Dr. Turner wasn't there as I lay on my back, legs spread with my panties around my knees. I rubbed myself, grateful for the lube I'd applied before arriving.
Tonight my thoughts drifted to a girl who had worked at Jez for only two months before disappearing. I only spoke to her a few times, but what had captivated me was how she seemed to seal herself in her own world as she danced. She rarely talked to customers, and I couldn't remember her ever working the Private Pleasures Booth. I thought about the smoothness of her skin and the silkiness of her hair as it draped over her shoulders and breasts. I imagined her hair sliding down my stomach as she hovered above me, about to go down on me. As I dipped my fingers into myself and began circling my clit, I left Dr. Turner's living room and was transported to a fantasy land where only that girl and I existed.
Before I started stripping, I would have thought it improper to think about coworkers while I was masturbating. But when you work with beautiful, naked women all day, it's kind of hard not to. Our locker room climate invited free positive and overtly sexual commentary on each other's bodies. I couldn't think of any other job where it was acceptable to compliment a coworker on the toning work she'd done on her ass or admire a new clit piercing, but at Jez I didn't think twice about it. When you can recognize your coworkers by the smell of their pussies, all bets are off.
I felt myself nearing the edge, and had the presence of mind to tell my fantasy woman I was close so that Dr. Turner could hear. I tipped over, feeling the girl draw me out as she sucked my nipples, and then floated back down onto the carpet in reality.
I took a few breaths before opening my eyes and smiling at Dr. Turner. He was stroking himself on the sofa, mesmerized by the show I'd just given him. He grunted his appreciation and worked himself tighter before tilting his chin up in a wordless request for me to rise. I allowed myself a moment to recover as I moved to my purse and took out a condom.
Condoms had become one of the most important things in my arrangement with Dr. Turner. In addition to obvious health protections, they also created a psychological barrier. A few times Dr. Turner had asked about barebacking, offering me hundreds of extra dollars, swearing on his life that he wasn't sleeping with anyone else and would get whatever tests I wanted him to get. I immediately turned him down. That was something I wasn't willing to negotiate. I never went down on the girls at Jez in the Private Pleasures Booth without a dental dam. I needed something, no matter how thin, to separate me from other people.
Dr. Turner was especially vocal that night, grunting and thrusting up into me as I moved up and down in his lap. He was talking more than usual, asking how I was feeling. I knew that meant he wanted dirty talk. I panted a lot, playacting the same way I did in the Private Pleasures Booth.
Good. So good. My pussy is so full. Fuck me harder. Indiscernible moaning.
It wasn't until he came, groaning and convulsing, that I let my body droop into its actual tiredness. I lifted off him and stood, looking for the clothes I had peeled off strategically. I had just bent down to pick up my bra when I saw it.
Tucked between two books on Dr. Turner's shelf was a video camera.
I froze.
Dr. Turner had videotaped everything from our negotiation to me riding him.
Had this been the first time he'd taped me? Was there footage of me stored somewhere in his house or — I felt sick — on the internet? What other boundaries had he crossed while my eyes were closed or my head was turned the other way? I was so angry and scared, I almost couldn't move.
I wanted to throw the camera on the ground and smash it with the stiletto I was still wearing. But he hadn't paid me yet, and I'd be damned if I walked out of his house without as much of his money as possible.
Standing back up slowly, pacing my breath so I would appear calm, I got dressed facing the wall. My jaw was wire-tight and my hands were shaking with anger, but I tried to appear cool.
Once I was dressed, I turned back around, putting on the most saccharine smile I could muster.
"That'll be eight-fifty."
Dr. Turner frowned. "I thought we agreed eight hundred."
"Dirty talk is extra," I said, reminding him of our going rate.
He grunted and stood, going into his bedroom to retrieve the wad of bills I was accustomed to receiving. When he returned, penis dangling free between his legs, he handed me the bills and ran his hand through his hair. "Thanks, Vi," he said, turning back to the bedroom. "Same time next week."
I watched him go with hate sparks flying out of my eyes. He had broken every ounce of trust I had in him. Everything about him revolted me.
"Dr. Turner?" I called after him.
"I told you, babe, call me Anthony.”
"Anthony," I said, going stony.
He raised his eyebrows, wondering what I wanted.
"You didn't pay me enough," I said, standing up as tall as I could.
He held his hands out, perplexed. "Eight-fifty. We agreed."
I put one hand on my hip. "We did agree. But I also recall you agreeing to my rule that these," I said, turning to the shelf and extracting the camera from its place, "were not allowed."
Dr. Turner let out a little grunt of a laugh. "It's no big deal, babe. It's just to help me get through the week. I can't afford you every night."
"Have you done this before?" I demanded.
"No," he said, holding up his hand as if to prove his honesty, but I didn't know if I could believe him.
"Is this the only one?" I asked, glaring at him.
"Yeah."
I narrowed my eyes at him.
"Swear to god, it's the only one," he said, raising his hands higher.
I didn't know if I could believe him, but I didn't have much of a choice.
Making a show of putting the camera into my purse, I looked him square in the eye and said, "If you even think of putting footage of me online, remember I have footage of you soliciting prostitution that I will take straight to the cops. I can blur my face out. One dumb click of your finger and you'll be in court." I stormed toward the door, yanking it open. "Don't ever fucking call me again," I said, slamming it behind me.
Chapter 10: Flight
As the quiet settled in around us, I realized that I had jumped back into bed with Faye for the third and fourth time without having The Talk. Knowing she'd been with at least one other person since we'd slept together, I knew I needed to bring it up now.
"Hey, so... I probably should have asked you before," I began, trying to sound casual. "Have you been tested recently?"
Faye stiffened. "Not recently."
There was a tense moment of silence before she turned her head towards me. "Do you want me to?"
I nodded. "I just like to be cautious."
She raised her eyebrows. "It's a bit late for that."
"I know," I said, embarrassed.
She adjusted her head to focus back on the ceiling. "I'll make an appointment."
"Okay," I said, relieved that conversation had gone somewhat smoothly.
It was quiet for a moment before she turned and gave me an expectant expression. "Are you going to offer to do the same?"
"Yeah, of course. I’ll — I'll make an appointment."
She looked back at the ceiling and seemed to relax. Then she smiled and look back at me, all traces of tension replaced by happiness. "We're doing this, aren't we?"
I didn't know exactly what she meant, but I nodded and leaned up to kiss her. She kissed me back for a few moments, slow and tender, before her phone started buzzing.
Reluctant, she broke the kiss and reached for her phone. "Shit," she muttered. "I have class." She let out a heavy sigh and kissed me a few more times before she rolled over and sat up.
When she rose from the bed and started putting on her bra, I took in the sight of her backside for the first time sober. Aside from the stunning flow of her curves, something on her left shoulder-blade caught my eye.
"Is that a tattoo?" I asked.
"Yeah," Faye said with an ashamed, gasping laugh as she reached over her shoulder to touch the ink.
"What's it of?" I asked, squinting.
"A bird," Faye mumbled, reaching for her shirt. She drew it over her arms and was about to pull it over her head when I stopped her.
"Wait, I wanna see," I protested.
"It was part of my 'college rebellious phase,'" she said, mocking herself with air quotes. She paused with her back to me, leaning over so I could see the tasteful form of a sparrow in flight on her shoulder blade, no bigger than a quarter. The bird seemed to be yearning upwards, moving along Faye's skin, craving air. There was motion in its stillness, a cry for something more.
"It's beautiful," I said. "You should be more rebellious."
Faye pulled a shirt over her head, trapping the bird against her skin as she raised her eyebrows in rushed disagreement. "No, I shouldn't," she said. "Now I'm just like every other dyke who has a matching tattoo with someone she no longer speaks to," Faye muttered.
She was bristling, but not at me. She finished getting dressed in the quiet, picked up her book bag, and walked over to the bed, bending to kiss me first on the forehead and then on the lips.
“If you leave before I get back, make sure the door locks behind you. I'll see you tonight."
I smiled up at her and grabbed a bunch of her shirt to pull her back down for another kiss.
Then she left, blowing me a kiss from the doorway before she closed it.
I burrowed deep into her bed, unable to keep myself from giggling with happiness. I stayed in her bed for a long time before reluctantly extracting myself and going home to shower.
That afternoon, Justine and I were watching the latest episode of Chopped. She looked at me as her foot pressed into my thigh and said, "Hey, want me to invite Faye to my party?"
Justine's birthday was coming up, and we had planned a party for the following night. I knew there would
be a lot of couples coming, but it was too early for me to ask Faye to come as my girlfriend. Justine knew that. This way I wouldn't have to ask Faye, and we wouldn't have to have an awkward non-conversation about what was implied by her coming with me to the party.
I nodded, grateful that Justine was so understanding.
A few hours later, Faye knocked at the door. On nights when I didn't work, she would reliably show up with wine or something yummy and we'd curl up on the couch.
Now that we weren't just friends, I just wanted to be around her all the time and absorb her. As soon as she walked in, I tackled her against the wall and kissed her, smiling and humming.
Faye seemed startled, lips stiffening against mine as she grunted in surprise. She put her hand on my waist and guided me away, eyes scanning the room.
"Hey," she said, handing me a bottle of sparkling lemonade.
"Hey," I grinned, stepping back into her. "How was class?"
"Fine. Is Justine here?" she asked, still looking around nervously.
"She's in the kitchen. Why?"
"Just wondering. I'll go get us some glasses."
"No, wait," I said, slipping my hand around her waist. "One more." I leaned in and fitted my lips to hers again, and she relaxed enough to kiss back for a moment before I pulled away. Then she went into the kitchen and I heard her chatting with Justine as I turned on the TV and cued up our movie for the night, Six Degrees of Separation.
Justine's voice carried into the living room. "Hey, I'm having a little party here tomorrow night for my birthday. I keep meaning to invite you. Want to come?"
"Sure!" Faye said. "Sounds fun."
I smiled to myself, happy that Faye and my room mate got along so well.
When they came into the living room, Faye smiled at me and winked. It made my tummy flutter in the best way as she handed me a glass of lemonade. She seated herself in the middle of the couch, drawing my legs over her lap and covering us with a blanket. Justine placed a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table and took her seat in her armchair. After we started the movie, Faye slipped her hands under the blanket to rub my calves and massage my feet. I never wanted to move.
Wherever the Dandelion Falls Page 20