The Escort Next Door (7 page)

Work

O
ver the next couple of days, I continued to think
very seriously about the possibility of stripping. Every time I stepped out of
the shower, I carefully examined my body. For a woman who’d had three children,
I wasn’t in bad shape. Regular exercise and being usually careful to avoid any
kind of junk food, had helped me stay trim. There were a few silvery stretch
marks around my hips, but they were barely noticeable. After prodding my butt,
I discovered a little wobble, but it was still pretty firm. Most of my skin was
healthily bronzed by the summer sun, and the problem of paler patches could be
easily solved with a little spray tan.

With the help of more make-up than I’d usually wear and the
right outfit, I didn’t think I’d look out of place in one of the more upmarket
clubs. The more I thought, the more I became convinced not only that I could do
it, but that it also offered me the escape route I needed.

As my interest refused to wane, I went back onto the
internet and began scouting for clubs in various cities around the state. I was
surprised by the large number of so-called gentleman’s clubs. Most of their
websites offered a section for ‘career opportunities’ and stressed that they
were always looking for new talent. One page provided potential customers with
a gallery of their dancers. Out of curiosity, I browsed the girls noting that
many of them linked to their own websites.

Clicking on a blonde named, ‘Snow’, I was intrigued as to
why a stripper would need a website. It turned out, Snow was a savvy business
woman. She worked in a number of clubs and also offered private services in
both dancing and escorting.  Not only was she gaining some job security by
diversifying, but also making a lot more money. With one night of escorting,
she was earning what the average stripper gets in a week.

Closing the browser, I thought no more about it. At least, I
wasn’t aware of thinking about it. But as I lay in bed that night, my eyes wide
open and focused on shadows that played across the ceiling, I continued to
think about Snow and what she chose to do for a living. Sure, it was
prostitution, and yet it was a very different world to the streetwalking
variety.

Two things quickly occurred to me. One, if I stayed with
Paul, I was going to be prostituting myself anyway. And two, men who hire
escorts are much more likely to be discreet than men who go to strip joints.

Shaking my head, I couldn’t quite believe the conclusions I
was reaching. But one after another, I kept producing reasons why a brief
career as an escort would be a good idea. I’d only have to work one night per
week; I wouldn’t have to take my clothes off in front of a room full of people;
I could be selective over my clients and where I met them, ensuring I was
always out of town.

But, I quickly slammed on the breaks of my runaway train of
thought, there was the one huge sacrifice I would need to make. I would need to
be prepared to allow complete strangers to use my body for their sexual
pleasure. Was that something I could do? Was it something I would be able to
live with afterward? The truth was, I didn’t know.

However, there were only two alternatives; continue with the
sham that was my marriage or leave Paul and accept that he would fight to take
primary custody of our kids. I knew without any equivocation that I could live
with neither of those things. The possible fallout may have been a complete
unknown, but the fear of what
might
happen was far less than the dread
of playing the dutiful wife to a man I no longer respected, trusted or loved.

Unable to close my eyes, I pushed the covers off the bed and
sat up. “I can try,” I mumbled beneath my breath. “Just once.”

Slipping off the bed, I tiptoed in the darkness to the
computer and once more turned it on. If I’d made up my mind, I told myself,
then I might as well get the ball rolling.

I wouldn’t be able to set up my own site, at least not one
in which I used a photograph, as there was too much chance of Paul, his
parents, our friends and God knew who else seeing it. Instead, I’d need to use
classified ads. There were several sites that would allow me to post free ones
and there were a couple of message boards that offered a forum for escorts and
potential clients to communicate.

After having read several other ads, I began to get a gist
for the basic format and the kind of things that were important to customers.
It took me almost an hour to write my own pitch, it was only 100 words long,
but I struggled with the tone, wanting to get the right balance between classy
and alluring. It’s difficult enough to sell yourself for a regular job, when
you’re quite literally selling yourself, a personal statement (even a very
short one) becomes incredibly hard.

However, by the time dawn broke, I had advertised myself on
a total of five websites and had set up a new email account for the purpose. 

Given the sheer number of young women who seemed to be
trying to get work in exactly the same way, I didn’t hold out much hope of
hearing from anyone in the near future. In fact, regardless of the large
amounts of money that could be made, I was beginning to wonder whether I would
be able to make anything at all. There seemed to be a disproportionately large supply
compared with demand.

Deciding that I would give the ads a couple of weeks, I
determined to worry about a ‘Plan B’ only after that time had elapsed.

In the meantime, I had to go back to being a mom; there were
children that needed to be woken, fed and shipped off to school.

***

As it turned out, I didn’t have to
wait two weeks. Just three days passed before I received my first email
inquiry. I’d almost dismissed it as spam, feeling sure that I had no chance of
generating interest so quickly. However, the subject line, ‘Looking for some
company on Saturday night’, caused me to stop dead in my tracks.

I was about to open the message, but a voice from the
doorway caused me to jolt in surprise.

“Mom,” Dylan said brightly. “Can I have some ice cream?”

My head snapped around, as I shut the browser window. It was
a nonsensical reaction, there was nothing revealing on the screen, my son
couldn’t see it anyway and even if he could, he certainly wasn’t close enough
to read. “How many times have I told you about knocking on that door before you
come in,” I grumbled, pushing myself off the chair and moving toward him.

“I did,” he replied.

“Well, I didn’t say ‘come in’,” I said, coaxing him around
with a light touch at his shoulder.

He followed my silent guiding without hesitation or
argument. “I’m sorry,” he continued. “Can I have some ice cream, though?” he
quickly added, returning to his primary concern.

“Not right now,” I responded, walking down the hall with
him.

“Ahhh, Mom,” he moaned loudly. “Please!” he begged, turning
to me and pressing his hands together in front of his chest. “Please, please,
please,” he rapidly added, his eyes taking on that dolefully expression he was
so very good at.

Shaking my head apologetically, I hustled him ahead of me
and we descended the stairs. “Maybe,” I softly suggested, but before I could
get the rest of the sentence out, my young son was already punching the air
furiously.

“Yes!” he yelled delightedly.

“Maybe,” I repeated, stressing the word this time. “If you
eat all your dinner and promise to go to bed on time, I’ll see what I can do
about the ice cream.”

“I love you, Mom,” he said, turning his big brown eyes to me
and grinning broadly. It was his standard way of trying to keep me sweet. His
father used to do something similar when we were younger.

With the promise of ice cream, dinner was a much smoother
affair than usual and I made a mental note to use bribery more often. All three
children, even Kate, ate every last piece of their meal, including the greens
that typically got pushed around until I got tired of trying to coax them into
a mouth. Lizzie offered to help me clear away, which was no doubt a ploy to get
an extra-large scoop, but it was appreciated nonetheless.

Putting them to bed that night, I spent a little longer
looking at their adorable, peaceful faces. They were growing so quickly, time
had been passing me by and I’d been largely oblivious to it. The shock of
Paul’s infidelity had caused me to put my existence into some sort of
perspective. Almost thirty, and all I had to show for those years were the
three kids who meant the world to me. Of course, they made me want to tear my
hair out at times, but I couldn’t imagine life without their mischievous charm.
I wouldn’t want to live in a world without them in it, my children were the
only thing that made life make sense.

 Closing Lizzie and Dylan’s doors, and leaving Kate’s
fractionally ajar so she still had a little light from the hallway, I walked
slowly back to my own bedroom. With a renewed sense of purpose, I settled in
front of the computer screen and opened the email I’d received earlier that
evening.

Hi,

I’m David, I read your
advertisement and wondered if you’re free on Saturday night. I know it’s a bit
short notice, but I have an unplanned stop in the state and I hate to be alone.
Would love to learn more about you, and maybe see a picture? If you’d like to
know what I look like, just say the word.

I leaned back for a moment, as the reality of what I’d done,
and was planning to do, sunk in. Paul wasn’t coming home until Sunday
afternoon, so I certainly had the night free. However, I hadn’t been expecting
things to happen so quickly. I’d thought it would be at least a month, and
probably much more, before I was actually working. I hadn’t really had a chance
to mentally prepare.

In retrospect, no matter how long it had taken, I know I
would never have been prepared. It simply isn’t the sort of thing that can be
prepared for. But, at the time, part of me was arguing that I just needed a few
weeks to really adjust to the prospect of selling my body.

However, something overrode that instinct, because I was
already opening the many files of photographs we had stored on the computer. I
managed to find a couple of me dressed in an evening gown at some fancy function
Paul’s company had organized six months previously. Choosing the one I liked
best, I carefully cropped my husband out of the image, before attaching it to a
new email.

I wrote a quick message, telling him that I was available if
he was still interested and that I didn’t need to know what he looked like.

As I clicked on ‘send’, I told myself his appearance didn’t
matter. However, I knew that my subconscious choice had been more to do with
ignorance being bliss. If he was in his sixties or seventies, with a beer gut
and tobacco stained teeth, the anticipation of spending the night with him
would be filled with even more dread than it already was. Sex, for me, had
always been inextricably linked with love. It had never been purely physical,
and because Paul was my first and only lover, it had always been with someone I
trusted. The thought of giving myself to a stranger; a man about whom I knew
nothing and who didn’t care about me, was entirely foreign and caused me to
shudder.

However, I was forced to remind myself that that wasn’t
completely true. I no longer knew Paul and, for the last few months at least,
he’d stopped caring about me. The last time we’d had sex was certainly evidence
of that fact. Was offering my body to David really any different than the last
time I’d been to bed with my own husband?

It only took a few minutes for him to write again.

Hey,

Thanks for getting in touch.
You’re a very beautiful woman, and I am definitely interested in enjoying the
pleasure of your company on Saturday. You haven’t mentioned fee, but it’s not a
problem. Whatever you charge, I’m happy to pay it.

I’m staying at the Hyatt, room
405. If you could be here at about 8pm, that would be good. Let me know.
Thanks!

Before I had time to talk myself out of it, I wrote a reply
confirming that I would be there at eight o’clock.

Breathing rapidly, as I pushed the chair away from the desk,
I realized that it was done. I was really going to go through with it. I had
just two days to arrange a babysitter and get myself ready for what would be
the most bizarre date of my life. I quickly made a list of all the things that
needed to be done; my legs, although always smoothly shaved, would probably
need waxing; my small, neat patch of pubic hair would have to go, too. I’d
never favored the Brazilian style, but I understood enough about what was
popular among men to know that the hairless look would be expected. My nails
required a fresh manicure; hair needed styling; and my tan lines from wearing a
bikini had to be removed.

In short, I had to look perfect. There was a lot of work to
be done.

First Times A Charm

N
ervous doesn’t begin to describe how I felt as I
walked down the hotel corridor. The backs of my legs shook so much that they
felt weak, and I must have looked a bit like a newborn deer. Having felt so
confident that I could go through with the night, I suddenly knew that it was
nothing but bravado; intended only to convince myself.

Who was I kidding?

Having only ever slept with one man, I was almost as inexperienced
as they come. Even when we were engaged and first married, Paul and I were
never particularly adventurous in the bedroom. If this man had some peculiar
tastes or fetishes, would I know what to do? Even if he didn’t want something
weird, would I be able to please him?

“Oh shit,” I whispered, seriously contemplating turning
around and bolting back to the elevator. “Oh shit, oh shit,” I breathed.
Halting the movement of my feet, I forced myself to breathe deeply. Smoothing
my hands down the skirt of my red cocktail dress, I released a steady, slow
exhale. I glanced down at my cleavage which was thrust up by a brand new bra
I’d bought the day before. My legs were covered in black stockings and my feet
securely tucked into four-inch stilettos. Flicking my newly wavy hair off my
shoulder, I swallowed the anxious lump in my throat. “Pull yourself together,”
I softly mumbled.

When the temptation to turn back crept higher, I reminded
myself why I was there. This was never about doing something that I wanted to, but
what I felt I had to do. It was about putting my own fears and prudish concerns
aside, because the end would justify the means.

Before I’d ordered them to do so, my feet were once more
moving. The thoughts that had been racing discordantly through my head stopped
and focused on the door numbers, until I reached ‘405’.

Quickly moistening my lips, I lifted my hand with the
fingernails colored the same shade of red as my dress, and tapped softly on the
door. I counted the deep thuds of my heart, while I waited for an answer. There
were twelve. And then, slowly and gently the door was pulled open.

The man was much younger than I had expected, he must have
been somewhere in his mid-thirties. He had dark, almost jet black hair that was
cut in a neat Ivy League style, with a side parting. He was clean shaven, with
soft features and dark brown eyes under quite long black lashes. As he looked
at me, he smiled a little lopsided grin. “Hi,” he greeted warmly, pulling the
door open wider.

“Hi,” I echoed, my eyes now taking in the view of the rest
of his body. He was around six feet something, with strong, broad shoulders. He
was wearing pinstriped black pants and a white dress shirt, with the cuffs
undone.

“I’m David,” he said, continuing to smile, as he moved to
one side of the entry way and gestured an open hand into the room.

“Thank you,” I nodded, managing a nervy smile in return as I
stepped across the threshold. “I’m Arianna,” I murmured, remembering to use the
name I’d chosen for my call girl persona, rather than my real one. All the
girls used fake names, most of them were tacky: Destinee, Lotus, Candy that
kind of thing. I wanted something that sounded a little exotic and mysterious,
but was still classy. I unconsciously drew in a breath as I passed him and was
met with the earthy, spicy scent of whatever aftershave he’d just used.
Swallowing, I silently reminded myself that it didn’t matter what he smelled or
looked like. I was here to do a job.

I couldn’t help but feel grateful that he was attractive, though.
Faking an interest in him would be made easier by the fact he was easy on the
eyes.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, closing the door behind
him.

I stopped in the room’s small living space. It wasn’t quite
a suite, but there were two comfortable chairs and a coffee table, with a brand
new TV on the wall and a minibar in the corner. Beyond that, in the open plan
space was the bed. It was a king size, with crisp white sheets, four plump
pillows and a beige bed scarf with the Hyatt Regency logo embroidered in the
corner. “Umm, yes, please,” I managed to softly mumble, remembering that he had
asked me a question.

“What can I get you?” I added, already moving to the
minibar. “I’m on vodka myself,” he said pointing to the one liter bottle of
Smirnoff that was clearly not the hotels. “But you can have whatever you like.”

“Vodka’s fine,” I quickly stated. With my rising nerves, the
stronger the alcohol, the better.

“Great,” he nodded. “Take a seat,” he urged, grasping two
shot glasses and the bottle.

As I settled into one of the armchairs, keeping a hand on
the hem of my dress to stop it riding too high, he took the few strides toward
me and tossed himself into the other seat. With a tired sigh, he slipped the
glasses onto the table and began unscrewing the bottle.

“So, umm,” I softly mumbled, trying to think of something to
say. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, just work,” he shrugged. “I was supposed to be heading
back yesterday, but my office messed up the arrangements and I had to stay
longer than planned.”

“I see,” I nodded, watching him pour some of the crystal
clear liquid into each shot glass. “Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s ok,” he quickly insisted. “I’m kind of glad now. If
I’d gone home Friday, I would have never had the opportunity to meet you,” he
smoothly said, placing the bottle down and lifting his glass as if to toast.

Carefully, I reached for my own drink and lifted it to his.
We clinked the edges of the glasses together, before both swallowing the shot
whole. It instantly brought a flush of tears to my eyes and a burning to my
throat which I tried to mask, but a cough erupted despite my efforts.

“Okay?” he asked, chuckling.

“Yeah,” I assured him, hoarsely.

He grinned skeptically, before accepting my word with a
brief nod. “Well,” he sighed, lifting himself from the chair just enough to
reach into his back pocket. “I said money wasn’t an object, but I’d like to get
it out of the way, if that’s all right with you,” he said, pulling the wallet
out and flipping it open.

“Sure,” I replied.

“That way, we can get on with enjoying the night, huh?”

“Right,” I agreed. “Umm, exactly what services do you want
from me?” I wondered, embarrassment causing my cheeks to warm. I hoped he might
think the reddening was caused by the drink.

“I was hoping you’d be able to spend about six hours with
me,” he unabashedly said. “Err, you offer full sex, right?”

My mouth suddenly went very dry and I could only nod in
response.

“Well, I don’t want anything too strange or out of the
ordinary,” he added. “I guess it’s called the umm, girlfriend experience?” he
finished with a crease of his eyebrow.

Again, I nodded, my throat unwilling to cooperate in the
making of any sounds. I’d seen the phrase ‘girlfriend experience’ on the many
escort ads I’d seen online. And had been able to create an idea of what that
would entail. I was beyond grateful that David didn’t have an unusual fetish he
wished to act out with me. Girlfriend experience was probably something I could
just about manage.

“So?” he uttered, his thumb slipping over a large wedge of
bills.

“Oh, sorry,” I blurted shaking my head and realizing that
this had been leading to me giving him a figure for my services. “Well, that’ll
be...errr... $1800.” I spoke so haltingly and anxiously that I was worried my
inexperience would be obvious to him.

He said nothing, while he flicked through the bills and then
pulled out a fistful of them. Silently, he placed the cash on the table, before
getting up and replacing his wallet in his pants. “Now,” he smiled, “that’s out
of the way, we can concentrate on having a good time. Would you like something
to eat?” he offered, visibly relaxing into the chair.

The casual way he’d dealt with the payment seemed so strange
to me, and yet it was obviously necessary to separate the transaction and the
‘good time’. “Sounds great,” I replied, forcing a broad smile. In truth, I was
so scared I didn’t think I’d be able to keep anything down. But if he wanted to
have dinner, then it was my job to ensure he got what he wanted. Reaching
forward I scooped the cash off the table and slipped it into my purse.

“You want to go down to the restaurant?” he asked, tipping
his head to the door. “Or should we just get some room service and eat up
here?”

“Whatever you’d prefer,” I offered warmly.

“Hmm,” he looked at me, while he thought for several
seconds. “On one hand, I’d like to have you on my arm. On the other, I’d kind
of like to have you to myself,” he chuckled.

I felt uncomfortable not only with the way he spoke about
me; as if I were a commodity, but also by the way he looked at me. It was a
hungry, appreciative gaze; a look that reminded me of the way a lioness eyes
her prey. Of course, on the surface, I tried to let none of those emotions
show. And, I had to concede, I was a commodity of sorts. I was bought and paid
for.

“I think it’ll be nicer to stay up here,” he eventually
said, cradling the back of his head in his hands. “We can really talk,” he
added.

While I drained another shot glass of vodka, David called
down to room service and ordered for us both. I don’t even remember what I had,
I know I didn’t spend long choosing, sure that I wouldn’t touch any of it any
way.

However, by the time the meal arrived, I’d had another shot
and was beginning to feel much more relaxed.

David had professed an interest in learning more about me,
but I’d successfully been vague in most of my answers and flipped the questions
back to him. As he talked about his career as head of a sales team for a
pharmaceutical company, I almost forgot the circumstances under which were we
meeting.

“What about free time?” I asked, unconsciously sticking my
fork into a piece of ravioli. “Any hobbies?”

“Ha,” he exhaled. “What free time?” He was quiet for a
moment, as he poured himself another glass of the red wine he’d order with the
meal. “It feels like I’m always working, that’s certainly what my ex thought.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I quickly apologized when I noted the
sadness in his eyes.

“Don’t be,” he dismissed with a wave of his free hand. “It’s
not your fault.” Carefully placing the bottle back down, he picked up his glass
and lifted it to his lips, flashing me a smile before taking a mouthful. “But
it’s been tough since she left,” he admitted. “My ridiculously busy schedule
makes it impossible to meet anyone and I’m the kind of person that hates to be
alone, you know?”

I nodded, remembering what he’d written in his first email.
However, it seemed insane to me that a man like him would need to hire the
services of an escort. He was young, handsome and charming. There would be any
number of women who would be happy to have a one-night stand with him if that’s
all he could commit to.

However, his desires for the evening came back to the
forefront of my mind: the girlfriend experience. He didn’t want a one-night
stand per se, it wasn’t about a quick roll in the hay. He wanted companionship,
he wanted to spend this time talking, sharing some laughs and for all intents
and purposes, pretending we’d known each other for much longer than we had. If
he just wanted a fuck, he could have gone down to the bar and picked up a girl
or headed out on the streets to find a hooker. In fact, he could even have
demanded that I get my clothes off as soon as I’d walked in the door.

 “You’re a sweet man,” I told him, unaware of a compulsion
to do so. The alcohol had loosened me up just enough to prevent my self censor
from working properly. “I mean, someday a girl is going to be very lucky to
have you.”

He grinned, as he lifted his napkin and wiped the sides of
his mouth. “I’m sure you’ve heard this a lot,” he responded, tossing the napkin
onto his empty plate and leaning back in his chair. “But you are an incredibly
sexy woman.”

I actually felt myself blushing and quickly glanced down to
avoid his eyes. The truth was, I hadn’t heard it a lot. Paul had said it twice,
maybe three times, the whole time I’d known him. “Thank you,” I gracelessly
mumbled.

Suddenly, David was getting to his feet. He moved around the
small table until he reached my side. There, he sank into a crouched position.
Still, I couldn’t bring myself to look at his face. And this was not something
that went unnoticed.

Slowly, he crooked his warm index finger beneath my chin and
coaxed my hand around. “The fact that hearing how sexy you are embarrasses
you,” he said, a teasing grin quirking the corners of his mouth, “makes you
even sexier.”

“I...I...” I stammered, shaking my head slightly. The next
time I opened my mouth, nothing came out. It didn’t have the chance. David’s
lips were unexpectedly melded to mine. He softly moved them, the tip of his
tongue occasionally darting out to take a taste of my lip. For a long second
the shock of his rapid movement startled me into stillness. However, as he
slowly caressed my mouth with his own, I surrendered myself to the feeling.
With a soft moan, I parted my lips and understanding the unintelligible call,
his tongue slipped quickly over mine.

 Even as it deepened, the kiss remained soft and
exploratory. Nevertheless, it was doing entirely unexpected things to me. A
warmth was spreading through my abdomen, which I tried to rationalize was from
the wine and shots of vodka consumed earlier. I could never have admitted it,
not even to myself, at the time, but I was enjoying that kiss. David was good;
gentle, but with just the right amount of pressure. His tongue roamed playfully,
rather than aggressively and he tasted nice; a mixture of Merlot and tomato
pasta sauce.

What’s more, I was excited by the promise of where the kiss
would lead.