PHOENIX
The Uber races down Marina just as the first traces of sunlight peek from behind the sea. The sky is a deep indigo that mirrors the water, both of which are as black as my soul. The more I stare out across the darkened beach, the less I see with my eyes so blurred with tears.
Sneaking out of Professor Segul’s house had been easy. He was so busy with that guy in the kitchen that he hadn’t heard me climb the stairs, gather my things, and get dressed.
I must look like the sea hag with my hair hanging down in tangled strands like strands of kelp discarded by the ocean, but it’s nothing compared to the confusion in my heart.
Another one of your kinky whoresrattles through my mind over and over, mingling with the professor’s sole complaint about the distasteful terminology.
The worst part about this is that I instigated the relationship. It was me who picked him out through the display of a shop window, me who reeled him in with all my dirty talk, me who blackmailed him into an association, and me who accepted his proposal.
So why does it feel so shitty that he thinks I’m a whore?
And not just a kinky one but one of many he’s hired to the point where strange men talk like it’s part of his personality.
“Stop this,” I murmur to myself. “Right now.”
No matter how much I try, I can’t stop those words from repeating.
I’m not a prostitute. I’m an idiot. A professional would itemize the sex acts and not charged a flat fee for all you can fuck. Blowjobs every weekday morning at £50 each would tally up to £1,000 over a month.
Then there’s the kinky stuff.
I once saw an ad in the Red Rooms where a professional dominatrix wanted £200 an hour. And that was just for swinging a whip.
A professional sub should charge double that because she’s putting herself in danger with all the bondage and pain. And of course, the person tying her up would want sex, which professional dommes don’t offer. Then there’s the surcharge for an overnight stay which would be extra, so triple that.
My teeth worry at my bottom lip as I make the calculations. £1,200 for the weekend? Dad would call me a stupid whore who couldn’t even price up a contract.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up from deep in the pit of my belly. I’ve lost my mind. Combining business school practices with the economics of sex?
“Are you alright, love?” asks the driver.
“Fine,” I reply, my voice stiff.
“I noticed earlier that you were crying. Was it a bad date?”
My gaze rises to meet his eyes in the rearview mirror, but he’s already turning around and gazing at my bare thighs. I tighten my lips, clench my jaw, and pull down my miniskirt.
If this is where he tells me no man is worth my tears and offers me a hug, I’m not listening.
“I lost my dad,” I say.
His attention snaps back to the road. “Sorry for your loss.”
“I’m not.”
We complete the rest of the journey in merciful silence. I’m not going back to Finance and Accountancy classes until the return of Professor Echart.
No more Professor Segul for me.
No more getting attached to a man who sees me as a specialized prostitute.
No more whoring dressed up as Fifty Shades.
No more.
I pull out my phone, check my bank balance, and make a few calculations. If I can get a job somewhere in town, I might be able to survive the academic year.