“I know,” I say. “And I’m really very sorry about that, Mrs. Dunn.” I refer to her formally, the way I was taught. I keep my answers repetitive. This way she has nowhere to go.
“It’s Josie.”
“My apologies. Josie.”
Her brow furrows. Her gaze lasers in on mine. She’s trying to figure me out. She won’t. “It’s really not that hard to keep a woman happy, you know.”
Apparently, I don’t. I pull the key from the lock and stuff the ring in my pocket. I wonder if Josie here knows how fast an unwanted encounter can occur. I wonder if she’s ever been on the receiving end.
“You should give it a try sometime.”
“Next time,” I say. “I’ll really give it my best shot. For you.”
She shakes her head, reprimanding me without words. “It sure would make it a lot more pleasant around here,” she chides, and I have to admit, she’s attractive. But scary as hell. The way she stares, it’s like she can see right through me, all the way down into the marrow of who I am, down to the things I thought no one could see.
“You could not be more right. Again, I’m sorry.”
She folds her hands over her chest and rests back against the wall awaiting a response. “I’m late,” I add, hesitating for a second, not fully certain she’s had her say. She seems like the kind of woman who needs to have her say. I like that kind. The others just disappear.
Finally, she steps back, allowing me to pass.
I watch as she retreats into her apartment. I don’t mean to stare. I find her interesting, and I can’t say that about most people.
I almost call out to her, assure her that it won’t be long before she has her way. In the meantime, I’ll figure something out. I’m not sure what. But whatever it is, it has to be something other than this.
Chapter Five
Vanessa
It’s still early in the day, and already I’m out of steam. Gina came to stay with Matthew. I had a client added to my schedule at the crack of dawn this morning. But now I’m on my own—at least to the extent that’s possible. One is never really alone in this congregation. I wish I’d asked her to stay, especially considering I have an event tonight. Matthew is needy, as kids tend to be, and I have a thousand things to do.
Adam has texted, asking for notes on my client from this morning. The church requires this; my observations help with matters that are important to leadership, and I know how he hates to wait. I don’t expect it to take long, but Adam and a child who wants to go to the park are one and the same—equally impatient. Thankfully, it was client number four this morning. He’s simple, and that helps, particularly on a day like today where neither my heart nor my mind were in it. I know his real name, of course, but discretion is key, and it’s best to keep a certain level of detachment where my work is concerned. He’s older, mid-sixties. Married. The quiet, introspective type. He’s fit, which is more than I can say fo
r the majority of my clients in his age range. But his preferences are as vanilla as they come: little to no foreplay, missionary position, eyes shut eighty percent of the time. Comes prepared with his little blue pill, and fortunately, is usually quick.
He always pays for the full hour. Rarely uses it.
While the majority of my work is to recruit new members, I also have to keep the existing ones content. Number four is a longtime member of New Hope. According to the Men’s Alliance, it is not a sin to be unfaithful to your spouse when it is ordained and arranged by the church. Donations to a religious organization are a lot easier to explain away than paying for sex outright.
That’s not to say simple always means easy. This morning was particularly taxing, for whatever reason. Sometimes it creeps up on you that way. There is the preparation it takes to see a client, and then there is the aftermath. You can dress it up all you want, but my job, the world’s oldest profession, is a job like any other. No one wants to think of a sexual act in that way, but that’s exactly what it is. It’s tricky—no pun intended. Even when there’s no emotion involved, there’s emotion. Even when there’s no commitment, there’s still a certain level of commitment. At least if you count time and money, and believe me, I do.
The act itself has to be arranged, same as anything else in one’s life has to be arranged. What most people don’t realize is it goes far beyond the time you spend between the sheets. Every encounter requires a bit of seduction. Even if it is pretend, even the most basic of clients—the ones who hardly speak, the ones who are quick to jet afterward—want to be seduced in their own right. They want to know they have the power, the means, and the control it takes to get what they want. Above all else, it’s significance they seek, and significance can be a dangerous thing.
The danger, the risk, involved with the job itself doesn’t even touch the mental preparation it takes to get into the mindset of losing control of your body, to allow yourself to be taken in a way that makes it appear you want it, especially when you don’t.
At its essence, what I offer is a performance, nothing more, nothing less. I understand my clients in a way they may not even understand themselves. Without question, paying for sex can be very exciting. The appeal of the foreign, the unknown, the dangerous…it arouses, frightens, and tantalizes. It triggers the infantile fantasy of pleasure without responsibility, ecstasy without consequence. It’s easy. But like any drug that stimulates the nervous system, it can become addictive, and that is why it’s so profitable. I keep this in mind, always.
Matthew calls out from the living room. The iPad died. It’s probably for the best. It’s time to make it disappear altogether. If I can’t make him forget about it before Sean comes home, no doubt there will be hell to pay. But I can’t think about that right now.
“Mommy! Your phone…” His tiny voice trails off.
Wonderful.
I can hear him speaking to someone as I cross into the living room.
“Mommy isn’t here…”
“Matty?” Crap. He isn’t on the couch where I last left him. I listen closely for the sound of his voice.