Sunday, Jul 6, 2008
A night of drumming up new business would have put me in the mood for Matt, I suddenly realized. I looked up at Roberto. He was standing in the doorway, and the sight of him, fully erect, massaging his cock absentmindedly, made me touch the front of my panties. A conscientious-working-girl reflex; I was doing it because it was my job, the way some secretaries absentmindedly tidy up their desks. But a pleasant sensation ran through my body. Jasmine rose to her knees. She began fondling a nipple through my bra, telling Roberto how hot this made me. Of course, she was exaggerating wildly and, as far as she was concerned, we were pretending. But I quietly enjoyed the attention she gave my breasts and let her assume I was faking it. (Jasmine's one of those stalwart pros who never comes when she's working -- "That's the customer's job!" -- and gets irate if she suspects that a co-hooker is really getting into her.)
Warmed up by my colleague, I turned to face Roberto and wriggled closer, so he could rub his cock against my breasts. He stood at the edge of the sheets, entranced by Jasmine's hungry- sounding moans. I couldn't see her, but I knew she was fingering herself for his amusement, as he watched her watching us. Jasmine's climactic sound effects grew louder, and Roberto joined in. A white liquid arc collapsed into a small pool between my breasts. I smiled the satisfied smile of a girl who has made $400 before noon without even showing her pussy.
The scent of his fresh come disappeared under a pile of tissues. Roberto was summoned back to the living room by a ringing phone. When he returned to pay us, we were half-dressed, debating a late breakfast at the Mark (across the street) or at E.J.'s, closer to home. The Gallery, downstairs, would be lovely but, given all the business we do at the Carlyle, the public areas there are mostly off-limits. Can't afford to be conspicuous. And Roberto would be very turned off if he ran into us downstairs. It wouldn't look right.
Monday, 2/21/00
This afternoon, a call from Eileen complaining about Jack's continuing harassment: "He's saying these weird things -- about you, about Allison, about his blood pressure. When I told him to leave me alone, he called back and left a really insulting message on my voice mail."
"What did he say?"
"He called me -- " She paused, caught her breath, then said, "You know what? I am not going to stoop to his level, repeating such a stupid disgusting thing." She was outraged. "That fucking creep! I might have to change my number if this keeps up! But you know what? I can't change my number, I've worked too hard to build this!"
"Of course you can't change your number. Nobody can -- you'd lose half your guys. Don't do anything impulsive," I told her.
I called Allison's cell phone. "Where are you? Can you talk?"
"I'm at Duane Reade," she said cheerfully.
"We have to talk about Jack. He's becoming a problem, and I think you've made it worse by taking that money. You really shouldn't have done that."
"Oh, really!" Allie sighed impatiently. "I wish you'd stop! You are soooo paranoid, Nancy! He wanted to give it to me. He practically begged me to take it!"
"With what kind of understanding? What does he expect in return?"
"How would I know?" she squeaked. "Maybe nothing. Hold on. I have to pick up a prescription ... Diflucan," her voice rang out. (Why not just tell the whole store you have a yeast infection?)
"Allison Rogers. R-O-G ..."
"Listen, if you want to play dumb with Jack, that's one thing. But don't play dumb with me," I said. "When you take money from a guy, you should know what his expectations are. It's business. Even if you don't come through for him, you should know what you're depriving him of -- what he expects and what you plan to do about it. You can't just wing it. And if a guy knows you're a working girl, you can't suddenly act like a dumb little party girl."
"These patriarchal categories -- " Allie began.
"Shut up and listen!" I implored her. "Your phone's starting to break up! Guys don't like it when they feel they've been taken for a ride by a hooker." I thought of the cantankerous cokehead, many years ago, who was so affronted when his hour ended that he grabbed his gun. "And he's pestering Eileen, making ugly annoying phone calls, and she knows it's him. Do you know if he has a drinking problem?"
"I don't think so. I'm getting another call -- I'll call you when I get home!"
I hung up and started to punch in Eileen's number. I was furious, ready to spill the beans on Allie, ready to talk -- about the money, the stupid flowers, Allie's lunch with Jack. Then I stopped, slammed the phone down, and thought: Bad idea. Telling Eileen about Allison's behavior won't solve a thing. Eileen would tell the other girls about that brainless, destructive floozy -- Allison -- and it would certainly teach Allie a lesson. But it wouldn't make Jack go away. Then I started dialing Jasmine's number. Maybe she could come up with a game plan to -- Oh, hell. I hung up after the first ring.
I ran myself a hot bath, into which I poured a liberal helping of lavender oil. It's the real thing, purchased in a teensy Provençal village the last time I was in France, and inhaling the intense yet soothing aroma, I could feel my frayed boundaries recovering. Immersed in the scented water with my hair tucked high on the rubber pillow, I heard the phone ringing at the other end of my apartment. Probably Allison. I let it ring.
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