An Hour of Quiet

(Is not this something more than fantasy?)

I am actually a secret agent. One day a sniper on the roof of Southport Middle School takes me out. I lie there, the center of attention, and Thomas Marshall Perry the Fourth (signs all homework T. M. Perry IV, upper right corner) realizes how beautiful I am when my glasses fall off.

Or...

After a whole six-weeks grading period exposed daily to my extreme intelligence and cleverness in fifth-hour Gifted class, T. M. Perry IV finally succumbs to the overwhelming seduction of meeting his intellectual equal. We jointly dominate the 8th-grade Quiz Team.

Reality. A semi-successful pool party/D&D game at my house, featuring Thom, his best friend Chris as DM, his little sister Stephany and me. And I lent him some of the Dragonlance books. (Don’t give me that look, they all went in a garage sale years ago and you know damn well you knew about the saga of the Twins.) Around the table, there was the kind of uneasy equality that’s understood won’t last on Monday morning. Thom was gruff and hard and hated his divorced mother for keeping him from his father and protected his sister. I answered more questions on Quiz Team.


(I have remembrances.)

Ever the entrepreneur, I’ve talked the manager into letting me create my own shift, 3-10. School ends at 2:38, I run down the hill from the English building, hop into my little grey car, 4 exits and I’m downtown. The tiny DJ booth is right inside the door, he doubles as the doorman, squinting from cool smoky darkness into the hot white parking lot.

Back to the dressing room, my black and pink Caboodle on the counter. Maybelline foundation on a damp sponge, eye liner, I always remember the VHS box cover of Angel – High School Honor Student By Day!! Hollywood Hooker By Night!!!! I’m no longer an honor student but I will eventually get the highest score ever recorded on the GED in my state as the nation’s only non-graduating National Merit Scholar (780 verbal, 760 math, thank you very much). Right now I’m using a 99-cent Wet-and-Wild pencil to completely fill in my lips with a dark, even mark. Usually I’m on the floor by 3:15, long before the bus I used to ride stops at the end of my parents’ street. Sometimes I arrive and Star, an amazon brunette with glasses and a puffy perm, has been holding down the stage solo since noon, three songs on, three off, the salesmen from the Chevy dealership appreciating her round ass in denim cut-offs, firm boobs in a red tie-front halter.

Shoes, black suede 3-inch from Spring Fling sophomore year. Stockings and garters because this is what I believe is sexy and my legs are fishbelly white from not wearing deck shoes on someone’s dad’s boat every weekend, taking bunny-eared pictures destined for prime yearbook real estate.

On Fridays and Saturdays I work until closing.

I don’t know where my parents think their 17-year-old daughter is.

My stage name is my best friend’s name, she’s back in her home country after an exchange. I dance to the Cure and think about her when I mouth the lyrics. I have met Jim, I have read 9 ½ weeks and oh yes I know what I like.


(The indifferent children of the earth)

Their uniforms glow blue-white in the UV lights that make us all look tan and turn blond hair green and alien. All six little tables are full, the three barstools occupied, girls waiting their turns for the back corridor with four private dance chairs. The boys in the uniforms can get in, it’s a juice bar, you can’t have pastied nipples and alcohol in the same room within city limits. My pasties are silver (an improvement on the cow-print from my first day, they come in sizes and that's what was available), sequined, glued on with children’s craft glue. Wear them home, soften the glue under the shower and it hurts less to take them off. I am having a great night. Good hair, a new teddy pinched from my mother’s drawer. Over to the uniforms, who probably don’t have any money because they’re all around my age.

“Hello, Thomas Marshall Perry the Fourth.”

His buddies break up, “She knows you man, she knows you!” He’s cautious and puzzled and as formally polite as he was in the 8th grade.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure…”

“Remember Mandy Muse from the eighth grade?”

His jaw drops. I thought that was a figure of speech. He introduces me to the banana heir, the computer heir, and the local scion. They’re all celebrating graduation from the local military academy. I assume he’s a scholarship boy.


(Had he the motive and the cue for passion that I have?)

I dance on the six-foot by four-foot stage (I don’t know how Felicia does cartwheels on it) to the Cure, Madonna, Vanity 6

Tonight, I'm living in a fantasy
My own little nasty world
Tonight, don't u wanna come with me?
Do u think I'm a Nasty Girl?

Thomas clearly does. He tips. I take him back to the private dance corridor.

“It’s five with my top on or ten topless. You can touch me from here…to here… if my top is on.”

I don’t remember his choice. I remember him writing his phone number on a napkin, Thom Perry. I remember his hands on me in the car, after Olive Garden, as swanky as a high school date could get. We sit at the waterfront, the seats reclined, he doesn’t feel the need to talk. He wants to take me to a classroom on his campus with a broken door lock, but I won’t go, I don’t remember why. I’m ready to get out of town, I’d rather not be here for graduation. We write, a little. We phone, a little – there are no cell phones, I stand at the payphone outside Mucho Taco at 3AM.

Midway through his college freshman year, I see his obituary, “self-inflicted wounds.” That's all I know. That's still all I know.

(flights of angels)

I Got Tagged

Thus proving that I am now one of the popular kids. Thanks, Tom :)

A - Available or Single? Wow, a hard one right off the bat. Not single. Not monogamous. Not currently available.

B - Best Friends? Husband, Lover, Power Girl, Beautiful Girl, and my Best Friend who lives across the ocean are the people who love me no matter what I do.

C - Cake or Pie? Crème brulee.

D - Drink of Choice? Shirley Temple

E - Essential Item? Notebook and pen. I’m weaning off my cellphone.

F - Favorite Color? Black to wear and yellow to look at.

G - Gummi Bears or Worms? Sour Worms, but only about three. And I'll never touch peach rings again because I associate them with losing my wallet in Arkansas, then having to fly on two planes with no ID (pre-9/11).

H - Hometown? An Arts Wasteland in the south. Oddly though, one of my best places to generate writing ideas is driving through the rural south.

I - Indulgence? Mystery novels and potato chips with homemade dill/onion dip. Half yogurt, half sour cream makes me feel less like Jabba the Hutt on completion.

J - January or February? January – it’s the month of good intentions.

K - Kids and Names? Three cats. Eventually I'll have a girl. If it's a boy, we're sending it back. I'm not kidding.

L - Life is incomplete without? Curiosity. When I stop caring enough to ask questions, I’m done.

M - Marriage Date? I always forget my anniversary, but it’s been more than ten years.

N - Number of Siblings? One and a half brothers, one sister, one deceased.

O - Oranges or Apples? Honeycrisp apples with sharp cheddar or Nutella.

P - Phobias/Fears? Needles (can’t watch it on TV, either); heights (just standing around on a balcony is bad, but if I’m doing something up high I’m ok – I’ve heard that the fear of heights is the fear of not trusting yourself not to jump); dogs; that my father will die.


Q - Favorite Quote? Just read it today:
But when you’re writing a song
Without a partner
That’s a completely different matter.
No one tells you
That’s not funny.
No one says, “Let’s cut that bar.”
No one makes you better than you are.(Kander and Ebb, Curtains)

R - Reasons to smile? Husband next to me in bed, Lover coming around a corner to meet me in a new city, going in to work, writing something solid.

S - Season? The week of autumn leaves and the week the tulips come up. Less predictably, the weeks between Christmas and New Year when I have a glorious turkey-and-pajamas centered holiday.

T - Tag 3 People? Aussie Jack (start writing again, eh?), Power Girl and Beautiful Girl (you can do it on your Myspace/Livejournal/Facebook, just don't link it back here or we'll all be outed!)

U - Unknown Fact About Me? You know how in every high school, there is one person who is the object of focused, organized ridicule and bullying? That was me. Until a new kid moved to town in 11th grade and he was a hunchback.

V - Vegetable You Hate? Beets. Even as an adult. Unless pickled.

W - Worst Habit? Agonizing over the decisions of others that are out of my control.

X - X-rays You've Had? Chest, wrist, hand, all job-related

Y - Your Favorite Foods? Casino buffet, especially the Aladdin; rare roast beef with horseradish; yogurt made with whole milk and/or cream - take your lowfat crap and stuff it!

Z - Zodiac? Capricorn/Rat – we make good pawnbrokers.

Perhaps it's the Black Death?

So I’ve contracted some kind of creeping throat rot that just won’t quit. I left town for two weeks straight, got sick (as chronicled here), came home, and even though my sore throat is better, I keep coughing and hacking. And I’m just so tired…all I want to do is sit in bed in my jammies, I’ve slept until noon five days in a row (until 4PM one day) and have been taking two-hour afternoon naps. And I’m even going to bed at a decent hour!

I did actually Google it, and no, I don’t have mono. Thank God for small favors.

Meanwhile, I’ve been clearing out my personal message box on the whoreboard, telling clients and potential clients, sorry, I’m sick, I’m not in a good place to be a companion, I’m not doing any bookings for April. I may make an exception for Teddy Bear, but honestly, I’m just so sick of the bulletin board culture it doesn’t make me want to participate in the hobby.

The posts are incredibly repetitive:

- Reviews – generally either written with way too much wink-wink-nudge-nudge: “We had a great time, I won’t go into detail!” or far too much tawdry Penthouse letters crap: “She x’d my long, throbbing y until I could take it no more…” Or else they just make me laugh describing how they made an SP come repeatedly. Um, yeah. Whatever.

- “Why don’t you” posts – recently someone posted that a German brothel chain is offering half-off specials to retirees in the daytime. 25 Euros for what I’m guessing is a no kissing, not completely undressing half hour. Fine. Fly your aging ass to Germany.

- Coy little wankfests where the men ask the women about their sexual practices: “Who is a daily masturbator?” or the women ask the men questions designed to promote their own business “Do you like it when a girl lets you…” “Why do guys like [girls built like me]?”

- In the private Ladies’ section, two girls are sniping at each other for plagiarizing ad text, two more are whining about who told a client what about the other one and everyone else is taking sides.

It’s like junior high. I don’t want to be part of this crowd – and since exchanging “time and companionship” for money is the defining characteristic of the crowd, it makes me not want to do that, either. Business is picking up, judging by my inbox, and I don’t want it.

Here’s what I want. I want to fly to other cities as a “luxury travel companion”. I want to charge the earth for cocktails, dinner and a night in a lovely hotel – and hey, if I have to wake up alone because the wife expects him home, I don’t have a problem with that, either. I want a separate apartment that I maintain purely to meet clients in a lovely atmosphere where I own the place and feel secure and don't have to give yet another explanation to the clerk about why I'm checking out at 6PM.

The problem is, that kind of business requires way more time and energy to develop than I really want to put in. I’d probably have to build a website.

Sooooo.

Do I want to continue whoring at a low level to make my mad money? Cut it out entirely? Or seek the Third Way?

Regardless of the choice that gets made, I’ll reassure the lovely Gentle Readers who have expressed concern – I’m not quitting blogging anytime soon. I’ll just have to start sleeping around more in my personal life to have something to write about, right? I can certainly think of worse fates…

Sure, Yeah, I Own This Body...Don't I?

Big City Lover is in town. He has fetched up about 90 minutes distant, in for a week while Husband is gone (pure coincidence). He would like me to come and see him.

If I see him, we will probably fuck.

I we fuck, I will have to tell him I am a whore. BCL and I generally have condom-less sex, he knows I have another lover with whom I also have condom-less sex (they have met, warily) and occasional lovers with whom I have covered-sex and I have promised to tell BCL if that situation ever changes. You see, BCL has a child. So it is not just his own well-being at stake, but also that of a charming young lady only recently un-grounded for her forbidden forays into Myspace.

I don't want to fuck. I especially don't want to drive 90 minutes in sleet, arrive after dinner-time having bolted something in the car, show up at his hotel room, and fuck. Or worse yet, have a scene about me being a whore, supportive or otherwise.

I agonize about this. He is in town all week, I do want to see him but I don't want to fuck him - he unintentionally burned me rather badly regarding a place to stay the last time I was in Big City. And I'm sort of 'off' him, having burned him right back by not turning up the next arranged time to see him. And I don't want to do it without at least dinner and chat. And, and, and.

What is the problem here? Why do I not feel I have the right to say, "by the way, I'm happy to spend time with you but I'm not up for sex tonight/this week/ever"? Why do I feel - as I have felt my whole life - that if you show up, you fuck? Why do I feel like I am being a Bad Sport if I don't want to put out? That I have some how assumed the obligation to provide Premium Access to any man who provides me with more than one dinner, access that cannot be revoked for Any Damn Reason I Want?

During high school, I had more Good Sport Sex than sex I wanted to have. And half the sex I wanted to have was really just I'd Like To Be Held Sex. But now I'm an adult. I've learned how to come, pretty much on my own demand, I have negotiated with myself and my husband and my lover to get to the relationships I feel comfortable with, I have gone down some amazing pathways (more next week! stay tuned!) to the sex that blows my mind and makes me feel adored, worshipped, blessed. In my 'real' life, I'm known as a shark negotiator you don't want to mess with, a girl whose Super Power is "No-One Says No." I've even set up a little business providing Premium Access.

So I summon up all my will and courage, call BCL, tell him I've been in a minor car accident and reschedule for tomorrow.

I am woman, hear me roar.

Morning

And here is what I do:

Shower - I have waited three days so my hair will turn out clean and not too dry.

Shave - I am the only girl I know who can shave every day, pits, mons, legs, all of it, without getting bumps or a rash. I leave some behind, though - it's well-trimmed but still there. Never been a fan of the naked eight-year-old look.

Dress - my own non-working bra and panties, since this one is a get-to-know-you-coffee only, tights and fishnets (it's freakin' cold out there), just past the knee tight wool pencil skirt, clingy sweater. I'm taking a pair of jeans to change into afterwards. Will never wear jeans to an appointment, not even pants. Struck by something a hobbyist (they call themselves 'hobbyists', I'm a 'Service Provider', SP for short) said on the bulletin board: 'Why do all the ladies post photos of themselves in sexy lingerie and cute nighties when they mostly greet me at the door in jeans?' I'm not here to be comfortable, I'm here to be a fantasy. Plus, I only own one pair of jeans so I don't wear them a lot anyway.

Hair - have recently learned how to use the straightening iron, waiting for terrible August haircut to grow out, there's one weird layer that ends at my ears in an otherwise shoulder-length cut.

Makeup - Enough so that I look hot, not enough to make Husband wonder where I am going.

This is more care than I have ever given to my appearance in my life. When all the other girls were learning to lip gloss and blowdry in eighth grade, I had my nose in a book. Probably "Maggot."