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, December 07, 2004

The 'Height' Report


Can I just say how pissed off I am at my legs? I’m 5 feet 4 inches tall. Short. (Maybe 5’3".) (Actually about 5’2") (Possibly 5’1") I appear taller because I think myself that way, but every so often, I get a financial slap in the face that snaps me back to reality.

Example:
I have a girlfriend, (Not in my business, but a remarkable ‘gold-digger’—something I lack the talent for,) who, facially, looks like my twin. We have never paid for a drink or a meal when we go out together because of this startling resemblance. Men see ‘twins’ coming in, fantasy abounds, and voila, we are wined and dined.

In the apartment from which I work, I have framed pictures of she and I taken during our various outings. Anyone who notices them, invariably asks, "Is that your sister?" or "Do you have a twin?" That’s how alike we look. The major difference between she and I is that she is 5 foot 11 inches. Clothed, she is much more stunning than I. She has a long, elegant, lanky body. Naked, I am curvy-er, rounder, less rectangular.

Can’t lose no matter whom you choose.

I am seeing a client I haven’t seen in a while. M.O.: ‘no talk, mild dominance’. On this day however, he wants to chat first. Seems he is getting a divorce. Wants to know if I would go on a real date with him. The non-paid-for kind of date. Insists he wants to take care of me, for me to be his girlfriend.

This blindsides me.

We’ve never even had a conversation in the past. And the sex consisted mainly of me standing behind him, stroking his cock while fucking his bottom with my middle finger until he came on my hand. After which, without a word, he would hop in the shower, dress, pay me and leave.

I kiss him and tell him I will think about it. That I’m very flattered. (I am, actually.) Surprised, but flattered.

We play our usual game. He comes out of the bathroom and, breaking his pattern, speaks.

He: Who is that girl in the picture with you?
Me: Which one? The one on the shelf?
He: The one that looks like you.
Me: Oh. That’s a friend of mine. (Then, seeing the direction his curiosity is heading in,) But she’s not a working girl.

He looks a bit crestfallen.
What happened to ‘how special’ I am? How he ‘wants to date’ me?

Me: But she will do a session once in a while. She would ask a lot more than me.
He: No. I wouldn’t want to meet her that way. Do you think she would date me?
Me: I don’t know. Do you want me to call and ask her? (Said with a smile that betrays my disbelief at the un-couth-ness of his asking.)
He: (Thinking about it a few moments, then) No.
Me: (Too enthusiastically) Why not? I will. She might.
He: No. She’s way out of my league.

Out of his league? Out of his league!? We look exactly the same!
Except for the height of course.
I’m in his league, but she’s not? Ugh!

If there were a plastic surgery to make me taller, I would sell everything I own to gamble on the outcome of that operation. I would. Because I know if I were taller, I’d earn that money back in a matter of months. It’s true. I hate that it’s true, but it’s true.

Second Example:
On a call at a gentleman client’s home I have met before. Lounging on the sofa in his penthouse apartment, sipping a lush red wine, starring at the lights of Manhattan out his windows. The coffee table in front of us is scattered with Penthouse, Playboy, FHM, Triple X, and other assorted nudie magazines.

"Peruse them if you want." He offers. "It’ll make you hot for the surprise I have for you."

"You got me a surprise?"

"Mmm." He nods and hands me a photocopy of a naked blond in an Internet escort ad. "Does she make you hot?"

Why do men assume that all women are bi-sexual? Hopeful fantasy projection?

"She’s very lovely." I say, laying the ad on the coffee table.

"I got her for you." He is like a little boy on Christmas.

"What do you mean? She’s coming over?"

"Her. Or somebody like her."

"You mean it might not be her?"

"It’s an agency. Sometimes they don’t send over the girl in the ad."

"And that doesn’t bother you?"

"Depends on what she looks like—the one that they send."

"What if you don’t like her?"

"Just give her cab fare and say ‘sianara’."

The buzzer rings. He jumps up to answer it.

"Give me a sign if you don’t like her." He says. "And we’ll just let her go."

I nod, smiling. I can’t tell you how un-enthusiastic I am at that moment. Sorry. But I’m a solo act. I do my little one-woman show. I’m comfortable with the script. I’m an old dog and not in favor of new tricks.

He opens the door to an extremely tall woman, donning leather pants, pointy boots, a black jacket and bleach-white blonde hair. Not even close to the girl in the photo. Her breasts are porno size and her make-up is so thick, it hides any natural beauty she possesses. My heart melts. I know her. I was her. I know how nerve wracking it can be to come into a situation like this. I love her before she even sits down.

She sits beside me on the sofa and is working hard to be cheerful and make us happy. My client stands behind her motioning to me with his hands, ‘Do I like her? Do I want her to stay?’ I pretend not to see him.

He goes to the kitchen to get a glass for her wine. I grab her thigh, squeezing, and whisper:
"It’s okay. I’m working."

Her shoulders visibly drop.

"Thank god." She whispers back. "I thought you were his wife or his girlfriend and I’ve never had to do anything with another girl before."

"Don’t worry. He’s very nice. He’s easy. Just follow my lead."

We adjourn to the bedroom. We stand together making him the center of a girlie-sandwich. We giggle. We undress each other. We lay him on the bed. We offer him one breast, then another, then another, then another, keeping his head rotating from side to side. Together we lick his cock—one of us on shaft duty, the other on balls. We play until the time is up and her agency calls.

Together, she and I walk to the elevator. We exchange numbers. She thanks me for helping her. I thank her for being so wonderful to work with. I ask her what agency she works for. She names two. Both of which I had applied to ages ago but was rejected without reason.

"How much do they charge?" I ask.

"$2500.00 per hour. Of course I only get half."

She gets more for one hour than I get for two. I can feel the green envy welling up.

"I applied to those places but they didn’t take me."

"Yeah. Well. They only really have Amazons."

"So it’s about height?"

"When I’ve gone into the office to turn in my money," she says, "I’ve seen some girls there that have faces like a horse, but they’re tall. Very tall."

The realization hits. I'm like one of those workhorses in Central Park pulling those carriages every darn day.

Short = WorkHorse.
Tall = Thoroughbred

Try not to think about it but go to bed seething.

Last Example:
New client. He and a friend. Last name: Rockefeller. Any relation? Unsure. We are to meet at 7 sharp at Cipriani’s. Very posh restaurant. ‘See and be seen’ kind of place. They have ordered two girls. I am one of them. Don’t know yet who the other will be.

As usual, I arrive on time. A difficult room. Models abound. ‘Sex in the City’ types everywhere. Fight off my insecurities. Wish I were taller. The other girl hasn’t arrived yet. The three of us sit at a table and I resort to the only hope I have: my warmth and humor. By 7:30, they are charmed. I am feeling a bit more at ease. 8 o’clock, they have put in two calls to the other girl’s cell phone. No response. We decide to order. Maybe I’ll have double duty tonight. Double the money. That’s okay.

Just as I’m thinking that, the entire room seems to hush, turning to watch a stunning blonde enter through the glass revolving door and saunter, runway-esque to our table. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her. Both men are captivated. Her every feature is perfect. She is Barbie, from her long hair extensions that cascade down to her ass, to her perky hard bosom, her sculpted turned-up nose, the cleft in her chin, her high cheekbones—she is a specimen of female gorgeousness. I become invisible—both to myself, and the men we are with.

"Are you okay?" One of the men asks her.

"We were worried about you." Says the other.

"I’m okay." She answers, breathily.

"You were late." The first man ventures.

"I know." She says. No excuses. Then adds, "I was lost."

"You got lost?" the second man asks.

"I was lost in a tunnel."

"The mid-town tunnel?" I ask, in mock-concern.

"I don’t know. I was lost in a tunnel."

The tunnel of her head maybe?
Okay, that’s mean, but I was feeling mean.
I didn’t say it though.
A point for that.

"I know you." She says suddenly to me.

"I feel like I know you too." I say.

"Didn’t you used to be Natasha?"

This is not a good thing to bring up in front of clients. It’s a bit gauche.

"I was."

"I am Vivian. Remember me?"

Her working name is Vivian. Eastern European. Thick accent with a minor grip on English. Met her years ago on the sofa at Ellen’s when we both worked for the agency. Both presently independent. Haven’t seen her since then. At the time, years ago, she was plain looking although, very tall. Not the brightest bulb in the container. But obviously smart enough to get the best plastic surgeon in town. Smarter than me.

After the dinner, the men need to choose whom they will take back to their separate hotel rooms. Trying to be subtle, although not succeeding, they quietly squabble over who gets Vivian. The more Alpha Rockefeller wins out. I leave with the Beta and feel a bit like tuna fish salad.

Once safely ensconced in the hotel room; visions of Vivian far far away, the Beta boy and I have a rollicking good time, talking, laughing, playing. At three in the morning, the phone rings. Beta answers. It’s Alpha asking what Beta is up to. Beta tells him I’m still here and inquires how it’s going with the lovely Vivian.

It seems nothing happened with the lovely Vivian. Alpha was too intimidated by her beauty to bed her. Beta tells me this.

"So why then, did he choose her is what you're asking?"

"Yeah, why?" I say.

"You have to ask?"

"I do. I really do. Why? And if you had gotten her, would you have taken her home or taken her here?"

"Honestly?"

"No. Lie to me. Of course honestly!"

"I would have taken her home."

"Huh."

"What?"

"I don’t understand."(I truly don't.)

"She’s an arm piece."

"But what’s the point?"

"She’s an arm piece."

"You said that."

"That’s all."

"Because she’s beautiful?"

"You’re beautiful."

"Not like that. Then what? Don’t tell me. Because she’s tall."

"Because she’s beautiful and yes, because she’s tall."

"Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! No matter how long I work in this business, I can honestly say, I will never understand men."

Am I allowed to be pissed?

Question:
How would you like it if your salary, no matter how good you were at your job, no matter how hard you worked, would never be increased based solely on your height?
Or lack of it. ???

Aaarrgh!
Need I say more?


Just allow me this moment.
I’ll be better tomorrow ‘in my own little corner, in my own little chair where I can be whatever I want to be.’
Say 'goodnight' Cinderella.

Goodnight.

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