Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

"Some people find fault as if it were buried treasure."


"Some people find fault as if it were buried treasure."


He reaches me on my cell phone when I am in Fairway buying the weeks’ supply of sparkling water.
His name sounds familiar so I pre-suppose I’ve seen him before, not a new client, but I don’t have my files with me so I just pretend like I remember him.
He is flying in from Atlanta in a few hours. Can I see him?
I rarely do last minute calls and I know I am booked tonight so I ask if he is still in town tomorrow.
Yes, but he doesn’t think he’ll have time.
"Oh sweetheart, I’m so sorry. But thank you so much for thinking to call me."
Ok, click the phone shut.


Phone rings again as I am struggling to put all the bottles on the check out counter. Can I do one hour? From 4-5. He’s got a plane at 7 out of La Guardia.


I hate doing one-hour appointments. True they are easier, requiring little conversation and no endurance but I feel like a puppet during those calls. But why not. I’m here anyway and I need the money.


Back at the apartment, I look up his card.


UGH!


And OH NO!


This was the guy whose wife called me after the first time I met him. She left me a voicemail on my work line telling me I was the scum of the earth, that I destroyed marriages and she hoped I was happy.


I was so sad for her when I heard it.
My goodness. I’m a working girl. I didn’t find him in the phone book and call him.


Obviously, her husband, being passive-aggressive had left my number where it could be found. I don’t blame her for not wanting to take her anger out on her husband. That would be too difficult.

Better to blame the third party.


I read the rest of my notes on his card. Last time, he was thirty minutes late. And, I write to myself in bold black letters: ABSOLUTELY NO CONVERSATION!!
Well, better then that he does come over for only an hour.


My phone rings again. It’s him.


Him: Uh, Geisha?
Me: Yes?
Him: Can we do an hour and a half?
Me: Do you want to go to 5:30? Won’t you be cutting it close for the airport? (I’m talking him out of it because now I don’t want to do the extra time.)
Him: No no. I’ll make it. And can we do that thing we talked about last time?
Me: Um. Sure. (I can’t remember what we discussed and I didn’t put it in my notes. Bad girl.) Tell me specifically what you want to do.
Him: Can I dress up? Do you have anything silky?
Me: (Now I understand.) Well, I have a large negligee that might fit. (It comes from another client.)
Him: Can you go out and buy some stuff, like stockings and stuff and I’ll pay you when I get there?
Me: We only have an hour and I don’t really have time today before I see you to get to the store. But if you want, we can do that next time when we have more time and if you give me a bit more notice, I can go to the store for you?
Him: Well, is there any place close by? Maybe I can go there before I see you.
Me: (I tell him where the closest Victoria’s Secret is in my neighborhood,) and add: but there’s not much time.
Him: Uh uh, we’ll do the hour and a half okay?
Me: Okay, see you at 4.
Him: And do you have toys?
Me: (ugh!) (sweet voice) Of course!
Him: For me?
Me: Yes. No problem.
Him: Okay.
Me: Okay.
Him: okay.
Me: See you at 4.
Him: Okay.
Me: Okay. (A pause and finally, he hangs up.)


I turn on the TiVo to Judge Judy. (My secret silly delight. I am a lunatic for justice and personal responsibility. Ironic?) I begin the race around the apartment: fixing my always-uncooperative hair, putting on a fresh layer of make-up, changing sheets and pillow cases, wiping tables, washing glasses, spraying air-freshener, opening wine, putting out fresh towels, laying out my clothes, replacing incense, emptying, filling and lighting candles. I make sure to time all the out-of-the-TV-room tasks with the commercial breaks so I don’t have to miss one moment of her precise hammering.


4:00. Hair is restrained, tethered to my head by half a bottle of hair spray. The room is dark and glowing with fifty flickering candles. I am dressed, heels on, water and wine perspiring on the table.


4:01. 4:02. 4:03. Check the dial tone on the phone to make sure it’s still plugged in.


4:04. 4:05. 4:06. 4:07. Walk back into the kitchen to check his card again. Tiptoe to make sure my heels don’t make noise downstairs on the ceiling of my nosey landlord. No. He’s not a doctor. It’s hard to believe he could be this consistently late and socially inept and not even be a physician. Huh. I’m stumped.


4:11. Call his cell phone.


Me: Hi?
Him: I’m just paying and checking out.
Me: We only have a short time as it is.
Him: Maybe we could do two hours?
Me: Sweetie, I can’t. I only have ‘til 5:30. Remember we said from 4-5:30? That’s the time I put aside for us.
Him: Well, I’m just leaving.
Me: Okay. So if you take a cab, we should be fine.
Him: I was going to walk.
Me: (*&^%$#--to myself) Well, if you walk, you will be here a half-hour late, no?
Him: Okay.

Double UGH!


When the buzzer rings (4:21) I turn on the music and exhale any bad feelings in time to open the door with a loving smile. He’s cuter than I remembered—slim and well groomed in elegant business attire. We embrace. I put my lips to his. He turns his head.


Me: So let’s see the goodies you bought.
Him: Can I take a shower?
Me: Sure. Do you remember where it is?
Him: Yeah.


He tosses me the Victoria Secret bag, then unceremoniously removes all his clothes and pulls the bathroom door hard behind him.


When he returns, I reach for the towel to dry his back. He holds it tight.

Him: I got it.


Me: These things are so nice. This one is very sexy. Should we put them on you?
Him: How does it go?


It’s like dressing a fidgety toddler. His yanking and turning, combined with his still damp skin, result in a twisted knot around his head and neck. As lace and polyester blind him, I allow myself a grin. He looks so cute this way, all tangled and befuddled.


Him: Shit. (His voice comes out muffled and sounds more like: ‘Flit’.)


Me: It’s okay. Wait, wait. We’ll fix it. Hold still.


He struggles; I pull; and finally we manage the garment into position.


Him: It’s too tight. It doesn’t fit.


He is as upset as if this were a car accident. He begins to tug at it again.


Me: No honey. It’s good. Here. Let me adjust it. Now. Better?


He nods.


Me: C’mere in front of the mirror. See?


I stand behind him running my hands around his chest to caress his flat lace-cupped ‘breasts’.
Me: Can you see my hands in the mirror?
Him: Mmmm.
Me: It looks sexy doesn’t it? It feels nice doesn’t it? My fingertips touching the lace, the lace touching your skin?
Him: Mmmm.
Me: Just watch.


My hands runs light circles over every part of the garment, stopping to play at his nipples. We stay in front of the mirror until I notice his eyes close.


Me: C’mon sugar. Let’s go in the other room.


I have him stand by the bed with his hands on the mattress slightly bent over. Discreetly, I pour the oil I have by the bed into my palms, then gently massage his bottom until my fingers are toying deep into the crevice. He is moaning louder and rolling his hips back toward my hand. With my other lubricated hand, I reach under, between his legs, stroking his shaft.


Him: Don’t make me cum yet.
Me: Shhh. I won’t. Stay still.


I take the dildo that I have already prepared with a condom and KY out from it’s hiding place, twisting the bottom to make it vibrate lightly, and run it down to the hole, putting pressure there.


Him: I can’t take that. It’s too big.
Me: Shhh, It’s okay. I’m not going to put it in. We’re just playing, okay?
Him: Mmmm.
Me: Shhh. Okay?


I slip a condom over my finger and slide it into him.
He rocks his hips forward and back. I try to follow his rhythm, going in and out at his pace and caressing his cock at the same time.
The position is a bit awkward for me and twice I almost, very ungracefully, lose my balance.
When he is pushing back hard, I replace the vibrator for my finger. I place the end of the toy against my pubic bone, freeing up my hands so one can stroke his cock and the other, his balls. Our eyes are closed, Sade is on the CD Player and we are gyrating together, our bodies in unison to the music.


Him: No! No! Oh! Fuck!


He cums in my hand.


I slide the dildo out gently. Instead of waiting to recover, he stands and walk past me into the bathroom. I hear the shower go on. I grab the used condom with my fingernail and slide it off the toy. I collect the wrapper and throw them in the garbage, then begin to straighten the room. He makes me feel like sand.


He doesn’t look at me when he comes out, just begins to dress. I am parched in every way and for the first time in a long time, can’t think of anything to say to liven up this ending moment. After he finishes the knot on his Hermes tie, and slips on his Armani jacket, he finally looks into my eyes.


Me: Do you want to take your lingerie with you or do you want to hold it here for you?
Him: No.
Me: No, you want to take it or me hold it?
Him: I don’t care.
Me: I can put it in a bag with your initials on it. Kinda like a humidor in a cigar bar club. You’ll have your own section.
Him: I don’t care.
Me: What’s wrong?
Him: I’m getting divorced.
Me: Oh.
Him: Because of this. I promised I wouldn’t do it again and now here I am. Fucked up.
Me: Hey hey. Sit down. Let’s think this through rationally okay?
Him: There’s no rational to it.
Me: Listen. There is nothing wrong with this. Sex is just sex, Fantasies are fun, So what if you like this? Maybe there’s a partner out there who likes it too. It’s not hurting anyone.
Him: It is.
Me: Only because it’s not her fantasy. But c’mon. Sex is fun. So what if you like this?
He doesn’t respond.
Me: I think what you’re really upset about is that you made a promise—maybe a promise you knew you couldn’t keep—and you broke it. You’re upset because you betrayed someone. Or yourself.
He is quiet.
Me: Maybe?
Him: And I just got tested. Now I have to do it all again.
Me: What? Get tested? For what?


He gives me a ‘you know’ look. I do know what he means. I am revved up and on fire inside. Outside, my body stiffens. My voice comes out soft but deliberate.


Me: First of all, we didn’t do anything unsafe. Second of all, I don’t have anything. And I get tested every month and would be happy to fax you a copy of my bill of health. And by the way, women like me, independent ladies, are probably the safest women you could be with.


Him: Why?

Me: I have my own website. I am not ‘fly-by-night’ like the agency girls. This is my life. This is my livelihood. If I got sick, I would have no way to support myself, to take care of my family. If someone posted a review about me that said I gave them something, that would be it. Game over. So you took no risk with me. But if you want to get tested for AIDS, you have to wait three months.


Him: Can I ask you something and promise you won’t get mad?
Me: (holding my breath, trying to contain my rage) I don’t know.
Him: Can I pay you for just one hour instead of an hour and a half?

My jaw is clenched so tight,I'm sure I've chipped a tooth.
Me: No.

He groans as if his team has just lost the playoffs.


Me: You booked me for the time and I arrived here, set up, prepared and saved the time for you. It’s you who was late.


God, I’m furious. The man makes five times what I make. He wants me to fuck him unabashedly in his ass and now he wants to return the favor.


He hands me two credit cards to split the payments.

Now I have to worry about him charging back. Ugh!

I bend down over the machine to put them through and in my fury, I bash my head against a nearby wooden chair. It hurts more than it should so I just rub my forehead as I press in the numbers.


Him: What’s wrong with your head?
Me: What do you mean? I hit it on the chair that’s all.
Him: There’s blood.
Me: There is?


I look at my hand and indeed there is blood. I grab a Kleenex, holding it to my head as I finish the transaction.


Me: You sign here. And here.
Him: What’s this part say?
Me: It says you understand the charges and agree not to dispute them.
He signs.
Him: Did you touch your hand to this pen?
Me: I don’t know. Why?
Him: The blood might have gotten on it.
Me: I suggest you wait three months and go for a test. Or give me your fax number, like I said.


He walks to the door wheeling his suitcase behind him.


I unlock the door.


He exits without a goodbye.


I let him.


As I get ready for my next client, I think about his wife.
Then I think about him.
I understand why she is divorcing him.


And I’m sure, cross-dressing is only the minor tip of that iceberg.







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