Tuesday, July 13 (Full moon)
Joe’s driver picked me up in a dark green town car at noon sharp, envelope in hand. When he asked if I would need a lift home, I politely declined. (I do not want some smart-alecky chauffeur idling curbside while I turn a trick … ) When I arrived at the M_____ offices, I was quickly shown to Spooky’s ice-cold sanctuary …
If air conditioning is a status thing, these indoor climes are impressively frigid. My outfit almost matches. In a slim, pale skirt and high-necked silk shell, I look calm — almost too proper for the task at hand. But my bare arms are feeling the AC and I’m anxious to get started — so I can warm up!
An owlish-looking, superannuated hipster — yes, just like the pictures in Rolling Stone — Spooky is sitting behind his desk talking to a speaker phone. I’m supposed to be a surprise but I have a feeling Spooky has been “surprised” in this fashion many times before. He’s about my dad’s age and I realize, after a moment, that his twin daughters are almost my age. They were on the Sunday Times society page last weekend — some charity ‘do for a famous rehab clinic. Spooky ends his call abruptly — “Gotta go, man” — and gives me his full attention. “Would you care for a drink? … Some of this?” he adds, waving a little coke vial at me.
“No thanks,” I chirp, politely. “I’m naturally high. May I visit the ladies’ room?” I stopped doing real drugs — even small amounts — when I turned 30 but I’m always positive and supportive when it comes to a customer’s drug use. Still: I’m leery of these elder druggies — so far, nobody’s ever died on me, but: What if? Oh, well.
I nip into the huge, marble-covered bathroom and find monogrammed paper napkins and framed posters from the early days of vinyl: Max Roach, Aretha Franklin and Dusty Springfield. Oversized, ornate faucets. Early ’60s meets the mid-’80s … And not a washcloth in sight!
Jasmine taught me a neat trick the other day which I really should thank her for. In my micro-fiber tote are two Ziploc TM bags — one for dry cotton face cloths, another for stashing them after they’re used. This is so much classier than carrying a package of towelettes but also a bit more complicated. Quickly, I pop an unwrapped condom inside my cleavage and put the wrapper in my purse. (No telltale littering — we wouldn’t want to get this summer-of-love graduate in trouble or anything.) Then, off with my sensible Guccis.
When I emerge, in bra and panties and a pair of over-the-top Prada mules — all heels and teensy little straps exposing my freshly painted toes — Spooky’s eyes temporarily lose their droopy cool.
“I love it,” he announces. “Joe is a genius. You’re … hmmm … the hot towel treatment!”
I unfold my steaming washcloth with a cocky smile.
“I’ll need your help,” I tell him, raising an eyebrow in the direction of his half-open pants. He gives me a fellow-conspirator look while he finishes unzipping. I bend over, my rump firmly elevated like a Betty Page facsimile, and wrap the hot cloth around his erection. (Oh, thank God, he’s really hard. You never know what to expect with coke freaks!) And he’s getting harder, as I massage him through the hot towel.
“That’s great,” he mumbles. “You’re a nice, clean girl.”
“And you’re a nice, clean boy,” I murmur in his ear, wriggling against him. Standing over his lap, I lower myself — placing the washcloth on top of a large crystal ashtray, mercifully empty. My thumb strokes up and down while I straddle his thigh, wriggling from side to side. Hopefully, he can actually feel my pussy pressing against his leg. Well, just in case he doesn’t get the message, I throw in some extra less-than-subtle movements and toss my hair back with mini-abandon.
(Unlike some drama queens, I do not start panting and moaning about how I’m coming — a wordless suggestion of my own degenerate pleasure is enough, I think. The idea of a paid chick quietly enjoying her work is enough for most guys.) Spooky loves it when I start riding his thigh and rubbing my breasts against him. My body is tingling a bit from all this contact but my mind is very much on the job. It’s hard to relax completely when you’re not lying on your back.
OK! I think we’re ready! I slither down to the floor, tickling him with my unfashionably long hair, and I slip the condom on — one split-second before placing my mouth on him. Because my hair falls below my shoulders, he can’t see what I’m doing. I’m actually terrified he’ll go flat. Coke addicts in their 60s don’t have a lot of confidence in their erections, and the mere sight of a condom wrapper can be quite deflating. I can’t show even a smidgen of insecurity or anxiety about this; you’ve gotta make your customers believe in what you’re doing at all times.
My lips are at the base of his hard-on, rolling the condom into position, when he starts to come. I guess we have a true believer here because that took all of a minute.
When I’m finished, I realize that I’ve been having a small adrenaline rush. The worst thing in the world is a troublesome erection when you’re in someone’s office. By definition, office sex has to be quick and hot — you don’t hang around talking about nice-girl stuff as you might in your own apartment. Chitchat is minimal but sexy. The performance anxiety of dealing with a new guy in a strange place sends a buzz through my system. I’ve noticed this before and wondered: Is there something to this idea that hookers are, indeed, hooked? I think I’m addicted to the little buzz that I get whenever things get challenging.
I reach for the washcloth — camouflage! He still can’t see the condom and I’m not sure whether he knew he was wearing it.
“Well,” he announces, “You’re one gifted lady! Speaking of gifts …”
“Oh, thanks, it’s all taken care of. Compliments of Joe.”
“Cab fare,” he insists, pressing an envelope in my direction. “Write your number down, would you?”
“I guess I could do that,” I say coyly, rising to dress. “Think Joe would mind?” Joe couldn’t care less — but I register some irrelevant hesitation. Something that says, “I don’t give out this number to everyone, Spooky” — before I give him my number.
“Well, I won’t tell Joe,” Spooky assures me, “if you don’t want me to. By the way, if we get together … how much is it?”
A mini-crisis. Joe sends me on a lot of these assignments so I don’t charge Joe a lot — $300, actually, because I’m rarely there for more than 30 minutes. But — to make Joe look like a real sport I say … .
“Okay, I’m coming back from the Hamptons on Sunday night. I’ll call you when I land.”
One of Allie’s regulars called me — I used to see Jack from time to time, but it’s been over a year and actually, I thought he had discarded my number! Funny how these guys hoard numbers for years on end. He made an appointment with me for next Thursday — Jack is such a planner. Also funny how some guys get the impulse right out of the blue — “Can I come over in half an hour?” — while others plan their sex lives weeks in advance. Like women who have a standing hairdresser appointment every Wednesday afternoon of their lives. Allison used to call Jack at his office, so maybe he’ll tell me if she’s been in touch.