couldn’t identify, and that I have never tasted since.
So when Peach sent me to Beacon Street, I felt nothing but a sense of mild anticipation. The guy wasn’t particularly pleasant on the telephone when I called to set it up, but by then I was amassing my own wisdom about such things. That wisdom said that in general the clients who were the most obnoxious on the telephone were the least so in person, and vice-versa.
Well, so I was wrong about that, too.
But I was still operating from that framework when I talked to him, so I was taking the whole conversation with a grain of salt.
“So, what do you like?”
In my short time in the business, I had already developed an aversion to that question. The point was never what I liked, but rather what the client liked, and sometimes this opening felt like an exam, a trick question, a way to get me to say something that he could then pick apart. I was starting to understand clients’ minds, you see.
I cleared my throat. “I like lots of things. I’m sure that I’ll like you. Why don’t I come over, and we’ll see how it feels together?”
It was a fourth-floor apartment, one of the apartments that directly overlook the Charles River, and as soon as I got there I moved toward the window with an exclamation of delight. Most guys appreciate that, you complimenting their place. And this was truly magnificent.
All around me, below me, the darkness was punctuated by pinpoints of dazzling brightness, windows spilling out warm yellow light into the night, the flashing red lights on the roofs of the buildings across the river, sparkling unknown reflections in the dark water itself.
The client – Barry by name – wasn’t paying me to enjoy the view. I know this to be true because he said so, even as he grasped my arm and pulled me away from the window and toward him, a grasp that was to leave clear deep imprints of his fingers on my bruised skin later.
That first kiss bruised my mouth, too.
He was pinning me against a brick wall and it was uneven, cutting into my back, and it hurt. And his hands hurt, too, pushing against me, squeezing my breasts – hard, too hard. I gasped and pulled away, as far as I could, told him to stop, and he laughed, he actually laughed. “You don’t tell me to do anything,” he said. “You’re just a whore. You hear that? You do what I say.”
I probably should have left then. I had that option; Peach wouldn’t have been happy about it, although she would have supported me. I was still feeling my way in the profession, still in my heart of hearts wondering if I really could do it. I still had something to prove.
So I thought, okay, I can handle this. It’s only an hour. I can do this for an hour.
He pushed me through an arched doorway into an extremely small bedroom, the bed unmade, a slight undefinable unpleasant odor in the air. There was track lighting, all of it pointing to the bed. A class act, all the way.
He hadn’t taken his hands off me once – squeezing, pinching, mauling. He was taking my clothes off and ripped two of the buttons at the neckline to the dress. When I tried to get a modicum of control back, saying that I’d take off my clothes, he grabbed a handful of my hair and shoved his face to within a half-inch of mine. “Shut up, whore!”
Oddly enough, he took a moment to spread towels on the bed. With the mess that the room was already in, the gesture seemed a little ominous.
You probably won’t believe this, but the truth is that I don’t really remember exactly what happened next. Everything happened so fast, everything became such a blur of pain and fear, that I cannot fashion the experience into words, into a coherent narrative.
Here’s what I remember. I remember being pushed down onto the bed, with him on top of me, pinning my hands up above my head, his weight pushing down on my lungs and making me struggle for breath. I remember his voice, over and over: “You’re just a whore, aren’t you? You’re just a dirty little whore. Say it! Say you’re a whore! Say you love it!”
I remember being terrified about having no control over what was happening, terrified he wouldn’t use a condom and I wouldn’t be able to stop him. I remember the moment of relief when he put one on and the immediate fear again as he started to tie my wrists together with a pillowcase. I screamed, then. I knew that once I was tied up there would be no control at all, and I struggled and flailed until he gave up. After that, he was even nastier in what he had to say.
I remember him fucking me, hard, slamming into me with a force that had more to do with rage than anything else, ramming so hard that I thought I couldn’t take another stroke, the pain was so intense. He was hitting my cervix, he was ramming it so hard that I was convinced he was ripping my flesh, ripping my insides. I remember him pulling back and pushing me onto my stomach, and I remember the horror I felt as I realized that he was trying to push his way into my ass.
I’m not a prude; far from it. I’ve had anal sex many times and have enjoyed it. I’ve role-played all sorts of things that involved submission and dominance, and, with the requisite safe words in place, felt free to explore all sorts of facets of my sexuality.
But there was nothing that felt safe or free about this transaction, and I reacted intensely.
Barry was not pleased. “Hookers take it in the ass,” he snarled.
“Not this one,” I said.
Most people would have left it there. Most people, even people with only a modicum of social skills, would have accepted that it wasn’t going to happen and would have moved on as gracefully as possible. Some might even have apologized. Later, I learned that many of Peach’s girls shared my fear of having anal sex with a stranger – and particularly one who has already inflicted pain – so Barry, who had a long history with Peach, might well have known that I would refuse. He might have requested it during our brief telephone conversation. It seemed clear, now, why he hadn’t. If you don’t ask, no one can say no. And he just might be able to trick or force me into doing it…
So, as I said, most people would have moved on.
Barry was not most people.
If I hadn’t been so irritated, and so frightened, what ensued might have almost been comical. An adult man, hairy and naked, whining as though he were a five-year-old boy being denied an ice cream cone. “Oh, come on, do it, just this once.”
“No, I don’t want to.” Okay, so I was sounding a little childish myself.
“Come on.” His voice was wheedling, as though he might be able to wear me down through insistence alone. “Just for a minute. I promise when you say stop I’ll stop. You’ll like it, you’ll see how much you’ll like it. I’ll listen to you. Whatever you want.”
Yeah, I thought, like you’ve done so far. “No. Why don’t we…”
“I don’t want to do anything else!” He was explosive now, and really scaring me. “You bitch, this is what you’re here for, and this is what you’re gonna do!”
I struggled away from him and crouched, naked, next to the headboard. I think that I was shaking, and it was partly out of fear and partly out of anger. “Barry, I’ve said no. You should have told Peach that was what you wanted. I don’t do it and I won’t do it.” And especially not with you.
He sat on the edge of the bed, considering his options. Apparently he decided to turn to Plan B, because he reached out and gently stroked my shoulder. “Okay, okay. It’s okay. Come on over here. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.”
Thinking that the hour had to be close to being up, please God, I crawled tentatively toward him. This sudden switch from aggression and insults to gentleness and sympathy was disconcerting. So what’s the story here? I’m supposed to get in an affectionate mood now? And the other voice in my head answered, Yes, you are, it’s what you’re being paid to do.
In any event, I didn’t need to. As soon as I was within comfortable reach,