Call Girl

I decided to do it.

She was as good as her word. When I called her back she was full of information, delivered at the staccato speed of a submachine gun, and I found myself scribbling on the back of an envelope from my jacket pocket. “His name is Bruce, his number is 555-4629. Your name is Tia – isn’t that what you said you wanted to be called? Anyway, you’re twenty-six, you weigh 125 pounds, thirty-six, twenty-six, thirty-five. C-cup bra. You’re a student. Call him, and then call me back after you’ve talked to him.”

Did she always tell her employees what they were supposed to look like? I wondered. I didn’t ask, though, and later found out that, indeed, Peach tailored the precise description to what the client was looking for. Within reasonable bounds, of course. Now, however, I was just reacting to the speed of it all. I said, slowly, “Peach, I called you to say that I want to try it. How did you get me a client so quickly?”

She laughed. “I had a feeling that you’d say yes. Now call him. Do you remember everything I told you?”

Barely. That was a lot of data, I thought, staring at the envelope. A lot of data that I had never thought about actually articulating to anybody. I remembered a line from Half Moon Street: “Don’t worry, I’m naked underneath!”

Apparently these were guys who didn’t want to take that on faith.

Well, okay. I didn’t have any idea what my real measurements were, but those sounded as good as any. I took a deep breath. This was it. I was really doing this.

Bruce asked me to go through the statistics again, but he seemed pleasant enough (I had been expecting stuttering, maybe?) and gave me directions to Revere. To a marina. He lived, it transpired, on a boat.

He was a bear of a man, bearded, with eyes that twinkled behind his glasses. We sat on a small sofa in the cabin of his sailboat, drank a very nice chilled Montrachet, and talked about music, our conversation interspersed with clumsy silences. It felt oddly familiar, as if…well, to tell you the truth, what it felt like was a date. A first date. A blind date.

An extremely awkward one.

He got up to refill our wineglasses and when he came back he did the little classic pretend yawn and stretch that is a favorite move from everybody’s first junior high romance; but at that moment I leaned forward to pick up my glass and so he missed. Oops.

I hadn’t done it all that well in junior high, either, come to think of it.

He cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I put my arm around you?”

I was bemused. Did I mind? Um – well, no. I came here for you to fuck me, you’re paying two hundred dollars an hour to fuck me, I don’t expect I should balk at you putting your arm around me… I looked at him, unable for a moment to respond. He really meant it. It was endearing beyond belief.

I’d imagined a lot of things, back in London. I’d imagined even more since then, sitting alone in the whirlpool at my gym and thinking about what I was about to do. I’d imagined a lot of pretty unimaginable things, to tell the truth. What I could never have imagined was this polite awkward guy asking my permission to put his arm around me.

“That would be nice,” I managed to say, and a moment later he kissed me.

Definitely a first date kiss.

I returned it with some enthusiasm, moving my arms up his shoulders and around his neck and drawing him deeper, closer to me, opening my mouth to his and gently sliding my tongue against his teeth.

And it was at that precise moment that I knew it was going to be all right. This wasn’t anything esoteric or bizarre or dangerous: this was something I had done before, something I did well, and – best of all – something I enjoyed doing.

He slid his hand up under my t-shirt, raising my bra, and then he was touching my breasts, playing with the nipples as they hardened in response, still with his mouth crushed against mine. I moaned slightly and pressed my body closer to his, and I could feel his heartbeat accelerating, hear his breath coming faster. We pulled away from each other, slightly, responding to some inner common impulse, and his eyes met mine. “You’re beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you,” I whispered, tracing the shape of his lips with my fingertip.

He cleared his throat. “Would you – can we go in the bedroom?”

I knew just what to say; this was easy, after all. I could do this in my sleep, on automatic pilot. I didn’t even have to think about anything. It couldn’t have felt more natural. “Yes, please,” I said, keeping a sense of controlled eagerness in my voice.

The bedroom wasn’t far. We were, after all, on a boat.

I had taken the precaution of buying condoms on my way over. Now I hesitated before following him, ostensibly finishing the wine in my glass, and I slipped one from my handbag into my jeans pocket. Nice work. Unobtrusive as hell. Hey, what do you want, I’m new at this.

And it was still feeling like a first date.

The room was illuminated only by the open door to the living space. I could see a bed and little else. It didn’t matter; the bed was really all that we needed. I slid out of my jacket and vest, pulled off my t-shirt and bra. I did it slowly, as seductively as I could manage, unhooking the bra behind me and letting it drop to the floor. Bruce was watching me. “You’re beautiful,” he breathed again, and I smiled and extended a hand to him, suddenly confident of my power, of my attraction. “Come here,” I said, my voice as low and husky as I could make it.

Marlene Dietrich, eat your heart out.

We ended up sitting on the bed, next to each other, kissing deeply. Later, I learned that some callgirls won’t kiss, that they consider their lips the only part of themselves that they can withhold. Even now, I disagree. Maybe the pretense of romance is better than no romance at all. Or maybe I just like to kiss.

He pushed me back on the bed, gently, his head going down to my breast, his mouth on my nipples. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

I had thought it was going to be terrible. I was still dealing with the confusion of it being – if anything – pleasant.

I was struggling with the buttons on his flannel shirt, pulling at them, my own breath sounding ragged. I pulled the sides of the shirt apart, ran my hands against his chest, up to his neck, pulling him up to kiss me again, more demanding this time, murmuring something as I did.

There was a moment of awkwardness with the jeans, both his and mine, and then they were off and we were lying next to each other, our hands groping, our bodies pressing together. I could feel his cock hard against my leg, and I sighed again as my fingers crept down and touched it; I could feel the excitement pulsing through it, through him.

He was kissing my neck, running his tongue along my collarbone, his hand holding my breast. I stroked his cock, gently, firmly, feeling all of his body straining against me. I moaned softly, my fingertips light on him, his inner thighs, his curly hair, his cock, his balls. I felt myself getting wet, felt my pelvis straining to be closer to him, and it was he who, to my surprise, pulled himself up on an elbow. “Do you have any protection with you?”

Wow. Either this was the nicest man in Boston, or else Peach really did have him trained. “In my pocket,” I said, gesturing at the clothes on the floor.

“Do you mind?” He picked my jeans out of the pile and handed them to me, immediately going back to kissing my neck. I fumbled for the condom package, and he took it from me.

I sat up then and leaned down to touch his cock with my lips. Yeah, I know, I know, you shouldn’t do anything without protection, what can I say, he wasn’t all that close to coming, and I was trying to show him that I liked him. Even then, I was thinking about repeat business.

I was already understanding, if only at an intuitive level, the credo of every callgirl. Regular clients are our bread and butter, the reason that we can keep doing what we do. Finding someone like Bruce and making sure that he asks for us, over and over again.

I hadn’t thought about how Peach had gotten him so easily for me, for my first night. Later, I found out that she had an arrangement with Bruce, that he saw new callgirls. Instead of him calling her, she called him. Everybody won: Bruce got the thrill of initiating a first-timer, the girl got an easy call. At the time, however, I was just feeling lucky, feeling like this wasn’t going to be so awful and tedious a job, after all.

All the questions – is it wrong to like my work? Am I supposed to hate working for a service? – came later. At that moment, I was just glad that I could do it, that it wasn’t unpleasant, and that I was good at it.

I licked up and down his cock while he opened the condom package. He paused from time to time to pull my hair back from my face so that he could watch me, watch his cock sliding in and out of my mouth, between my lips, and he sighed. “God, you’re good.”

I moved back so that he could slip on the condom. He kissed me while he was doing it, our tongues touching; he was still sighing with pleasure. And then I was leaning back on the bed and he was on top of me, his big body over mine, his hardness sliding inside me, and I opened my legs to him, wrapped my legs around him to pull him in deeper, and he sighed again, even louder.

I kissed his neck as he started to thrust inside me, and then I gripped his shoulders and took his thrusts, his cock big and hard inside me, his beard rough against my cheek. At one point I thought I heard him say “Tia.” I wasn’t quite sure, but I said “Bruce,” and that seemed to please him. He moaned again and thrust even harder.

I could feel us both sweating, even though it was only March, and I had been chilly when I got there. The portholes were open, but it wasn’t the lack of air that was making me so hot, making us so hot together. I slid my hands up over the hair on his chest as he continued to move inside me, and tightened my hands around his shoulders again – they almost slipped off from his sweat.

He came suddenly, just as I was grabbing his hair and pulling his face down to kiss me again. He groaned and his whole body shuddered; I pulled him against me and held him tightly. “I’m here, baby,” I whispered. “I’m here.”

Can I tell you this now? It was better sex than I’d had with the rat bastard boyfriend. Ever. And – best of all – I was getting paid for it.

And it got better. There was none of the postcoital abruptness I usually associate with one-night stands. He rolled off me and pulled me over to him, my head on his chest, listening to the thudding of his heart. I continued to caress him, gently, my fingertips playing lightly over his chest. I blew gently on the sweat, and he shivered and tightened his arm around me. Better, on the whole, than any other one-night encounter I’d ever had.

Bruce disappeared into the bathroom and was dressed first, but had wine waiting when I emerged from the bedroom, and he kissed my cheek as he handed it to me.

The telephone rang. He picked it up, said, “Yeah, Tia’s here, hang on a minute,” and passed the receiver over to me. “For you.”

I was puzzled. “Hello?”