Saturday, May 17, 2008
Dec 16, 1999 | Dec. 16, 1999
Saturday, October 23
Laid low by my still-tender lower parts, I had to invent an excuse when Matt tried to take me to dinner last night. I couldn't bring myself to tell him how I goofed up during my bikini wax: The less said about that incident, the better. "I slipped and pulled a muscle," I told him. "We have to order in and we can't fuck," I added sweetly. "Doctor's instructions."
"Did the doctor prescribe pizza?" he asked. "Or Chinese? Should I go out and pick up wine?" I loosened his tie, thinking, How married this sounds. All the conjugal intonations and none of the paperwork. As I slipped into girlfriend mode, the headaches, fears and threats of recent days were becoming strangely unreal. There was a happy glow of yuppie-ish normalcy all around us and we hadn't even started on the merlot.
My entanglement with a National Enquirer cover girl faded into the distance as Matt embraced me. "How long do we have to wait?" he added, in a confidential voice. "What if I'm really, really gentle?"
Matt won't be getting near my pussy until next weekend at the earliest! There was a time in my life when I would have allowed my boyfriend to have first dibs after a spell of infirmity. Now I'm ensuring a speedy recovery so I can keep my appointment with Milton.
"Sweetheart," I murmured, "bed rest is what's called for."
He went out to gather red wine and hunt for a suitable video. I felt a twinge of remorse, but this vanished when I recalled his summer affair with Larissa. Is deprivation delayed payback for his fling? I didn't plan it that way -- but why the strange aura of satisfaction, the sense of justice served, when I decided to let a client have me first? It's just a job; it's not revenge sex!
Or is it? Liane once told me that working girls at 30 are in great psychic danger: "There is a dark side to the Monkey Business. Money becomes a form of erotic depravity in and of itself," she warned me. "Of course that won't happen to you because I expect you'll marry some nice man your own age, dear. Just make sure he never finds out! And try to meet him before that happens!" I find her madamish theories oddly haunting. Crazy, unfounded, almost Gothic-sounding, but I can't help thinking: She does own a duplex just off Madison Avenue. Surely, she deserves a certain respect.
Sunday, October 24
I still have to figure out what to do about the three-way that Milt wanted. I suppose a stand-in for Allison is better than not coming through at all. When a client is that excited, you hate to disappoint.
Against my attorney's wishes, I called April from my cell phone today. Despite what Barry says, I feel safer when April believes I'm willing to appease her in some way. If I stand her up without an explanation -- well, she's pretty scary. "I won't be able to meet you this weekend. I'm in the Hamptons," I lied. These days you only dare lie about where you're calling from if you're on a mobile. I can remember when that wasn't the case, but those carefree days are over. Caller I.D. has made us cynical and the most casual phone lie has lost its innocence.
"That's OK," she said, "I'm staying in the city for another week -- maybe longer." Her cool tone was disarming. What is she planning?
My non-working parts are starting to feel better, and I almost allowed Randy to come over this afternoon. Why is it that a guy with nothing to offer can inspire me to toss my sensible plan -- recuperating for the purpose of business -- completely aside? I heard his voice -- eager, affectionate, protective -- and was ready to cave! There's no future with Randy, we have nothing in common.
On the other hand: Matt (bearer of a possible future) merits a mercy blow job when my pussy is out of commission; Randy doesn't. It's all so complicated -- grading and sorting these guys. I wish I could be like Jasmine -- viewing men entirely in business terms. How does she do it? Lust is what every hooker must learn to fear, the way canny sailors fear the sea.
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