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, April 19, 2005

Know what I hate? I hate ‘grooming’ day.
I know I shouldn’t complain. There are plenty of worse things in the World.
And I am aware that Women as Seductresses from Ancient Times until oh, maybe a hundred years ago, had it much more difficult.
For instance, I know that Geishas in Japan would paint their bodies with a white lead-based paint that eventually not only destroyed their looks, but also killed them.
Ok. So ‘we have come a long way baby’.
But I am positive that when Women of the Future look back at us—the Seductresses of Today—their jaws will drop in awe at the barbaric methods we endured in the name of Beauty.

I am having a sensitive day.
One of those days that I wake up in the morning, see myself in the mirror and am shown a face that has somehow aged ten years overnight.
One of those day that I not only remember every past love that un-ceremoniously dumped me, but feel they were absolutely right—which then boomerangs me on a downward spiral to the Land of the Unloved.
My only stroke of Fortune in this Emotional Mud is that I have no bookings today and thus can use the time as a ‘grooming day’.
(In other words, I can be ugly all day without it affecting my livelihood.)

I head to the Salon.
You know it.
There is one on every corner in New York—all run by the Korean Mafia—I’m almost positive of this.
I am.
Know how I know?
Because, everywhere else in the whole entire world, they have salons, usually run by Vietnamese or Thai, that have these wonderful tools that look like Dentist drills that get your nails done in half-an-hour.
In and out.
But not in Manhattan. Not in Manhattan. Why not?
Why, in the busiest city in the country do they have to do your nails ‘the long way’—by hand?
Hand-filing takes two hours. Two hours out of busy day just to get your frickin’ nails done.
Very annoying.
And when I mention these machines to the Korean owners, they immediately hush and pretend they don’t speak English.
Korean Mafia? I think SO!

Wearing sloppy pants, an oversized shirt, kloppy boots, no make-up and my hair pulled severely back from my head in a tangled ponytail, I enter the salon and am assaulted from all directions by innumerable shrill yelping voices.
"Hello. Heloo. What you need? What you need toe-deh? Manikah? Pedicah? Massajee? Waxa? You pick a calla. You go sit here."

I have a book. I have my iPod. I brought my own polish (as, for some inexplicable reason, their polishes take three-quarters of an hour to dry.) I am prepared.

"I need a (whispered because it’s kind of private thing) Brazilian wax, and I would like a manicure and pedicure at the same time if you can."
"Ok ok. You pick a calla."
"I brought my own."
Ok ok. You do waxa forst. (Yelling) Lily—Brazilian Waxa!"

Sheepish, head bowed so as not to meet the eyes of the other customers who now can picture what I will look like in that tiny room as I get my ‘Brazilian’, I follow the shoes of the young Korean girl who is about to become more intimate with me than most of my clients.

Once in the cubicle that holds a thin long massage-like table covered by white ‘doctor’s office’ paper rolled on top, and a smaller table with the wax, she and I maneuver around each other as I simultaneously hurry and struggle to undress my lower half.
I lay on the table, face up, exposed from the belly button down, stiff as a corpse.
For someone who works naked all day, I am always taken aback by my own modesty in this situation.
It’s like being at the gynecologist but without stir-ups and without a bonafide Doctor at the helm.
So to speak.

The next part is a bit disconcerting.
On my left side is a wall. On my right, is the girl.
Without hesitation, she lifts my left leg dancer-high so my knee hits the middle of the wall and my toes point to the ceiling. My right leg, she grasps, moving it so my right knee bumps into her stomach and my leg is bent on a right angle—yes. Leaving me VERY exposed in a somewhat unflattering position.
(All women know what I mean.)

With my eyes closed tightly, (a lame attempt to hide from her gaze), I hear her blowing on the Popsicle-like stick dipped in hot wax, then suddenly I feel her efficient fingers pull my labia to one side as boiling wax touches down on the outer lips of my vulva. She presses a cotton fabric deep into my flesh then, Riiiiip!

I refuse to make a sound.
I refuse to further my humiliation by revealing the pain that I myself have chosen.

This, open-pussy, moving of my genitals from side-to-side continues and just when I think it couldn’t get any more mortifying, she embarks on a conversation.

She: You hair wary difficull ta pool.
Me: Oh. Hmm.
She: When da lass tie you ge waxa?
Me: Long time ago.
She: You shave?
Me: Umm hmm.
She: When you shave lass?
Me: (god! Do we really have to chat about this?) I don’t know. A week ago? I usually shave but I went on vacation so I had time to let it grow out.
She: Oooo. You hev a boy-a-fwend?
Me: Sometimes.
She: Because de hay-er iz no long enuf.
Me: Well just do what you can.
She: Yah because de hay-er iz no long enuf.
Me: Ok.
She: Ee hert rye?
Me: Not too bad.
She: No too baaa?
Me: Not too bad.

(I’m sorry. I know I must be overreacting and must sound ridiculously silly, but this conversation would be akin to me saying to a client lying naked on my bed, "Oh, do you know you have a pimple on your butt?" I mean why point out not only the obvious, but also what can’t be helped? And why do it when I am spread apart in front of you?)

She: (Two fingers on my clit, separating it from the outer lips as she drips the burning wax) So you a no mahree?
Me: No. Not married.
She: Why no? You boy-a-fwend no wan?
Me: No. I don’t want to.
This makes her giggle hysterically.
She: You no wan? Why you no wan?
Me: I don’t know.
She: I wan ge mahree. I have boy-a-fwend. Now you know wa?
Me: What?
She: I don know wha I gon do.
Me: Why?
She: I theek maybe I pregnann.
Me: Does he know?
She: I afray. In my culture is a wary baa theen.
Me: Can you get an abortion?
(Am I really playing ‘Therapist’ in this awkward position?)
She: No. I afray.
Me: What are you going to do?
She: I no tell any-won. I only telw you.
Me: Huh. Do you want to keep the baby? You could be a single mother. Lots of women do it.
She: My fami-wee would no tawk a me. Is wary bad.
Me: I understand that. But what do you want to do?
She: (digging her fingers into my vagina to separate the lower portion of my lips) You tel-wa me. Wa I shoo do.
Me: (gritting my teeth as she pulls of the hair) Maybe you should talk to your boyfriend and see what he thinks?
She: O. He be wary maa abou me.
Me: Why?
She: Maybe he think is my fawl?Me: Well, you didn’t do it alone, right?
She giggles.
She: Tuun a-ova now.
I flip on my stomach, which is a little reprieve as can bury my head in the pillow.
She: You a wary liberate woe-man.
Wax coats my butt inside and out.
Me: Not so liberated. I just like to make my own choices. (Aaragha!)
She: I no so strong as you.
Me: Well, you should tell him and together you can decide.

(How is she taking my advice seriously when she is starring into the crack of my butt?)

Waxing completed; she runs her warm hands coated with antiseptic and then oil over the tortured areas.
I sit up reaching for my panties.

She: Don telw any-won wa I telw you.
Me: Who would I tell?
She: If day know, may-be I coo loo my job.
Me: I won’t tell.

I stand, regaining dignity as my pants slide up to my hips.
Dresses, I reach for my purse.

I have to tip her HUGE. I have to tip her HUGE because she had a birds-eye view of my vagina in a very unflattering position. I have to tip her HUGE because we shared a bizarre intimacy as strangers. In short, I have to tip her HUGE.

She: You wan ge a manikah-pedicah?
Me: Yes. That too.
She: O. You haab a dae too-nye wee won a you boy-a-fwend?
Me: No. Just touching up.
She: (taking my hand in hers) O. You a nay-els wary ugalie. Wary ugalie.
Ho-hum. Thanks a lot. I know what she means. She’s just learning the language so she only knows the most common adjectives: ‘Big, Small’, ‘Good, Bad’, ‘Pretty, Ugly’, but you know…I gotta say,
When a woman has just delved into your wide-open pussy, torn your not-so-attractive hair away, told you her life story, criticized your own, it’s not such a super-duper feeling when she tells you your nails are ‘wary ugalie’.

Me: (I speak to her gently, like a teacher) They’re not ‘ugly’. What you mean to say is that they are worn and need re-doing. That, in English, is probably a better was to say it.
She: O. I know I juss learnee Eeglish.
Me: I know.
She: But you nay-els aaah wary ugly.

Okay. Sigh. I know that my ‘nay-els’ are not ugly. In fact, my hands and feet are my best features, but how do you argue with a woman who has been inside your most intimate place?

You don’t.

She Pedicures me. She Manicures me. She waxed me.
The bill is shocking.
And on top of the bill,
The tip is outrageous.

The next night at work, my client tells me he would love to make me his Mistress.
I laugh, thinking he is just carried away by our moments together.
But he brings it up again.

"Do you know what it would cost to take me out of my business and make me your own?"(I’ve n ever been very good at this game.)
"A few thouss—"

I guffaw.

"Unless of course you moved me to Keokuck, Iowa, Four hundred dollars a month. In grooming alone."

Maybe had a wife who never kept appearances up. Or never supported the basic habits of a Seductress.
Most likely thinks me a ‘spend-thrift’.
Either way, he speaks no more about it.

But I think it was Walter Chronkite (spelling? He was a bit before my time—sorry!)

"And that’s the way it is."


At 1:10 AM, Blogger TheatreGroupNYC said...

Do you believe in destiny my sweet and beautiful friend. As I sit here all bandaged up from a train accident earlier today, I still had to rush to your blog and let you know what our friendship means.... I will call you about the accident tomorrow. But know my friend... My thoughts of you and the quest for the perfect friend.

In kindergarten your idea of a good friend was the person who let you
have the beautiful crayon when all that was left was the ugly one.

In first grade your idea of a good friend was the person who went to
the bathroom with you and held your hand as you walked through the scary

In second grade your idea of a good friend was the person who helped
you stand up to the class bully.

In third grade your idea of a good friend was the person who shared
their lunch with you when you forgot yours on the bus.

In fourth grade your idea of a good friend was the person who was
willing to switch square dancing partners in gym so you wouldn't have to
be stuck do-si-do-ing with Nasty Nick or Smelly Susan.

In fifth grade your idea of a friend was the person who saved a seat on
the front of the bus for you.

In sixth grade your idea of a friend was the person who went up to Nick
or Susan, your new crush, and asked them to dance with you, so that if
they said no you wouldn't have to be embarrassed.

In seventh grade your idea of a friend was the person who let you copy
the social studies homework from the night before that you had.

In eighth grade your idea of a good friend was the person who helped
you pack up your stuffed animals and old baseball but didn't laugh at
you when you finished and broke out into tears.

In ninth grade your idea of a good friend was the person who would go
to a party thrown by a senior so you wouldn't wind up being the only
freshman there.

In tenth grade your idea of a good friend was the person who changed
their schedule so you would have someone to sit with at lunch.

In eleventh grade your idea of a good friend was the person who gave
you rides in their new car, convinced your parents that you shouldn't be
grounded, consoled you when you broke up with Nick or Susan, and found
you a date to the prom.

In twelfth grade your idea of a good friend was the person who helped
you pick out a college/university, assured you that you would get into
that college/university, helped you deal with your parents who were
having a hard time adjusting to the idea of letting you go...

At graduation your idea of a good friend was the person who was crying
on the inside but managed the biggest smile one could give as they
congratulated you.

The summer after twelfth grade your idea of a good friend was the
person who helped you clean up the bottles from that party, helped you
sneak out of the house when you just couldn't deal with your parents,
assured you that now that you and Nick or you and Susan were back
together, you could make it through anything, helped you pack up for
university and just silently hugged you as you looked through blurry
eyes at 18 years of memories you were leaving behind, and finally on
those last days of childhood, went out of their way to give you
reassurance that you would make it in college as well as you had these
past 18 years, and most importantly sent you off to college knowing you
were loved.

Now, your idea of a good friend is still the person who gives you the
better of the two choices, holds your hand when you're scared, helps
you fight off those who try to take advantage of you, thinks of you at
times when you are not there, reminds you of what you have forgotten,
helps you put the past behind you but understands when you need to hold
on to it a little longer, stays with you so that you have confidence,
goes out of their way to make time for you, helps you clear up your
mistakes, helps you deal with pressure from others, smiles for you when they are sad, helps you become a better person, and most importantly loves you!

Hey Check out my new website


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