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.

Saturday, December 18, 2004

It's all Greek to Me...


Don’t know if you are aware, but years ago, a phenomenon popped up in my profession. Men who went to see Working Ladies, created message boards on the Internet, (similar to consumer boards), to chat about their experiences. And as only men can, began rating those experiences (and ladies) using the number system of 1 to 10.


A strange language developed in which these men termed themselves as ‘Hobbyists’ and defined the Ladies as ‘Providers’. Both words too yucky to even begin to dispute. But I understand, being in America, that speaking in 'code' is of the utmost importance.


At first, I thought these boards a good idea, as it would give consumer information before one made an expensive purchase. But as I tuned into them, rarely contributing, I was struck by the hilarity of them. It was like a barnyard of strutting, clucking hens. That’s when I tuned out.


Time passed and my individual business, for some unknown reason began to increase. Apparently, not only was I garnishing favorable reviews, but also had been chosen the Number One Courtesan in the Nation.

I work so hard to make the time I am allotted special, that even thought it seemed, on the outside, like I was chosen the Miss America of Hookers, I actually felt an enormous sense of pride and gratification that all my efforts had not gone unnoticed.


You see, I am not the most beautiful Working Girl out there, and certainly not the youngest—all stereotypes of what we are made to feel men want from us within our profession. So on that level as well, I was thrilled. It meant that men were not as shallow as the industry held them out to be. In all the time I’ve ‘worked’, I never could quite believe men were that silly. This ‘honor’ was a confirmation that indeed, Men were as I thought: Kindred Spirits.


Advertising, websites, photos, cost a great deal. These boards were bringing me new clients for free. I had a new appreciation for their existence and never wanted to garnish a ‘nasty review’.


Today, I think I am about to get my first.


It wasn’t really my fault. It wasn’t really his fault either. Just a bizarre misunderstanding.


I am a Helen-a-phile. A Greek-o-phile. For no particular reason. I am not Greek. Just have an inexplicable admiration and passion for Greece and the Greeks.


Two events happened to cause this strange infatuation.


The first was a bizarre, re-occurring dream I have had since I began ‘working’ and continues still.


In the dream, I see feet on a dark pebbled beach near a body of dark, blue-velvet sea. The feet are decorated with jewelry. I watch the feet climb the arid mountain away from the water until they reach a white, dusty, un-paved road.

Now I see the ankles and the flowing garment of the wearer. As the woman walks by, people’s faces come into view. They are all smiling at her, dipping their heads in reverence, as if overjoyed to see her. She is someone of prestige.

Her hand, which I now recognize as my own, touches a white door frame as she enters the tiny home. I realize the woman is myself and I am a Courtesan in this unidentifiable, ancient land. Within my dream, the feeling that rushes through me is one of elation. Although a Courtesan, I am a woman of honor, skilled in the art of love. A channel to the spiritual though the conduit of the sexual.


Suddenly, without warning, the dream switches tone. I am standing at the door of my present-day ‘work’ apartment, about the turn the key, when a torrent of black water—somehow I know it is the Hudson River—fiercely, like an angry Tsunami, smashes me against the wall, leaving me near drowning, gasping for breath. The water has a voice, shrieking the word: "Whore! Whore!"


I wake up weeping, missing a past that I never had.


The second event took place years ago.


I had met a man from Norway: Runar Tennfiord.


(I do better in general with European men than American men. Why? I don’t really know.)


He invited me to Oslo and I went. As I mentioned before, I am the ‘Princess and the Pea’. I feel everything, for better or for worse, and when I got to Norway, I was stricken with panic attacks. Something about the place didn’t agree with me.


(What a lovely date I am, no?)


I tried to breathe, to meditate, to calm these irrational feelings, but nothing seemed to help. Runar decided we should leave Oslo and take a trip to Greece. It was warmer there and he could use a vacation as well. I thought nothing of it as I had never really thought about Greece before, so onto the flight we went and a few hours later, arrived in Crete. (Kriti). Still I had no thoughts about it. Just looked forward to getting to the hotel and finding a chair poolside.


We boarded a bus that was to take us to the hotel. Watched goats jingle their neck bells as they climbed vertically up mounds of unfinished construction. Ate sandwiches and talked about nothing. The bus arrived at our hotel and as I was getting off, the sandal on my left foot, fell to the ground. I stepped off the bus and as I did, my left foot touched the dusty road.


That’s when it happened.


As the sole of my foot touched ground, I felt a rush of heat pour in through my foot and run like electricity through my spine and out the top of my head. For a moment I felt dizzy. Then I had a deja vu. My dream. My dream began playing out in fast motion in my mind and I realized that this was the place my dream had taken place in. I felt as if I had been here before. The feeling was sensual more than emotional.


I didn’t mention it to Runar at first. We checked into the hotel but I could not be content at the pool. I had to know what this place was. Why I was so affected by it? I had traveled quite a bit and no place I had ever gone to had the effect on me that this land seemed to have.

We divided camps, Runar and I. He spent his time at the pool as I wandered the streets in a constant state of deja vu, glassy-eyed, tears flowing down my cheeks for no reason I could rationally discern. Runar was none to pleased, and I don’t blame him. But I felt I could do nothing else.


When it came time to board the plane back to Norway, I had an embarrassing collapse at the airport. I could not get my body to walk up the stairs to the entrance of the plane. How could I leave? I had finally found a place that felt like home to me. I never felt at home anywhere else in the world. Horribly, I sat myself, with my luggage on the tarmac and refused to budge.


I stayed in that town for almost three months, becoming a waitress at a boat-side restaurant, serving mostly tourists, learning some Greek, and living in poverty but in bliss.


Of course, I never heard from Runar again. I don’t blame him.


Fast forward to today.


About a week ago, I receive a call on my voicemail from a British Gentleman coming to New York on business. He has read lovely things about me on the London Review Board called "Captain 69" and would sooo love to meet with me when he is in town.


As we are setting up the appointment, he tells me he wants to go to Greece.


Music to my ears! Now that you know what you know, you can imagine my response.


Me: Oh God! I would love to go to Greece. I mean, I think we should meet first, but if all goes well and you’d like to take me to Greece, I would offer you a substantial discount.


He: (in a very thick, upper-class British dialect) Absolutely so pleased you feel this way and so looking forward to making your acquaintance.


Me: So you love going to Greece as well?


He: It is a favorite of mine.


Me: Do you speak the language?


He: Fluently.


Me: I am just learning it, but actually can really speak it better than most Americans. I’m so excited to meet you. Perhaps we can try out our Greek language skills on each other when you come?


He: That would fulfill a fantasy of mine.

He arrives on time as all English Gentlemen do. A particularly short, pink-skinned man with a tuff of white hair poofing up from the top of his head. We talk of London, how it’s changed over the years, become ‘American-ized’ with all ‘The Gaps’ and ‘North Face’ Stores abounding. We talk of his business. We talk of the review boards. Finally we adjourn to the other room.


Attempting to stroke his back with my fingernails, he turns, removing my hands from his skin and transforms into an Octopus. His arms and hands are clutching at me from every direction. Understanding quite clearly he is not into any sensual foreplay, I quickly move us to the bed into a more horizontal mode.


Me: Do you not want to play a bit first before we dive in? We have enough time. Let me make it luxurious for you, okay? I like that.


He: Well, all’s well. But I took a Viagra and would like to put it into action before it runs it’s term.


Me: (giggling) Ah, okay. I understand. But trust me. It will last. Let me pamper you a bit first.


He: Not necessary.


Me: (a bit disappointed but in the end, it’s his time) Okay my love. What would you like?


He: Can you get up on you hands on knees, rear end facing me?


Me: Like this? (I am in ‘doggie style’ position.)


He: Lovely. You have a lovely bum. Says so on the reviews and I’m afraid they are accurate.


Me: Well thank you my love.


He fiddles around behind me for a few moments, then starts to press in an effort to penetrate. It occurs to me he is trying to visit the wrong entrance. Coyly slipping my hand underneath, I try to re-guide his cock. He places his hand on his penis as well and now we are in a tug-of-war with his member as he tries to put it in 'the back door' and I struggle to move him to 'the front door'. It starts out subtly at first and then becomes an all out battle.


I sit up on my knees facing him, smiling gently.


Me: We can’t do that.


He: What?


Me: Go in where you are trying to go in. I don’t do that.


He stares at me, not speaking.


Me: The other place is fine. Warm and juicy.


He gets off the bed and begins to dress, not looking at me.


Me: What’s wrong?


He: I don’t appreciate being led on.


Me: Led on? What did I ‘lead you on’ about?


He: We had a long conversation about it.


Me: Refresh me. ( am truly confused.)


He: You said you speak Greek.


Me: I do.


He: Apparently you don’t.


Me: But I do. I love Greece. What does that have to do with—(OH MY GOD! It occurs to me. Yikes. And Oh golly! He was speaking in code! He means, Greek. Greek-style. Up the bum. How could I have been so naive?)


He: The review I read on ‘Captain 69’ said you like Greece.


Me: I do! Oh honey. It was a huge mis-understanding. Greece, the COUNTRY, Greece, the culture, is a passion of mine. That’s probably what the person meant who wrote it. I didn’t mean to deceive you. Please stay. I promise it will be wonderful even if we can’t do it that way.


He: Have you ever done it before?


Me: Not in my business. It’s not safe.


He: That’s the only reason I chose to see you. I have no other reason to be here.


It’s all he wanted, all that would please him, in his mind.


What could I do? I had to let him go.


All I can do now is make an effort to learn ‘the code’.

(And pray he doesn't 'trash' me on the Boards.)


I tap into the review boards when I get home, studying them, trying to pick up some of the lingo, learn the language, but after perusing it for over an hour, I can only sigh in frustration.


Truly, and unfortuately,

it’s all Greek to me.



















2 Comments:

At 6:19 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Genius.

B.

 
At 8:46 PM, Blogger Samurai Warrior said...

Saw Geisha once. Didn't really want to tell her I'd like to take a trip to Greece with her during a 3 hr meeting even though it would be a blast. I think she knows that the Concord doesn't fly to Europe anymore. Was thinking it when she asked me what I wanted to do the next time we met. Don't want her to do anything she doesn't want to, I like her too much. You can always get it from some one else if you're desperate. Geisha is not to be missed.

 

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