Problems (15 page)

I cleaned my room. I cut up magazines and made a collage on the wall. I could do whatever I wanted. I played music, and I read a book about Chinese factory workers. I was pretty grateful I was not a Chinese factory worker. I was lazy.

I took a bubble bath and felt like a movie star.

The weeks flew by. I scoured craigslist personals and met men. I vetted them through e-mails and phone calls and made sure they were my particular type, older white businessmen. Here were the
surprising things: they were attractive, smart, and funny, and most of the time, I would have hooked up with them without getting paid. Except I needed the money.

They liked to tell me their philosophies. “You always have to pay with a woman. You can pay in installments by taking a woman out to dinner and buying her presents and taking her to shows. Or you can find a nice young woman and just give her the money up front and know for sure you are going to get laid.”

“If I go to a bar and pretend to be interested in whatever she is saying and hook up with her and then lie to her, that's somehow more ethical by society's standards than telling you what I want up front and paying you for it.”

They all told me how much they wanted me to enjoy it too.

Among my friends, there was a gender divide when it came to turning tricks. The women were interested. Amy told me she was kind of jealous. Elizabeth said she could never do it, but she could see how it was perfect for me. My male friends thought it sounded like the worst thing ever. But girls know it's really not that big of a deal to give head or get fucked or have a guy come on your face. As a girl, you've probably been pressured into fucking at least once, and have probably pity-fucked some loser once, and over time you've done enough stuff that you really didn't feel like doing that eventually it doesn't seem like that big of a deal.

I didn't think the response from my male friends had anything to do with safety. But they knew all their ugly, nasty desires and didn't want to think of some man doing those things to me. And no matter how progressive they were, they didn't think I could actually enjoy hooking up with these guys. If I did, that only meant I was damaged somehow. They all implied I was dumb and naive,
that these johns were the ones winning, and I was dumb for being happy to get paid.

I was worried that after having these experiences, sex would be boring forever. When it was plain vanilla, or when I would lie there, thinking,
I could be getting paid to do this
.

People said women who did this kind of thing had no self-respect. I had no idea what that meant, because I got off on doing it. I liked meeting these dudes and hearing their life stories. I liked being told I was hot. I liked being told what to do. It was the first time in my life I felt like I was getting paid for being me. When they handed me cash, I felt like a champ.

Sometimes I wondered if I was harming my psychological well-being by validating my inner desire to be treated like shit, but what turns you on turns you on, I figured, and if being treated like shit made me feel really fucking good, then good for me, right?

Imagine a world where people didn't have hang-ups. Where I could have gone to a job interview, and said, “I've been hooking up with men for money, but I think I want to try working here now.” Where I could talk about it with people the same way other people talked about their jobs. It wasn't fair I had to have these secrets when I didn't feel like I was doing anything secretive.

It isn't always so straightforward. Sometimes they will say things that stick in your mind. You don't know why, but once in a while, they talk to you in a certain tone and call you a whore, and you want to punch them in the face.

You meet a real estate agent at a bar on the Upper East Side. He tells you the story you've heard before, a million times over, about why he is on craigslist: “I work all the time. I don't have time to
meet anyone.” You giggle too much. You are giddy. He eyes you. You shift in your seat. He doesn't. He talks about work. He drops names, acts arrogant, shows off. You act like you can't believe how talented and rich and well connected he is. He asks about school. He asks you where you're from. You lie and say Virginia. He asks about your background. You lie and say you're half-white and half-Indian. He asks you how old you are. Twenty-five, you lie. You grow tired of answering questions.

It's easier to lie about everything. You're playing a role. They aren't falling for
you
. You're a twenty-five-year-old college kid whose boyfriend dumped her. That's your story. They all say, “Fuck him. Believe me, you're better off this way.”

They all get off on the age thing.

“Twenty-five? That's hot.”

“I hope I'm not too old for you.”

“Have you ever been with an older man?”

“No,” you answer to every single one of them, “I've like fantasized about it, but I've never actually done it, so . . .”

“The truth is, I don't really have a lot of experience with guys. Like, I've only had two boyfriends, but I was with them forever,” you say, acting as if you're embarrassed.

“That's cool,” they smirk.

There comes a moment, when you haven't registered any obvious signs of psychosis, that you just need to decide whether to go or not. Because once you enter one of those short-stay hotels, or their apartments, you will be alone with them, and they can do anything.

You giggle in a cab.
This is an adventure
. He tells you to smoke a cigarette and wait five minutes and then go into the building with the black awning and tell the man behind the counter you are here
to see apartment 4C. “You are here to look at an apartment you are considering renting,” he tells you.
This is fun
. You walk in and look around like you are considering, “Hmm, this is a nice lobby.” The man behind the counter cradles a phone between his head and shoulder. He nods and smiles. You get in the elevator. You ask the real estate agent to give you a tour. He does. The apartment is beautiful. Stainless steel everything and granite counters. Flat-screen on the wall. Comfy couches.

“Does it come furnished?” you ask.

“Yeah, it can,” he says, as he puts his hands around your waist. He says you're pretty. You go down on him. He asks if he can come on your face. And then it's over in two minutes. He says, “Hold on,” and hands you a tissue to clean up with. You both arrange yourselves by the mirror in the foyer. He hands you 150 bucks. You walk out together. He gives you a kiss on the check and says, “Stay out of trouble, kid.”

You meet a banker at a bar, and he takes you on a train to Queens. He has you bend over and beats your ass. It fucking stings. You say, “Thank you, Daddy.” He slaps your face. You say, “Thank you, Daddy.” He feels your pussy and calls you a slut because you're so wet. Then he fucks you hard and it fucking hurts. It feels like his cock is banging right into your cervix. You take it for as long as you can, but it hurts too much, so you yell out the safe word, and he instantly stops. He takes a puff off his bong and then says, “You okay? Did Daddy hurt you? Come here. You like
South Park
?” You watch
South Park
, but then you just want to get it over with. He bends you over and fucks you from behind. You are screaming. “Never been fucked like that,” he says. Then he smacks you. Then he pulls your hair, “What do you say?”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

You leave with 350 bucks. You feel weirdly relaxed, like just leaning back in the cab you could pass out.

The banker texts you in the cab, “Get home okay?”

This is the part you don't understand. You understand the violent aggression. You understand why they pay you. But what is this thing about making sure you get home okay? Or when they throw in cab fare as you're leaving, or when they take you to buy a warmer coat, or when they give you old sweaters or lectures about how you are actually smart, or they ask about what you want to do with your life. Almost always, if you see a guy more than once, he will broach this subject and tell you that you can't do this forever. You tell him you know. You tell him you are in college. You tell him it's just for spending money.

You go through five hundred bucks in two days. Even though you don't spend it all on dope. Dope makes the money go faster. It just does, no matter how you cut it. You can have money or you can have dope, but you can't have both.

You are proud to tell anyone who knows what you do that it's no problem to back out if you don't like the way a guy looks, or if he rubs you the wrong way. One guy tells you he looks like De Niro and refuses to send you a picture, and you meet him at a shitty McDonald's on shitty Delancey Street, and he walks in looking like Joe Pesci in a coat that doesn't fit. You don't know how you are going to do this. You don't want to be with a fat man. He says, “I'm not what you expected, huh?” And you both know. And then he shakes your hand and leaves.

They want you to beg to be fucked. When they allude to their aging body, you turn away. Women can get validation from each other and from men. Men can't get it anywhere. They work constantly and watch their bodies get old, and they think,
Why bother going out? I can't get laid anyway
, and so they look to meet you. And you want to tell them there is nothing wrong with them. It's like talking to a fourteen-year-old girl. They just don't believe you, no matter what you say.

The best one is Jimmy. He uses the phrase “incredibly boring” five times in ten minutes when talking about his education, his job, and his life. You drag out of him that he created some kind of algorithm that makes wealthy people even wealthier. He asks you if you know what a hedge fund is. You say, “Sure,” because you don't care. He takes you to a shrink's office he sublets to some woman. He is short. You stand face to face. He tells you to put your hands on his shoulders. He tells you to open your mouth, and he looks at your teeth. You think for a split second he is going to squeeze your throat. But he touches your hair and asks you to take off your top and pull up your skirt. He jerks off for a couple of minutes while you just stand there. Then you go down on him, and he finishes in your mouth.

Jimmy talks fast and makes jokes. He is meticulous about putting everything exactly the way it was before you leave the office.

“I need to erase all evidence we were ever here.”

“That's exactly what murderers do.”

After shifting the ottoman back and forth, he backs up and looks around the room, and says, “Something is a little off.”

“Maybe it's your conscience.”

He kind of grins.

He sees you once a week. He writes you e-mails about how he thinks about you on your knees. You think about being on your knees, and how he gets his cock out of his pants and boxers like he's going to piss, and you take him in your mouth. You think of how he takes his tie and flings it over his shoulder and looks down at you. You look up at him and he closes his eyes and the camera zooms back, and there is a businessman getting a blow job in this room.

All he ever wants is for you to wear a skirt and give him a blow job. He tells you that you are his therapy. When he kisses you, he
grins and takes out his Trident gum. He is boyishly handsome. He tells you he never lets anyone take his picture because he is too self-conscious.

His cock always smells like soap.

He loves clever company names and company mottos, like the porta-potty company, “Call A-Head.”

“Get it?” he asks. “Like a head is a toilet!” He claps his hands and smiles. “Love it!”

Jimmy asks you if you'll just have a drink with him.

When you lie on the couch with your legs in his lap, he talks about the death of his sister. You listen, and he asks, “I'm not wasting your time, am I?”

On the cab ride home, you always feel high.

You meet a European guy at the restaurant of a fancy hotel and enjoy the best meal of your entire life. Octopus, both crispy and soft. Melted dark chocolate with hazelnuts on top spread on lightly salted, toasty bread. Real food is a shock to your system. You want to puke after having subsided only on yogurt for who knows how long. You feel all the carbs and sugar invade your veins like dope. You are buzzed and then so tired you can hardly keep your eyes open. You go up to the room and leave him to flirt with a black woman with short hair and big tits. You snort a bag and take a shower, trying to wake up. He comes in while you're in the shower. You go down on him for a few minutes, and then he leaves. You stay in the shower forever. When you come out, you two fool around. He eats you out until you pretend to have an orgasm. You have a screaming and shaking routine, and you do it. Then he says he's tired and falls asleep. The food feels
heavy in your stomach, and you wish you could puke it up. You watch half an episode of
Top Chef
and then the rerun that comes on after it.

In the morning he tries to put it in your butt but you refuse, so instead he jerks off into your butt crack and then leaves five hundred bucks in cash on a dresser. He says he is in a hurry, but you can stay as long as you want to. The room is rented for another day. You put on the softest robe ever. You stuff all the toiletries into your purse.

It seems like kind of a shame to leave a beautiful hotel room, but you are out of drugs and there is nothing on
TV
.

When you leave you can't wipe the smirk off your face. Five hundred bucks. Five hundred.

Sometimes if you leave your fate to people, they don't disappoint you. When no one's looking and it doesn't matter, a stranger can change your whole life for a little while.

Then you have three bad dates in a row.

A sad man takes you to a shitty Indian restaurant. He is so lonely, he tells you.

You stare at his wrinkled shirt. You wonder if his wife is dead.

An asshole who yells at waiters and is abrupt starts grabbing at you and then takes you to a hotel room. When you go down on him and his dick falls out of your mouth, he smacks you, hard. He laughs. You try to laugh, trying to play it off like you're both enjoying this game. Sick, weird fuck. He says he is forty-five, but he has to be pushing sixty. You stop and say you want to leave. He
surprises you by paying you in full and then sharing a cab with you. He jokes around with you like you are best pals.