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.

Monday, May 02, 2005

She's Baaaaack!

My lovely friend Electra said it broke her heart when she read the blog on my weekly phone messages.
She’s very sweet and empathetic.
I mentioned to her that there was nothing to be upset about; that was just an average week of calls.
That I’d had worse.
For some reason, my business illicits a fury of sub-conscious anger from people I don’t even know.

Then another friend of mine, who I rarely see anymore, tells me she can’t understand why I’m so distracted and tired when she sees me.
"Just my business", I say.
"How hard can it be?" She asks. "It seems it would be wonderful—lots of men calling, bringing gifts, wanting you, making love to you."

I smile because I hear how much I haven’t explained and how much she doesn’t understand.

"There are so many wonderful things about my business," I say. "But there is an underbelly that sometimes causes stress."
"Like what?" She wants to know.

There are too many to mention so I just say,
"Like the many phone calls each day, for instance."

"I get a lot of phone calls." She says. "Everyone does."

She’s right. We all do. But mine, within my business, sometimes run into the category of ‘life-threatening’. Although I don’t tell her that because I don’t want her to lecture me about ‘getting out’.

I’m not ready yet.

Years ago, many many years ago, a man called me to schedule an appointment.
Nothing unusual.
Of course men call me to make appointments everyday, all day for many many years.
That’s my job.

The reason I remember this man so well, is the disaster that domino-ed into my life after his single phone call.
This is what I recall from our first phone conversation.
His first and last name. (For the sake of the story, Rick Pomodoro)
His work, where I reached him at a Home for the Elderly that he stated he owned.
Booking a time with him to visit me on a weekday at 2 p.m.
For one hour only.

(This was so many many years ago that I still took one-hour time slots.)

On the day of his appointment,
Two p.m. comes and goes.
At two-fifteen I call the cell number he’d given me.

"Yeah?" A stressed, breathless male voice answers.
"Rick Pomodoro please.""Yeah. This is him."
"Rick? This is Geisha."
"We had an appointment at two o’clock today?"
"Yeah. Uh—yeah. I’m right by your house."
"Where are you?"
"On the corner."
"Are you coming here? It’s already two-twenty."
"Yeah. Uh—I got into an accident with a bike."

"With a bike?" (I'm confused. Is he on a bike or is he in a car and crashed into a bike-rider?)

"Yeah. I got to wait here until the Police arrive."
"Oh my God. Are you okay? Is the biker okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah. I just have to wait here for the Police to arrive.""Oh. Okay. I’m so sorry."
"Um. I guess you won’t be making it here then? I mean I feel so bad, you being on your way here and everything. Do you want me to hold some time for you in an hour or so? Or are you too shook up?"
"Yeah. Uh—today isn’t gonna work out."
"No. I understand. Okay. And I’m really sorry."

Months go by when I get a call from another Independent Escort I am acquaintance with.
She is panicked.
Wants me to listen to a voicemail she received on her machine.

Crackling smokers voice of a woman, angry, mocking and somewhat drunk:
"Hey Becky you little whore you little slut. Hey you ugly prostitute bitch. I’m gonna f*ckin have you taken out. That’s right. You think you can f*ck with other women’s husbands and get off without any punishment? That what you think you whore prostitute slut? Am I making you cry? Am I making you scared? Well f*ckin good. F*ckin right! Just watch your bony little ass bitch. Just watch."

"Wow." I say. I don’t know what to say. I’m trembling for her.
"I know." She says. I can hear the tear choking her words.
"Who do you think it is?"
"I don’t know. Could be anybody."
"Some Client’s wife, obviously."
"But how did she get your number?"
"Maybe she went through his cell phone?"
"Maybe but how would she know you do what you do?"

"This was on my work line."

"Oh. Well then, yeah. Then she knows. But why is it your fault? I mean, for god’s sake, he called you. It’s not like you decided to call every name in the phone book and solicit men. He had to be trolling the Internet, find you, call you and book you."
"I know." She is sobbing now.

"Becky. Becky. She doesn’t know who you are or where you live. She’s just angry and drunk. And she needs to have it out with her husband, not you."

"What should I do? I can’t call the Police—"
"No. You can’t do that. (Pause) Let it go, if you can. Just be extra careful. Screen all your clients even more vigilantly in the next few months. What else can you do?"

"But why was she so mean?"
"She thinks you stole her husband. Obviously they have issues. Maybe he even left your number out in a place where she could find it. Just using you to get her all riled up. Passive-aggressive bullshit. Maybe that’s the game for him. Not so much seeing you but riling her."


"She sounded drunk to me. She sounded fat and suburban and angry with herself, her marriage and what her life has become. I think it’s idle threats."
"You do?"
"I really do. I wouldn’t worry about it."

"What would you do?"

"I don’t know. Have a good cry. Be angry that women are so cruel to other women. And be vigilant for a while. Nothing else you can do."
"Call me if you need to, alright?"

"I will."

"How’s business otherwise?"
"A bit slow."

"Me too."

"I lowered my rates."
"It’s slow."

"Becky. Ugh. If it’s slow—god. We talk about this all the time. If it’s slow, don’t lower your rates, you can never raise them again."
"I just want to cover my bills."
"But you have savings right?"
"Not much."

Sigh. "Beck, if you’re gonna do anything, raise your rates. Don’t devalue yourself."

"I’m not. I don’t care as long as I cover my bills."

Double sigh. "Okay love. Don’t worry too much about the call. She’s just an angry woman venting, that’s all."

Months after that:
A call from Rick Pomodoro. Wants to book another meeting. We do, for 5p.m. the next day.

Five p.m. comes and goes.
At five-ten I call his cell.

"It’s Geisha. We had an appointment for today at 5? It’s five fifteen now. Will you be making it here?"
"Yeah. I’m on my way."

"Where are you?"
"I’m on the Bridge. There was an accident. Traffic’s hung up."

"Oh. I see. But are you going to make it soon because our time is running out and actually I’m fully booked for the rest of the day and evening so I don’t have the extra time to give you if you get here too late."
"Then I guess it’s too late now?"
"Depends. Do you think you’ll be here in the next fifteen minutes? I could go a half-hour over our time but that’s it."
"No. No. This traffic is messed up."
"I see. Um. Rick. Do you want to pay me a cancellation charge in good will?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, we had an appointment before that you didn’t make—"
"I was in an accident."
"No. I know, but this is the second time and—"
"I can’t help it if there’s an accident on the Bridge."
"No. I know that but you know I put aside the time for you both days. I turned away other people for that time-slot and—"
"That’s f*cked up."
"I’m sorry you feel that way, but imagine if someone did it to you?"


"And, I mean, okay, I have a Therapist right? And if I need to cancel on her at the last minute for whatever reason, I always call and tell her I’ll cover the time. Because it’s not her fault that I have an emergency, you know what I mean?"


"Do you know what I mean?"

"It’s an accident."
"I know. I heard you. I didn’t think it was an ‘on purpose’. That’s why they’re called ‘accidents’. But it really puts me out too and I shouldn’t have to suffer because you didn’t leave yourself plenty of time for unseen circumstances to come into the City."


The line goes dead.

Several days later, I sit on my sofa taking down phone messages when a woman’s voice says,
"Yes. This is the Internal Revenue Service."

(My heart pounds and my hands are immediately coated with a film of sweat. I pay my taxes. I declare almost every penny—rare for anyone, but even rarer for those in cash businesses, but still, the IRS calling can freeze any heart.)

"I need you to call: 914-444-4444. We are investigating the books of a Citizen who seems to have paid you sums of money he cannot legitimate. We just need information on those transactions."

Oh God!
Is it one of my clients?
I do take credit cards and maybe this will have fallout on my business too.
I sit, stare, wait, think, ‘what to do? What to do?"

I call the number, prepared to give my standard ‘who I am and what my company does’ speech.
Instead, I get an answering machine:

"You have reached the voicemail of Karen Pomodoro. Leave a message."

Pomodoro? Pomodoro?
At first I think that must be the private extension of the IRS agent.
But Pomodoro?
And the voice—harsh smoker’s voice, cracking and edgy. Where have I heard that voice before?
I don’t know why I leave a message, but I do.

"Yes. Ms. Pomodoro. You called me regarding an IRS investigation and I’m returning your call."

Not five minutes go by before my phone rings and the caller I.D. proclaims: No Caller I.D.

"May I speak to Geisha please."

(It’s the voice. And why does she call me Geisha? My real name is Persephone. Did my client put ‘Geisha’ on his financial records? Did she find my website and investigate the ownership? None of it makes any sense.)

"This is she."

"This is Mrs. Pomodoro from the Internal Revenue Service—"

(I know who she is now. Of course. The wife of the man I never met. I know but I play along.)

"We are doing an investigation on a Citizen who has done business with your company. May I inquire as to what sort of business you own?"

"I own an Entertainment Company."

"And services does your company provide. Exactly?"

"It is my own company. It is a single person company since I am an entertainer. I act, I write, I paint and generally perform ventures and consulting in the Entertainment Field. It’s actually an ‘umbrella company’."

"Yeah right." (The voice loses all it's pseudo professional IRS airs.)

"Excuse me?"

"You know what you do? I know what you do. You’re a f*ckin little whore cunt slut who goes around stealing and seducing other women’s husbands, you little spread your legs for anyone Prostitute."

I slam down the phone, but she has affected me. I’m shaking.

Over and over again, ten, twelve times in a day for a week, she calls and then hangs up when I don’t answer.

I call Becky and listen to her old tape again in an attempt to match the voice.

"Did you ever see a Rick Pomodoro?" I ask Becky.
"Let me look in my book—no. I have him in here but I never actually saw him. Here's what I wrote in my notes: I wrote that he booked me but never showed up."

"Me too."
"You too?"

"There should be some kind of National Black List."
"Sure and we should form a Union."
"What a jerk."
"The wife or the husband?"
"Both. But him mostly. He probably does that. He probably calls girls then leaves their numbers around for his wife to find and they get into this battle and so it goes. But in the meantime, if he knows how she is, he jeopardizes our wellbeing. Asshole."

"I’m glad to finally know who it is at least."
"Me too. Ha! Can you imagine though? She calls pretending she’s the IRS and leaves me her home voicemail with her actual name on it. Brilliant."
"Thanks for letting me know."

Years go by.

Approximately six months ago, a call on the phone of my work apartment: (verbatim taken as transcript from the tape)

"Hey Geisha you little whore. You slut. You desperate ugly tramp. Didn’t think you could get away with it did you? Well now you’ve done it. Yeah. You f*cked with the wrong man. Yeah. Because I got news for you you you hag whore—you f*cked with the wrong family. That’s right. Here’s the news bitch—we’re connected. You know what that means? You know what that means you dumb blonde cunt? It means you f*cked with the family and you know what that means? I know who you are. Persephone. I know where you live. (She gives the address of my work apartment.) And I know the hours you work. Yeah. Are you shaking now cause you should be? You slipped the wrong dick into that diseased cunt of yours and now you’re done. My family is connected and one night, when you’re leaving work, a few of our close friends are gonna come out and cut up your pretty little face with a razor blade and then you’ll be begging for anyone to f*ck you but no one will because you’ll be so disgusting no one will ever want to touch your creepy pussy or look at your disgusting face again. Who knows? I can’t stop em if they’re having fun. Maybe they’ll shove a knife up your cunt and twist it around a few times. Ever been raped by a blade before. Well get ready BITCH! You f*cked with the wrong guy this time."

Petrified, I called my Client (Abraham Lincoln) in the middle of his workday, weeping as I relay the terrifying message.

"Kid. Kid, Calm down. Don’t cry. Don’t cry."
"(Hick, sob, snort, hick)"
"Hey Kid. Listen to me. Listen to me. You know me right? Right?"
"(Hick, sob, snort, sniffle) Yes."
"Who was I?"
"A (hick) Lord of (sniffle) Flatbush."

"I was. I know people who are quote un-quote ‘connected’. And believe me when I tell you, anyone who is truly connected would never announce it. Especially on an answering machine. If they were honestly out to get you, they would have done it already. These people don’t announce and they don’t get caught."

"I’m still scared. What did I do to her? First of all, I never even met her husband much less been with him--"
"From what she sounded like on the tape, she sounds drunk. And frustrated."

"Yeah but—why me? I mean, I’m a working girl. It’s not like I met him at a Bar. Or its not like I knew he was married and decided to go after him. I’m a WORKING GIRL. HE called ME! And why is she mad at other women? Why isn’t she pissed at him?"

"Listen Kid, I’m at work—"
"Oh god. I know. I’m sorry."
"I meant, I’m seeing you this week. We’ll talk more about it then. You’ll be alright?"
"I guess. But I’m still scared."

Abraham Lincoln (I call him that because he is almost the mirror image of the late President) comes by that week bearing a gift.
A Mace Sprayer.
It’s black. The size of a cigarette lighter for King Kong, and has three red buttons on it.
He tells me to carry it with me.
I do. For a while.

Every night, for over a month, I leave work, exiting my building around 1 a.m., turning onto my quiet residential street, and speed walk, looking constantly over both shoulders until I am safely tucked into a cab.

Finally, I put the Mace discreetly on my nightstand and begin to forget.

Three months pass and suddenly his voice returns on my work line:
"Uh—yeah. Hi Geisha. I saw the new pictures on your website. You just get better looking the older you get. I think you’re better looking now than you were five years ago. Oh, yeah—this is Rick. Pomodoro. I really need to see you. Give me a call back. I think you have the number but just in case, call me at the Elderly Home at: 914-666-6666. Hope to see you soon. Bye. You’re so hot."

Twice bitten.
Of course I don’t return the call.

Over the next few weeks he leaves at least five more messages of the same tone, all ignored and deleted immediately.

A month ago:
"Geisha Persephone you f*ckinwhoreslutbitchcrotchsuckingcuntfuckyouyoudiesoon!"

I cannot call the Police. For reasons I don’t need to explain.

Instead, I dial 914-666-6666.
"This is Rick Pomodoro. Sorry I can’t take your call. Please leave me a message and I will call you back as soon as I am able."

"Hi Rick. This is Geisha. Your wife has been calling leaving very disturbing threatening messages on my machine for over a period of several years now. I don’t know how she has my number but I imagine you leave it somewhere for her to find it. I have done nothing to her and I have never even met you and I try to live a life that sends out positive energy and warmth to people who seek me out. I was willing to do that for you and all I have had sent my way is not only negative energy, but violence. I suggest to you, and I will suggest it only this one time, that you stop leaving my number around, and I also suggest you relay to your wife to cease and desist all calls to me of any nature or I will call the authorities. What she is doing is illegal and immoral and uncalled for. And although I myself am considered ‘illegal’ in the eyes of the Law, what she is doing is far worse. I have family and friends that I love and am loved by and I will not risk hurting them by chancing my demise at the hands of your crazed wife. That’s all I have to say. Stop the calls now. Send her to an Institution or go to marriage counseling or get a divorce, but leave me out of it. Do not call me again. And by the way, she does the same thing to other working ladies, so just so you are aware, your name is being passed around through the Underground ‘grape-vine’ and you are now on a Blacklist. Thank you."

Okay. I know and you know that most of it was BS.
I wouldn’t call the Police.
There is no official Blacklist.
(Although there is a ‘sort-of’ one—girls calling other girls)

But I am stronger than I was.
And no longer ashamed of what I do.

And I reason, if she can ‘Idle-Threat’ me, well, ‘good for the goose, good for the gander’ thing.

Even to this day, when I hear a female voice on my machine, I turn cold inside.

I have done the best I feel I am able to do in relationship to men who see me through my business.
Done the best to change their minds about what the experience can and should be.

And still I don't know how to explain to my friends why I am so stressed and tired from a week of what they imagine is all glamour and love-making.

Also, aside from Electra, Giselle and a few others, I am left frustrated as to what to do about ‘my sisters’ out there.

Perhaps it is the next Horizon?


At 9:04 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

This blog just gets better and better. You are a fantastic writer.



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