I lowered my weekly quota to a level I can actually meet. Though Matt isn’t aware of my job, he totally benefits when business is good, and suffers when business is slow. Perhaps not financially, but in other ways.
Come to think of it, my earnings can’t possibly hurt our bottom line. Unless I get caught, which would be awful. That’s why I’m afraid to see new customers—though I sometimes make an exception for Trisha’s.
“Okay,” I agreed. “I just don’t want to run into anyone who knows my husband. Or his family.”
I can’t bring myself to tell Trish about Elspeth’s former profession—which she could return to, if she ever runs out of Ubermommy juice. Trish might never work with me again if she finds out my husband’s sister was a prosecutor.
“I hear you,” she said. “Can you bring those handcuffs? And a few changes? Something pastel and innocent for the first hour, and something bitchy for the second hour. Do you still have those black boots? The ones that lace up the back?”
This new customer sounds younger than most of our dates, which makes him risky. Older guys (like Etienne or Milt) aren’t likely to be part of Matt’s circle. Should I really be doing this?
“He’s calling in a few days to confirm,” she said. “His schedule’s crazy. He might have to cancel.”
I crossed my fingers, feeling torn. If he cancels, I’m off the hook. I don’t want to get caught, but I don’t want to turn down business—especially from Trish. This might be my last chance to really work a lot.
Time to get ready for Chip. I won’t get caught seeing him. He’s been in my book for years, a known quantity, and I knew his father for much longer—though Chip, of course, has no idea.
Wednesday, later
When Chip walked into the apartment, the memory of his father’s face was, once again, playing tricks with me. It never fails. I still miss his dad, though he’s been dead almost six years. He was gentle, quick, always happy to wear a condom.
But Chip Junior is nothing like Chip Senior. In the bedroom, he’s determined to get his money’s worth—which means holding back for as long as possible while I straddle, doing most of the work. Just before I slid the condom on, he made some obligatory caddish noises about being “clean as a whistle, and-I’m-sure-you-are-too,” in an effort to dismiss the rubber.
I, in turn, smiled pleasantly, as I always do, and made my obligatory comment about birth control. “And,” I chirped, “I’ll have you know I’m much cleaner than a whistle.”
Abandoning the chirp, switching to sultry insistence: “I want you to wear this. So I can get you inside of me. It’s been too long since I felt your cock.”
This routine has been going on for so long it qualifies as a tradition. I don’t trust Chip around the New Girls—I mean, real newbies who might not have professional manners. They’re liable to give in because he’s good-looking (if they’re softies), or lecture him about STDs until he can barely get it up (if they’re sanctimonious college girls).
As I rode on his cock, I closed my eyes and played with my breasts. My nipples were getting hard. He reached up to touch. I bit my lip, made some hot little sounds, and moved his hand away, allowing it to rest on the side of my ass. I tried to keep my hands busy so he wouldn’t be able to get at my nipples. There’s something about his hand. He’s too forceful—not a brute, just intrusive.
Sometimes it makes me think, “If this were a boyfriend.” But why should I come with this jerk? All his banter about money, condoms, cleanliness—I think the only reason I see him is his father. I miss those visits.
But the involuntary connection between nipple and clitoris was making itself felt. I reached down to finger myself as he pushed his cock into me.
I won’t be able to have this kind of sex for much longer. And he won’t be the first customer I want to see after I—
Omigod.
How exactly do you deal with the evidence of a c-section in situations like this? The alternative is, um. Suddenly, my hips stopped moving. Vaginal delivery? Yikes.
Chip, feeling teased and slightly frustrated, began seeking his own kind of delivery. There is just no way, I thought, forcing myself to concentrate on his cock. I must sort this out. And is that why Trish has such kinky dates? So she never has to get completely undressed?
Later, as I tidied him up with a hot washcloth, I was tempted to quiz him about his children. He’s got two from his first marriage, and rumor has it he’s re-married, because he no longer sees girls at his apartment. The apartment, just off Park, where we’ve all cooed over the crayon art on Chip’s bathroom wall.
If I didn’t know any better, I would assume he’s too waspy to send his daughter to a school like Sacred Heart, but I know more than I should. His Episcopalian dad knew me as Suzy and saw me twice a month. He sometimes talked, with a hint of exasperation, about an ex-wife who wanted their marriage retroactively annulled, so she could re-marry. That “temperamental Catholic” was Chip Junior’s mother. But, if I ask Chip where his kids go to school, he’ll probably think I’m trying to blackmail him.
After seeing him to the door, I retrieved five hundreds from the top of my dresser and put them in my money drawer.
It’s really too bad. I can’t ask any of my regulars to help me get our forthcoming child into one of the top Catholic schools! It might be what everyone else does, but asking the people you know isn’t an option for me. The downside of being in this business is having to rely on my husband’s connections.
Relying on Matt is safe, sane, consensual—but rather unsatisfying. I probably know more guys who are plugged into the private schools than he does, but I know them too well, in the wrong way. To Chip, I’m Sabrina: a little bit classy, a little bit slutty, perpetually twenty-five (twenty-seven, tops). If “Sabrina” were to broach the delicate matter of getting her child into a Jesuit prep school, Chip would be dumbfounded. Doesn’t he come here to escape those conversations?
Friday, June 14
This morning, as I was leaving Thirty-fourth Street, already running late for my blow-out with Lorenzo, I was ambushed. I rushed back upstairs, thankful to be wearing black jeans, and opened a fresh box of tampons. So much for that!
As I sat in the pneumatic chair, staring at my non-pregnant self in the full-length mirror, Lorenzo tousled my damp hair with his fingertips.
“What’s wrong?” His thumbs were caressing my scalp. “You look … almost haunted.”
“I’m totally haunted. I’ve spent the last ten days looking at strollers! Ordering Dr. Seuss books. Arguing with my husband about pre-schools. And worrying about how my body will look after a cesarian!”
Of course, I don’t want Lorenzo to know what I was up to when the c-section dilemma introduced itself.
“Relax,” he told me. “You’ll ask your doctor to make the incision very low. If you start wearing a more natural look down there, your hair covers the scar. Unless—you haven’t had laser, have you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Good.” His lips went into an opinionated pout. “Laser in the back, never in front. It’s called keeping your options open. There’s a time and place for everything.”
Today, there’s a soft layer of dark fuzz on my outer lips because I wax every three weeks. I remember how abundant my pubic hair was, during my teens. I was trying, then, to look more womanly. Is it now time to grow it back?
“How do you know so much about … all that?” I asked.
“It’s my job.” He rolled his eyes. “Hair is hair. And hair is everywhere. And wherever there is some hair—” he adjusted