After

After he comes in my hand, aiming for my breasts but missing, there is no more time. We feed each other bits of fruit until I get up and start handing him his clothes, hoping it reads as sweet that I’m turning them right side out. He tells me the nipple clamps are mine to keep, but asks that I only use them with him or in my personal life, not with another client (no fear). When he walks out the door it’s goodbye to Leonard Bernstein and I put in Bif Naked and turn up the volume. I take a tub bath, hot as I can stand, watch the pale winter skin on my thighs turn red.

While I’m waiting for the bath to fill – this hotel has hot water, thank heavens, but is afflicted with low water pressure, what is it with me and hotel showers? – I enter my latest receipts in an Excel sheet, totting up what I’ve taken in from clients, spent on hotels, gas, condoms, lube, mouthwash, stockings, cell phone top-up cards. I’ve set aside about a third in cash in a little box, I’m saving up for something, and another third has gone to expenses and personal treats – massages, cashmere sweaters, nice face wash, sushi, Thai, the upscale salad bar at Nature Yuppie Foods. The remaining third has gone to the maintenance of my household. Oil changes. Groceries. Breakfast on the way to Husband and my mutual work engagements, we're working a lot but haven't had a check in awhile. Gas. Cat food.

I’m not sure where he thinks the money is coming from.