Horizontal Lives

Perhaps..Someday...

2005-08-05T00:55:00.000-04:00

I thought
HA HA
No really
I actually thought
I might someday write something
Literate enough
Interesting enough
To get a book deal
To get a sitcom deal
To get a movie deal

I thought
HA HA
No really
I actually thought
That since there were very few people in my “Business”
Experiencing ‘It’ the way I did
And of those that did
So very few writing about it
That my take on things might be of interest

“What a fool believes…”

I wanted the ‘deal’ because I thought it might be a way to reach minds and hearts.
I wanted the ‘deal’ because I thought (at my most grandiose) that it might be a nugget that brought about change in our paradigm of thought about the relationships between Men and Women.
I wanted the ‘deal’ because I thought it might be a way to transition out of my business.
(Not that I want ‘out’ immediately—but I’m no ‘spring chicken’ and One has to keep the future in mind…doesn’t One?)

Today I hear that ‘Natasha’ not only has a book coming out
But has been on CNN, The New York Magazine, oh and etc.
Along with this piece of gossip
I’m informed (in detail) of the things she’s saying.

I know ‘Natasha’
And I know most of what she’s speaking of is
well…
‘Untruths’
I also know that the reason she has the ‘book deal’
Is because of the recent arrests and scandals
Surrounding her story.

And that’s the part that irks me
Makes me sad
Deflates me
Sends me spiraling down to that place of:
“What’s the point?”

Here I was, fool that I am,
Trying to tell a story about the challenge to Love
On a daily basis
On an hourly basis
Strangers
Trying to express the grappling with the meaning of Love
And
The ability of sex and love to transform and Heal

Again and again it is rejected
Turned down
By Publishers
By Agents
By Producers
By those who ‘Can’
Because it is of no Interest.

But it has never been.
Of interest.
To ‘Money Makers’
In the Time in which it exists.
In the Paradigm in which we Exist.

There are so few Memoirs of Courtesans recorded in Literary History
So few.
I used to wonder why.
I assumed it was because it was dangerous to speak out.
Probably true.
It still is.
But now I imagine it may be because nobody wanted to know about the experiences unless they were
Scandalous.

Want to hear the juicy ‘who shot John?’ re: ‘Natasha’?
Sure you do.
It begins with Jason.
Jason, the young rich son of a famous New York Lawyer
Starts a business involving phone sex and the like
He requires investors and somehow gets his father or
His father’s name involved.
Instead of reimbursing the investors
He embezzles the money.
As a result, not only gets his hardworking father dis-barred
But goes to Jail for a time.
(This is not precise. Much is what I heard through the grapevine and News Stories long after I met Jason.)

Fast forward to 2003.
I get a call on my work line from a ‘Jason’ who runs an outcall Escort Service called:
“New York Confidential”.
His ‘rap’ on my work line goes as follows:
‘Hey Geisha! So I read you’re Number One on the Review Boards! Not for long Babe! I got a girl named Samantha and right now—right now—I’m making her Number One! Writing her reviews. Putting her at the top of the Boards. Get on board Geisha. Listen. I made 45 thousand last week alone. My girls are seeing Sports Figures, Politicians, Everyone. You NEED to be with ME! Call me.”

I do call Jason back.
Although I’m not sure why.
Intrigue?
Curiosity?
Invite him to my place
Give him the opportunity to pitch me
You never know

He arrives on my break time in between appointments
Nice enough
Short, skinny Jewish boy
Clever and ambitious
Don’t know anything of his past yet

Tells me of the money he’s making
Asks why I don’t become a Madam?
Maybe go into Partnership with him?
Mumble a reply
something that includes the word ‘Felony’ and ‘Jail Time’

Offers to put me on his Website

Express to him I can’t imagine how this would work as, by now,
Most Trollers already know me by my website, photos, reputation
And would find it odd that I’m suddenly connected with a Service,
An Agency,
as it were.

No Problem.
He’ll just tell them that I’m busy now and have no time to manage my own affairs.

“But they’re not going to want to pay double the price to see me so you can get your comish.”

No Problem.
He’ll figure it out.
He’ got a girl now making 20 thou a week.

Gulp.
20 thou?
With an Agency? Where you have to give 50% away?

“I ask one thousand for two hours.” I say. “If you can get two thousand and manage the calls, I’ll be happy to split with you 50/50.”

“No Prob.”

Hmmm?
How is this possible?
I charge a lot.
Not more than some
But more than others
At a rate that excludes yet a rate fair for what I offer
So
How is it possible?

“Jason,” I say, “I can’t muck around. I have a life. I have others that depend on my income. Everything I make goes somewhere real. Not to Prada Bags and Drugs and Easy Living. I can’t lose even one week of income trying out a new thing.”

“Geisha. Do this.”
“What?”
“Give me one week. Two.”
“In what sense?”
“I’ll put your picture on my site. I’ll have a separate phone line let up for just your calls.
Come into the office. Meet the phone girl/guy. Tell’em what you want them to say.”
“Jason. I get booked a week, sometimes two, in advance. I’d have to call in every day for revisions in my schedule.”
“So? Do that.”
Sigh.
“Okay.
“I’ll change my number on my website to yours. For one week.”
“Two weeks. Give me two weeks.”
“I can’t lose more than one week of income.”
“Geisha. Give me two weeks. Come see my Office in Tri-Beca.”

I agree.
I agree because
If it works
If it works
I’ll not only make the same or more money
But
I won’t have to be available at any time
I won’t have to be around to man the phones
I won’t have to do all that I do
That isn’t just Horizontal

Jason’s Office:
I arrive on time.
We are to go to dinner
He and his current girlfriend sit at separate computer volleying phone calls.
He’s smoking a big fat joint.
Offers some to me but I don’t smoke. Pot.
Dinner never happens.

A girl arrives,
“Oh my god! You’re Geisha! You’re infamous! I’ve seen you forever on the Internet! Wow! This is amazing! You’re like, a Legend! What are you doing here? Are you going to work for Jason?”

I feel a hundred thousand years old.
I feel like Meryl Streep who has suddenly gone back to doing Community Theatre.

I remember what it was like when I was with an Agency:
Pro’s and Con’s:
Con:
You went out when they sent you
You went out when you were in favor with the phone staff
You went out to whomever and whenever and they had no idea what you’d be like or look like or if it would be a match.
You gave 50% of your income to the Service
Pro:
You had your life to yourself—your only obligation was to be ready to work at your stated starting time, thus the rest of your life was completely your own.

Week One passes.
I go out for ‘New York Confidential’ Zero times.

By the middle of Week Two,
I place a call to Jason’s home phone
Disgruntled,
But nice.

He begs for another week.

I cannot afford to lose another week.

We part ways.

My picture,
No matter how much I beg and plead
Remains firmly on his site

Time passes
And every week,
Without fail,
I receive a strange message on my work line from Jason:
“Hey Geish! Jason. Just wanted to let you know I made a hundred 22 this week. Oh and by the way, my girl Natasha is now Number One on the Review Boards.”

Ignore. Delete.
Ignore. Delete.
Ignore. Delete.
Message. Message. Message.
Finally I call back:

“Hi Jason. It’s Geisha. Listen love. Can you please stop leaving me messages about how much you make each week? Please? I’m asking you. I’m begging you. It just hurts me. It hurts my feelings. Jason. I work really hard. I’m a Workhorse—literally. I work as hard as one person can work. I do the best I can. I don’t write or forge my own reviews. I’m just one person trying to make a living. I’m sure you do well. Better than me. I would love to sit at a computer and a phone line all night having others earn money for me but that’s not my work and not what I do. I will never make what you make. So please. Make your money and let me make mine and please don’t flaunt yours in my face. Please?”

The calls lessen but continue in random sporadic-ness.

Then three incidences:

#1. Get a call from a prospective client who tells me he’s been trying to find me for the better part of the year. He thought I was with ‘New York Confidential’. Saw my pic there and asked to see me. They say I’m not ‘on’. Over and over again. (never called me, by the way) and sent another girl instead. Finally, while trolling the Internet, he found my Website and called.

#2. Get a call from a Playwright who has written an Off-Broadway play about my ‘Business’. Says he really wants to meet me for although he never interviewed me personally to write the script, it was my site, my image, my thoughts about the ‘Business’ that inspired him. I meet with him and he tells me he met with ‘Natasha’ and ‘Jason’.
I ask him what he thought of ‘Natasha.’
He says, “Average. Mercenary. She and Jason are involved in some sort of money-making thing together.”
And Jason?
“I felt I was in the presence of the actual Devil—if there were such a thing. In the vortex of Evil”
How Dramatic.
But he is a writer, after all.
I say, “Well, Mercenary in It’s purest form often feels that way.”

#3. My Client, the one who was nearly a virgin when we first met;
the one who is now 23 and exploring the borders of the Universe
has an appointment with me for several hours on a Saturday night.
A few minutes before his due arrival, my phone rings.
It’s my client.
“Uh, Geisha hey its Val.”
“Hi love. Are you on your way?”
“Uh sort of but I just wanted to know if it’s okay if I bring a female friend of mine to your place?’
Silence.
“What do you mean? Who is she? A girlfriend?”
“Sort of.”
(I don’t want him to cancel but I don’t like people I don’t know coming to my home.)
“Who is she?”
“She’s like this really cool girl who works for like this agency and I think it would be really cool if we could all be together.”
“Val. Are you going to see her or me if I say ‘no’?”
Silence.
“I mean, we had an appointment and I was really looking forward to seeing you and I blocked the time aside and I turned down other people for the time—“
“Ah man…please don’t be mad at me Geisha. But I gotta see her.”
(Tight voiced) “Why?”
“I mean, cause, she’s got like, you know. ‘Party-Favors’ and I need some.”
Grrrrr.
Huh.
Okay.
“So she’s bringing you a bag of MJ and that’s it. Right? And she’s really good horizontally.”
“Sort of. I mean ‘horizontally’ forget it, but I want the delivery—“
“Okay.”
“Okay? You’re mad.”
“I am. I understand but I’m mad.”
“This Agency’s really cool you know? They deliver and shit.”
“Uh huh.”
“Do you know ‘em? You might know her. If you know her, maybe she could come over?”
“Who is it?”
“The girl’s name is Natasha and the service is ‘New York Confidential’.
“Val. You choose what you want. I’ll see you another time.”

Hang up.
Black smoke in the ‘thought bubble’ above my head.
Decide to use the evening to write
But first
Place a call to Jason.
Get his machine:

“Hi Jason. It’s Geisha. I just wanted to let you know that a client of mine let me know that you are delivering drugs. Delivering drugs to clients. Personally, I don’t care. I am not the morality police and I have nothing against party nights, but just as a friend and comrade in the business, I just wanted to warn you that if I know, other people know and it won’t be long before the authorities know and I would hate to see you go down for something like that. Just letting you know so maybe you should tone it down to a whisper. Anyway, I’m just letting you know for your own safety. Okay. Bye. Oh and by the way, could you please take my photo down from your site? I keep calling about that but no one seems t do anything about it. Thanks Love.”

Return Call on my Machine:
Hey Geish! Nice to hear from you. Sounds like sour grapes. Working on taking the pic down. Called my Web guy about it. But hey, by the by, you’re missing out. We’re throwing these amazing parties in Tri-Beca. Clients are paying ten-thou a head just to get in and party with my girls. And the girls are making 5 a night for nothing- just partying and once in a while laying down for a few minutes—easy money Geish! Your loss! (Pause) What was it? Some client of yours over at my camp? Yeah. Jealously? Losing Business? Door’s still open Geish. Call me.”

I never called Jason again.
But I continued hearing stories of the raucous debauchery’s that I did not and could not provide from new and older clients.
I know
I know fair well that part of this ‘Business’
Is based on Fantasy and Escape

Jason provides the non-personal,
The Dangerous Edge

I provide only the two-hour Concert of the divine in which the best of Fantasy becomes safely a Reality.

‘Apples and Oranges’.
“Apples and Oranges” I tell myself and try to let it go amongst new phone messages from Jason re: how much money he made this week and etc.
Amongst calls from clients telling me about amazing Hedonistic parties had at Jason’s place.
Amongst calls from the Playwright telling me of the wild conversations he’s had with the slightly dysfunctional ‘Natasha’.

The Playwright gets his play produced off-Broadway even though the take on my ‘Business’ has nothing to do with the reality I know, understand and have lived.
The play is touted as a truthful exploration of the ‘Underground’.
It is easy to swallow as it portrays the Prostitute as one in constant emotional pain and confusion.
Just what the World wants to hear.
I love him.
I adore him.
I admire his work.
I am happy for his success.

But,
Apples and Oranges
And my busy Life
And I
Let it go.

Six months or so later,
It hit’s the papers.
I am bombarded with emails linking me to the story.
Jason and Natasha have been busted.
Jason, mostly for trying to carry loads of Ecstasy across the Border
And that,
Of course,
Opens the can of worms.
No one is loyal to him
So all spill their guts.
Jason’s horrifying-looking mug shot is publicized
Along with his past dealing and
His father’s downfall years ago.

I wrote a Blog on it a while back when it occurred.
Even provided a link to the online News Stories.
And for all that occurred,

Still, I feel sad for his demise
I hate to see anyone in my ‘Business’ take the fall.
It casts a black shadow,
A confirming shadow
On the rest of us.

But
The Fall-Out?
Natasha.
His partner in Mercenary ventures…
Natasha
Gets a new lease on Life

In one sense
I am not Scandalous.

I am an ordinary woman who made different-than-ordinary choices
I am an ordinary woman who believed that by making
Out-of-the-ordinary choices
An ordinary woman could become an extra-ordinary one.

This is not of interest.
It is the opposite of Scandal.
Or perhaps it is Scandalous in its unbelievable Purity
But it is all I have lived for so very long

To stop the expression of experiences
Is to die
So I must keep writing
Even as I abandon all hope of rescue from my current Life.

I have always sought mentors.
When I was an actress,
I absorbed the writings of Eleanora Duse; Isadora Duncan
There was never enough to satiate my curiosity
As a Courtesan
I devoured
Any out-of-print Memoir, Autobiography, Biography
Of any woman from whatever part of the Universe
From whatever time period
Who lived within my ‘Business’.
Women who were never famous
Women forgotten in their time
Women forgotten soon after they died
But I am so grateful for the words they managed to put to page
And so
Perhaps someday
There will be a girl
Or two
Or a Society less gossip and trash oriented
Who are curious to know
What went on
Behind closed doors
And the further befuddling relationships between Men and Women
In a puritanical society
Before Women had complete rights over the use of their vaginas

Epiphany on a Jet Plane

2005-07-27T00:50:00.000-04:00

I am on a plane getting drunk on the vinegar Chardonnay
served in a one-tablespoon-at-a-time bottle in Coach Class.
I am heading Home.
Or Back.
To New York
After an absence that seems eons longer than the actual one month I’ve been away.

“Feel like a plant torn from the soil, dangling by twitching roots.” I say to the client I speak to before boarding.
“Can’t wait to see you.” He says.
“Me too.” I say.
“I live vicariously through you and your glamorous life.” He says.
And I laugh. Hard. A belly-full.
He doesn’t know.
Very few people know.

Take another sip.
Think about the new car I suddenly had to start driving in my new locale
(I haven’t driven a car in ten years.)
Makes me think about the Navigation system in the car that talks to me and tells me where to go, without which I’d be utterly and hopelessly still driving in circles.
(Although, oddly enough no matter what I program in, she always lands me back at Cosco.)
(I say ‘she’ because it’s a woman’s voice on the Nav Program)

I need a Navigation system in my head.
This much I know is true.

Another sip makes me wonder how I ever got by in L.A. with just the Thomas Guide on my lap for the first two years.
Which makes me think about how poor I was and astonished at how I ever got back on my feet again.
And this makes me think of my Dad
(who I always think of when I think of poverty)
And who came down to my new locale to help me out.
Thinking about my Dad makes me laugh causing the eyes of the passengers around me to stare my way.

In an attempt to share the wonders of the Navigation System with my father, I program in our destination.

“Make a U-Turn if possible.” The Car Lady says.
“Do you have a map?” my Dad says.

I say I do but remark he won’t need one using this system,
To which he replies, using the system is just a crutch and he has mighty fears that using this sort of thing could and would become an addiction.

In response, I roll my eyes around several times in 360-degree rotations and say,
“Dad, there’s nothing wrong with a few aids to get through when you don’t want to get lost.”
His answer to this, if you knew my father, is the quintessential boiled-down infusion that defines him:

“Listen daughter,” he say, “I’m not gonna take orders from that little lady there.”

‘That little lady there’?
It’s a Navigation System.

Now I know why I am the way I am.
Can you see how I got so lost along the way?

My head quiets.
The plane speeds toward New York
I need that ‘little lady’ right now.

Writing this on my lap on a yellow legal pad in handwriting only a Doctor could decipher,
desperately trying to find the words to explain the contradictory absurdity I’ve been living, knowing I should give some accounting for my long silence.

By my second twist-off three-tablespoon bottle of wine, epiphany!
Cigarettes.
This is the reason.
I am convinced.
Now that my computer in my new temporary home is up and working
(after 7—yes 7—house-calls from a computer tech service—and hundreds of dollars later)
(of course)
Why am I not writing?

Cigarettes.
I am forbidden to smoke in my temporary home and I like to--
NEED
To smoke when I write.
Actually, I don’t smoke but rather light a cigarette, take a drag, place it in the ashtray and repeat the process ten minutes later.
Like a security blanket, I just need it there.
Yeah. That’s it. That’s the ticket. That’s what I’ll say.

Relieved, I put the iPod in my ears and swig a few more spoonfuls.

iPod:
I set out on a narrow way many years ago
hoping I would find true love
along the broken road

But I got lost a time or two
Wiped my brow
And kept passing through

I couldn’t see how every sign
Pointed straight to you.

Epiphany.

Suddenly thinking about Angelina Jolie.
I am doing what she is doing.
I have done some of what she has done.
Wishing now I were Angelina Jolie.
Mad because I am Angelina Jolie.
Angelina Jolie,
of course,
without the great acting jobs, the gorgeous visage, the publicity and the endless money.

If I had her money and her publicity, oh, the things I could do!
Bemoaning my Fate in alcohol-induced oxygen-deprived self-pity.

iPod:
I think about the years I spent
Just passing through
I’d like to have the time I lost
And give it back to you
But you just smile and take my hand
You’ve been there
You understand it’s all part of a grander plan
That is coming true

Epiphany.

I have a confession to make.
I am not who you think I am.
I am not The Happy Hooker.
Well,
I am Happy,
And I am a Courtesan.
But I am not just the Happy Hooker.
I am also, yes,
Erma Bombeck.
Well,
Not actually Erma Bombeck
But a very life-like simile.

I hardly know where to begin.

Sappy Rewind:
When I was a young soul,
I hoped to become an actress, a writer, an artist.
A being who, through the vehicle of my body and spirit could channel all the horrible wonderfulness of Life in communion with the others who shared the Planet at the same time as I.

That was the road I set out upon.
Somehow, after the usual series of broken hearts, broken dreams and desperate circumstances,
I found myself in my ‘Business’—
A ‘Business’ that initially felt so far far away from what I had intended.

But in essence, it is what I’d wished for:
I am expressing, feeling, and sharing all the horrible wonderfulness of Life.
And sometimes, it is truly received.

So I stayed.

And I made money.

And for many years, it was enough.

But once I felt safe financially—
Let me rephrase that—

I NEVER feel safe financially—

Once I felt there was room to breathe,

I wanted to have something worth having.
Something more than Prada bags and Aubade Lingerie.

I wanted to leave this Business, (when I finally exited), with more than ‘stuff’.

I wanted to do something that meant something.

I wanted to be someone that did something.

A kind gentle selfishness ensued.

This is how it began:
Years ago, I traveled with my clients on their business trips.
We would arrive at a destination, usually in Latin America,
and the client would have to go off to meetings most of the day,
so he would hire a bodyguard/translator to accompany me until I was back in his company in the evenings.

Most often, the instructions to the Bodyguard would be to take me to the beach or shopping.
Yawn.
I love the beach.
But in a new strange place, I itch to investigate.
So after my client’s departure, I would re-instruct the Bodyguard to take me to the ‘real’ places.

On one such jaunt, in Brazil, the Bodyguard, (Juao), and I wander into an orphanage overrun with wilting children of all ages and only several caretakers to attend to all of them.
At dinner that night, I plague my Client with stories and pleas to help me help them.
He is tender-hearted but none to pleased with an Escort-turned-Missionary.

Back in the States, I reel from the researched news that Brazil
as well as Africa and India
have no adoption programs.

No adoption programs?
How can that be?

What happens to all these children?
I don’t even allow my mind to stray to thoughts of 'body part sales'.

What about all those commercials with sad-eyed children with flies crawling leisurely across their dusty foreheads?
Why can’t they be adopted?
I don’t understand.
I feel helpless.
I feel powerless.
I remove it from the forefront of my mind and go back to work.

But it breeds inside me.
Silent.
Growing like moss, overtaking me.
Until one day,
I do it.
Like Nike says,
"I just 'do it'"

The paperwork and red-tape shuffle takes two and half years.
The cost is over forty six thousand dollars.
In preparation during those two and a half years,
I work 80-hour weeks to save enough to get by once it happens.
I purchase an apartment big enough for more than just me.

April Fool’s Day 2003 I get the call.
We are going on April 8th.

On April 8th, at 6am: Cab to airport.
8am: Board American Airlines to Central America.
6pm: Taxi to Hotel.
7pm: Hold arm of my Representative as she points to a sofa in the corner of the lobby.
Eyes light upon a family of five holding a baby.
Head swirls.
Representative says: “Are you ready to meet your daughter?”
Knees buckle.
Tears well and fall.
Throat clutches unable to produce sound.
Head nods.

8pm.
I am no longer a single glamorous gal living a life of freedom and hedonism.
I am alone in a Hotel room with diapers, formula and an Orphan.
An Orphan who is no longer an Orphan.

Epiphany.

And for all I did wrong in the eyes of the World (in reference to my sordid ‘Business’)
And for all the dreams crushed or abandoned
And for all the broken-hearted moments
There is closure.

I name her “Epiphanie” for she is my epiphany.
This much I know to be true.

iPod:
and every long lost dream
led me to where you are
Others who broke my heart
They were like Northern Stars
Pointing me on my way
Into your loving arms.

This much I know is true
That God blessed the broken road
That led me straight to you.

Ah, Poetry.
Back to Reality.

Reality is, New York is too difficult a place to raise a child alone.
Too expensive.
My au pairs alone were costing me $3500.00 a month.
And so, I made the move to the land of miraculous places such as Target and Cosco.

(Really. I never saw stores like these!)
After my first one-hour excursion to Cosco,
(one-hour because it takes that long just to get through the store even if you don’t buy anything)
(which I didn’t)
I had to go home and take a two-hour nap.

With the aid of a good friend and lover, Epiphanie and I, Estella and Ophelia-my dogs—(who are really people with fur and tails) made the long journey to a new home and tried with all our might to settle in as we admirably fought battles with Murphy and his Law.

Without an au pair.

I am tipsy.
The plane is in It’s descent.
And my story needs the Nav Lady to sort it out better than I have.
It’s my explanation.
I was away trying to get my adopted family settled into a Home
(still un-built by the #@&*%Builders—another story)

Epiphanie, Estella and Ophelia are with their Grandparents
Safely tucked away in my Vertical Life.
And I am on my way back Underground to earn much needed income.
Back to my Horizontal Self.

My hair is ragged and frayed.
From sleepless days and nights, under my eyes is baggage they could have charged me extra for.
A stress tick shocks my left eyelid, and I know
Tomorrow
I have to look like ‘Geisha’.
At this moment,
I can’t imagine how that will be possible.

Yet,
As the plane touches down
The only question running through my head is:

How did Angelina Jolie manage to adopt from Africa?
And in only three short months?
And why don’t they ever show her Nanny in any of the photos of her looking stunning in make-up and hair and good lighting and a clean white T-shirt, completely un-stressed holding Maddox on the dirty plains of Ethiopia?

To everyone who was concerned:
I thank you so so much.
I promise you future stories with lots of sex countered by stories of dog poop and baby wisdom.

Yippee.

A Numbers Game

2005-06-01T01:52:00.000-04:00

I am a Woman.
I do not care for numbers.
I know many Women.
Most do not care for Numbers.

Men seem to enjoy Numbers.
I know many Men.
And of the many Men I know
Most like Numbers.

I am trying not to generalize
But I have to say
On the whole,
Women, as a Group are not Numbers People
(Some are. Maybe 10%?)
Men, on the other hand,
(Maybe 90% are into Numbers)

Tonight,
As an exception,
I have a burning desire to talk Numbers.

(This also answers one of the Questions from the Lovely ‘DC/MD’)

I have lived in New York City longer than I have cared to
And longer than I care to admit.
In all that time
(Over ten years)
I have taken cabs hither and fro.
But, for the sake of Numbers, let us just examine the past three years.

For the past three years, I have had two places of residence:
One for my Home, that I own, and is now sold,
And one that is my rental at $2000.00 a month (average NYC price for a one-bedroom)
It is that apartment that I work from.

Every day I take the subway,
For two-dollars, Uptown to my rental apartment to work.
Every night, I take a Taxi home to my downtown apartment.
Cost?
$10.20 plus tip=$12.00
That’s not the point.

The point is,
I’ve had two separate apartments for at least 2 and a half years if not almost three years.
So, for the sake of Numbers,
Let’s say 2 Years.
That’s what?
Three Hundred and Sixty Five days each year.

(And it is because I work seven days a week and have only called in sick 3 days in 16 years.)

But even to be fairer,
Let’s say, two years at 300 days a year.
That’s 600 days.
Okay.
In 600 days, I have never had the same cab driver.

Every night,
At 10, 11, 12, 1 at night, I pile myself into a Taxi and say,
(the same as always)
(Pseudo address for the sake of the Blog:)

"20th between 7th and 8th please."

And every night for let’s say, to be kind, for 600 nights, we begin our journey, and by the time we reach 40th Street, the Cab Driver will say to me,

"Did you say, between 6th and 7th?"
OR
"Did you say, between 8th and 9th?"
OR
"Did you say, 19th and 8th?"
OR
"Did you say, 20th and 7th?"
OR
"Did you say, 21st between 6th and 5th?"

And every night,
I say,
"No. I said: 20th between 7th and 8th."

Sometimes, when I’m lost in tiredness and thought and not paying attention,
A Driver who doesn’t ask,
Will somehow arrive at an unknown destination a few blocks from where I stated.
When I tell him of his error and request he take me to the location I originally requested,
An all-out-battle ensues:

"You crazy lady! You tell me -----!"

"No. I said, 20th between 7th and 8th. It’s okay. Just take me there. I don’t want to walk this time of night."

"You say ----!"

"I don’t want to argue with you but I wouldn’t say ----- because I know where I live and I live at 20th between 7th and 8th so why would I say otherwise?"

"You no say that."

"Okay. You win. I must be wrong. I must have said the wrong thing. Just take me to 20th between 7th and 8th."

Backtrack:
The only time I have been absolutely wrong and at fault with a New York City Cab Driver was recently when I wasn’t wearing my glasses—
(Due to my vanity)
And actually HIT a Cab with my body and it was completely my fault.
Truly, I didn’t see him.
Or his Cab.
And I actually hit him.
I walked into him.
I am Blind.
I admit it.
And I walked into him.

His Cab screeches to a halt.
He leaps from the Cab yelling,
"You f*cking crazy Lady! You hit my Taxi! You crazy bitch!"
His arms are waving wildly. His mouth is spewing white foam. And in the backseat sits a Man in a Business Suit, Un-plussed, reading the Wall Street Journal.

"Oh God! Oh God! I know ! I know!"

"F*ck you, you crazy f*cking Bitch! What you think you’re doing?! F*ck you!"

"I know! I Know! It’s totally my fault. It’s my fault! I am so, SO sorry. I didn’t mean to run into your cab!"

Eventually he calms down enough to climb back into the driver’s seat and move on.

It takes me a day or so to realize that I was the pedestrian.

But in either case, he was right.
I ran into him.
Because I am Blind.
Because I am Vain,
Because I was not wearing my glasses.
It was, indeed, my fault.

That aside, and back to what I was saying earlier,
I take a cab, at the very Least,
(and that’s being generous with my Numbers)
600 times in the past two years.
And, EVERY time, I am asked at least once, if not twice more, after I have given my destination,
To clarify again,
The destination address.

So here’s the Question:

"WHAT THE F*CK?"

What the heck is wrong with the hearing of the ears of these drivers?

If it was once….
If it was twice…
If it was 200 times…

But to be asked at least twice by over 600 drivers?
One has to wonder.

Doesn’t One?

I mean, is it the high pitch of my voice that distracts them?
Is it that Men and Women just don’t HEAR one another?
Is it that Taxi Drivers are just---I don’t even want to say it…

P.S. In all the time I’ve taken Taxis in New York City, I’ve had 4 Women Drivers.
Never once did they ask me twice.
Which leads me to the fearful thought:
If we can’t even get our Numbers straight,
How can we ever connect on a level so deep as SEX?

Sigh.

Some do.
Many try.
I should just let it go.
It’s late.
Why torment myself?
After all, I have no Cab Driver’s as Clients.

But Golly-Gee!
600?
That’s an awesome Number.

No?

Maybe I'm just making a Mountain out of a Mole Hill.

But 600 times?

Phew...One has to wonder...

Q & A's?

2005-05-31T02:05:00.000-04:00

The past few months, I noticed many of my Clients, when we chat, begin a mode of converstation by saying,

"Do you mind if I ask you something about your business? I mean, if it's too personal, you don;t have to answer but I've always wondered if and what it was like when..."

So I am inviting anyone who reads this, to ask me any curiousities regarding this Underground Life either through the Comments or via email.

I would love to know what you wonder about and I would love to try and discover what I feel about what you ask.

love,
Persephone

Honoring a Hero on Memorial Day

2005-05-30T02:59:00.000-04:00

Memorial Day—A Time to Honor Remembrance

September 11th, 2001.
Manhattan is hit by a terrorist initiated human bomb amputating and nearly disseminating It’s lower extremities.

Days later, photocopied faces of our beloved missing appear on building walls, on chain-link fences, on mailboxes that flank the veiny Streets and speedy arteried-Avenues.

One life plastered economically close to the next and the next endlessly down one side of the flow of traffic and continuously up the other side bookending the stream of motion.

In the crisp September night, Candles in small round glasses; Candles in tin cans; Candles long and tall all burning the loud prayer, "Please!"

Pretty flowers, any kind, every kind, still wrapped in cellophane or placed in small patterned cones lay under the photos of the beloved.

Markered information, in all handwritings of grief, state the Basics—names, who, what, where, when last seen, phone numbers to call, sometimes personality traits of the missing.

My heart, your heart, what it must look like inside our hearts: Arteries rushing through and veins calmly feeding it but as we grow faces, names, histories of love and deeds;
They line the walls.
Some we will never see again but with candles beneath them—Spirits that can never seem to let go unlit.

Years pass. We go on. What choice is there?

February 2005.
A new Client comes to visit. He is markedly nervous. His hands shake.
Eventually the story unfolds.
He has never seen a Courtesan.
I am his first.
He has studied my Website for a year before calling.
He is married.
He loves his wife. Deeply.
Together, they have a close-knit family of two daughters.
Remaining.
He had a son.
A son that was his best friend and the light of his Soul, the reason his heart beats.
His son died in the Towers on September 11th.
A Hero.
His son escaped but chose to return inside the building and single-handedly pulled many Souls to safety.
On his last journey into the Towers, the building collapsed.
It was only recently his body was recovered.
Since that time, he cries everyday.
He and his wife have been unable to regain romance or intimacy in their relationship.

I don’t want to weep when he tells me the story.
I don’t want to steal the tears from him.
But I am unable to restrain the hot wetness escaping the corners of my eyes, streaming down my cheeks, the salty trails dripping between my pursed lips.
My heart cramps.
I can only embrace him and hope to absorb some of the ache.
In that moment, I love him.
I love him in the way only one human spirit can love another,
I love him in empathy.
I love him in admiration that he was even able to survive such a crippling tragedy.
Is there anything worse than to lose a child?
I love him because in his eyes, there is contained the naked truth of the journey we are all traveling:
We are all so vulnerable. Try so hard. Are faced with such enormous challenges.
We cry out for tenderness. For kindred Spirits. For love and comfort and the chance to come alive again.

In his eyes, through his fingertips, the connected way we make love, I know deeply and clearly he feels me.
He knows I feel him.
I allow his tragedy to penetrate.

And then we learn to laugh.
We find ways to create joy again in a heart that is tattered and broken. His and mine.
And this elation I sense he delights in with me, is a rope,
A rope to God again.

We see one another again, and again.
And again.

In between our meetings, he is so utterly kind to me.
Every week, in between visits, I receive a package of something lovely and precious from Tiffany’s.
But not only a gift of sublime subtle jewelry, but companion to it, a card speaking of the love and new life that I, without doing anything but caring, bring to his Spirit.

I save the cards. I wear the jewelry daily.

I am grateful for the gifts.
And I am grateful for the words that accompany the gifts.
But I am more grateful for him.
Grateful that he trusted me.
Grateful that he held his heart in his palm and trusted I had the sensitivity to nurture it.

Grateful that he saw in me the Spirit I hoped I had become after these many years of struggle.

When I am with him at times, those days following September 11, 2001, when I walked the streets are born again within me.
They are shrunken down to miniature; small enough to be contained within the boundaries of my heart, placed in the now smaller dimensions of my chest.

When I am with him, in his arms, I feel the pace of the cabs racing the Avenues as the fast anxious beat of my blood pulses against my ribs.
The New York City of 2001, living inside my body.
The grief and fear and pleading desperation of all those photos.
The burning heat of the lit candles.
The hope and love in the honoring flowers.

During our last meeting, he tells me he wants to take me shopping.
I have bought nothing in the way of extras, (bags, shoes, clothing) for myself in many many years.
I suggest Louis Vuitton as it is the one designer that fits me perfectly off the rack.

(I am plagued with one of those petite but curvy bodies not in fashion on the runways.)

We decide to meet at the store, shop, go for lunch and then back to my place.
He asks what he will owe me for the day.
I tell him just my usual two-hour rate is fine since we will be shopping.

Before I get there, I tell myself he intends to buy me a skirt and perhaps a blouse.
I also tell myself that while we are there, I might as well shop for myself as well.
All my clothes are old and patched and truly, it’s time to restock.

The day is glorious and so much fun.
Like a scene out of "Pretty Woman".
The fay, wonderfully enthusiastic salesman sits my beau in a comfy seat in a mirrored room next to my dressing room with a bottle of Evian and a book.

Flouncing throughout the store, I pull item after item off the rack.
My Beau suggests that one of the items, a sweater, looks too much like "Westchester House Wife."
I beg to differ, informing him, "I promise you. On me, it will look like Marilyn."
He has to see it to believe it.
In high-heeled, but sturdy and sexy ‘fuck-me’ pumps, I parade out of the dressing room in outfit after outfit, all of which make me look like a Fifties Cheesecake Starlet.
"I like that one!" he whistles.
"Oh really?"
"Umm hmm."
"This is the Westchester House Wife Sweater."

We cannot decide.
In the end, we must take them all.

I know he doesn’t understand the prices of the clothes at Louis.
When we get to the counter to pay, I hand my credit card to the Salesman and insist he put most of the items on my card.
My Beau, being a Gentleman of the highest degree, staunchly refuses this gesture.
I rebut by telling the Salesman,
"If you don’t charge my card, I will never come back here again."
The Salesman responds to my Beau by saying,
"Lord! I have to do what she says."
(He seems to know on which side his bread is buttered.)

With my card safely tucked in the Salesman’s hand, I totter off to the Ladies room.
However, when I return,
I realize my Beau has paid for all the items in full.

I am astonished.
I am speechless.
But I am also feeling a terribly guilty.
It was not my intention.
I do not—I DO NOT—want this lovely man to feel I took advantage of his generous offer to go shopping.
Especially not this man.
This man with the wounded heart.

We go to lunch.
At lunch, I apologize again for the mis-understanding.
I never would have tried on and chosen so many items had I known he would feel an obligation to pay for all of them.
And again, he astonishes me.

"Perhaps," he says, "in the World of the Spirit, the World my Son lives in, Love and Sex are seen differently. Perhaps, my dear son could see the ache and the emptiness and the struggle within me. And perhaps he led me to the one person who could salve that wound. I could have gone to so many others but I didn’t. I was led to you. And you were just what I needed. When I am around you, I am happy again. And that is the greatest gift I have had in so many years. I feel alive again when I am with you. Perhaps, just maybe, my son, in compassion and love, led me to you."

I have no words.
Obviously, there is no way to know if this is True. If this is Wishful Thinking.
But it is too beautiful and so gorgeously Human and so sweetly Religious that again, I can only hold him close and feel his heart talk to mine.

Men come and go in my life.
Some, who do not have the courage to understand their feelings simply dispose of me.
Some have the warmth to say ‘goodbye’.
I have no idea when I will see this man again.
Or hold him.
Or comfort him.
Or laugh with him.
But we touched eachother’s lives in so many ways.
I will not only never forget him,
But I will always grateful to him for allowing me to be what I always hoped I could be,
Especially within my (sadly disdained) Business.

Remebering on Memorial Day

2005-05-30T02:44:00.000-04:00

Where were you when President Kennedy was shot? Martin Luther King?
I am too young to answer.

From 1999, since returning from L.A. and re-planting my feet back into the New York City concrete, through most of 2001, business was better than I’d ever remembered it being. The Internet had already taken off, but the Review Sites were at the height of their swing causing a naughty excitement among patrons. Suddenly they weren’t alone with the Yellow Pages ordering escorts, harboring their shameful, delightful secret. Instead, they were chatting to one another on message boards, wielding power by writing reviews, relishing the vast array of choices, ‘holding hands’ with their new ‘hobbyist’ buddies.

From my side of the sofa, bookings were solid two months in advance. On the occasion of my birthday in the year 2000 my apartment looked like an Italian Funeral Parlor, there were so many flower arrangements.

On the other hand, the buzz in the hive of my apartment was so loud and busy that my landlord’s suspicion meter was on high alert. He consistently refused to give me heat or fix anything in the apartment, including my always breaking phone line, giggling with a sheep’s grin,

"Oh, you have-a too many visitors ah you apartment. You no like, you move. I fix nothing. You no like, I have you evicted."

I wake up at 8:35. I remember it clearly because I was supposed to wake up at 8 but had pressed the snooze button too many times. The roster that day was full. First a three hour appointment with my favorite client who although I loved him, exhausted me because I loved him. After him, a short break, then a two hour and a two-hour with two new clients.

8:58 I lift the receiver to my phone to call the hairdresser to say I will be a few minutes late. No dial tone. F#ck! Still in my nightgown, I storm down the one flight of stairs to my landlord’s apartment below. Knock. Gonna tell him about this darn phone line--AGAIN.

Door opens. In back of him, the TV on. CNN playing a news clip of a plane exploding into the World Trade Center.

"Hi John, Sorry to bother you but my phone is down again."
"Oh probably because the plane."
"What happened?"
"A plane fly into the World Trade Center."

Oh my god.
I stand in my nightgown in the hallway. He stands in the threshold, the door open. Together we stand frozen watching and listening.

It’s not a private plane. It’s a jet. It’s a commercial airliner.

I go back upstairs, turn on my TV.
Within the next hours the horrifying infamous nightmare unfolds.

I am on the airplane. I am on my cell phone on the airplane, trapped, no way out, calmly but not so calmly calling my parents to say good-bye for the last time. I can’t believe this is the end. This is how I am to die. There is no way out. I am in a tin can and this will not be sudden. I must know, be aware of my fate. I want to vomit. To shit. To wail. To pray. I have children. I have parents. I have siblings. I have hopes and dreams. How is this the end?

I know people in the building. I have clients who work in that building. I have clients who work next door. I am in the building, shocked, heart-pounding, trying to be non-chalant, taking the stairs two-by-two, unsure of what is really happening. People above the impact hold hands jumping for their lives to their deaths. The building crumbles. The world watches in disbelief. As it becomes smoke and particles we know how many souls are being crushed inside the disintegration. No air will fill lungs. Not theirs. Not mine.

NO cell phones. NO land lines. NO communication with those who need to know you are alive. Can’t find your car. Buried under rubble if you work downtown. All bridges and tunnels closed.

'By the way', CNN reminds us New Yorkers, 'Manhattan is an Island. We may be the target of a war.' No one else hears this. It is only broadcast locally in New York. I hear it. Over and over.

We are in a war zone. Will car bombs start detonating sporadically all throughout the city, they ask, in that ominous newscaster tone that ends on a low note no matter the sentence?

Oh my god.
Stay in your homes. Manhattan is under siege.
Images of all the stories I’ve heard from A. during her years in the war in England. WW2. It could be true. We are an island. Easily cut off. Easily attacked and destroyed. Will Militants soon storm my little apartment? Will a bomb go off on my street? There is no where to go. There is no where to hide. There is no escape from New York.

Images of people in suits, both men and women, running through an unimaginable cloud of destruction toward anywhere.

Toward Uptown.

Away.

Images of lines in front of the one working payphone in New York. Lines hundreds long.
Dust-covered human beings boarding the one bus in service. Walking statues in coated in concrete, filling the Avenues of New York, in absurd and unusual silence. Not a sound in the streets. No taxis. No words. Manhattan has never been so tongue-tied. Just a quiet moving exodus walking en masse uptown toward ‘safer’ ground.

"Don’t leave your apartments." CNN instructs. "This may only be the beginning. Manhattan could be at war."

There could be building bombs. Car bombs. Store bombs. Bridge and Tunnel bombs.
Again and Again they play the clip of the co-workers, man and woman, who hold hands as they plunge out of the one-hundredth floor.

I am still on the plane. I am terrified to fly anyway. The thought of being trapped in what I know to be certain death, won’t take its horrible fatal grip off my heart and throat. I am not weeping, I am sobbing so hard my body spasms but no sound will come out.

My doorbell rings.

Huh?

My doorbell rings.

Huh?

Couldn’t be.

Who would be ringing my doorbell?

I am still in my nightgown. My hair is up in a ponytail. I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet. My face is red and swollen.

Glance at the clock. Surely it is not a client?

I buzz the door anyway. (We have no camera so I have no clue who it is.)

Open my door and watch as the security door below opens.

A man.

Any man.

Everyman.

In a suit.

Covered head-to-toe in cement, walks slowly up the stairs apologizing all the way.

The only flesh I can see is two long stripes beginning at his eyes, trailing down past his chin where his tears have worn away the dust. The stench is pungent, almost unbearable. Something chemical, unnatural. By the top step I realize he is a Client of mine. One I’ve only seen twice.

"I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry." He repeats, rasping.

I have no words.

"I didn’t know where else to go. There was no place to go. Everything is closed. I can’t find my car. All the bridges are closed. I’m so sorry."

"No. No. Come in. Please. Don’t worry. But let’s take your clothes off here."

He undresses in the hallway. Goes into my shower. Wraps himself in my robe.

"I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry." He keeps saying.

"No. I’m glad you thought to come here."

"I guess I could have gone to the lobby of some hotel…"

"No. It’s good you came here. Sit down. Come here. Let me hold you."

And he does.

Together, silent on my sofa, the sofa we used to sit and flirt upon, we watch the news as it unfolds.

Approximately a half-hour later, my bell rings again. I buzz. Another client. Not covered in dust but just as shaken. Works in mid-town East Side. His building was cleared out.

"Didn’t know where else to go. Can’t get home. All roads out of Manhattan closed."

"It’s okay. Come in."

He notices I have a visitor in a robe.

"Oh Jeez. Sorry."

"No no. Please. Come in."

(Later, when I revisit the scene, I remind myself of the character of Belle, the Prostitute in 'Gone With the Wind.')

Three of us huddle together on the sofa watching CNN. No one speaks. All have silent tears running down our faces.

2pm. The time of my first booked appointment. Doorbell rings. Notice the time. Couldn’t be. Couldn’t be my client showing up for his appointment—would be too absurd.

Buzz.
It is.

It’s the client I love with the 2 o’clock appointment. Watch him climb the stairs.

"Hi?" I say.
"Hi. I didn’t come here because we had—I had no where to go—couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Knew you would take care of me. Felt safer here."

I begin to sob, fall into his arms. Close the door behind him. The embrace winds down as he notices the ‘full house’.

"Oh sorry."
"No. It’s okay. Come in. Please."

The afternoon wears on. The worst is over. For the moment.

The men begin to talk. Exchange business cards.

The man in the robe, it turns out, is in the same business as the last man in the door.

CNN announces the bridges are re-opening.

The man in the robe has no clothes now. The man who came in last has clothes in his car that may fit him. They decide to exit together. Will walk to the car, share clothes and attempt to get home.

We kiss goodbye although my heart can almost not bear their parting.

The last man left says he will walk home over the Brooklyn Bridge. A crowd of people seem to be on a mass hike doing the same and he will join him. Every cell in my body wants to beg him to stay. I cannot be here alone. But I embrace him and let him leave.

For two weeks, I lay on my sofa unable to sleep, to eat, to breathe, to answer my phone.
I am on that airplane. I am trapped on that first airplane, knowing there is no hope. Knowing I am to die at the hands of madmen. Knowing my family who needs me will never have my love and help again. There is no escaping the nightmare.

In an attempt to distract myself from the re-occurring nightmare visions, I decide to watch one of the Dvd’s I’ve collected but never seen before. Mistakenly I choose, "Fight Club", which, if you haven’t seen it, is basically about an insane man who hates Capitalism and in the end, blows up Wall Street and the World Trade Center.

Hysteria.

Inability to function for another two weeks.

New York City, once I do venture out, is dour, but not dour enough for my spirit. I hate anyone who has the audacity to smile.

A month passes. I check my voicemail expecting no calls but check just in case.

Hundreds of calls.

Anger.

What is wrong with men?! How can they think of sex at a time like this? I am furious. I return only one call—a call from a client I love and respect. He wants to make an appointment.

"You know I love you but I just don’t think I can right now." I try to explain to him.

"Geisha." His voice is solemn and sincere. "You can’t know how much I need a tender touch right now."

"A tender touch, I can understand. But I just don’t think I could have sex right now."

"But it’s what I need most."

"Sex?" I am almost outraged but trying not to let my distaste seep into my tone.

"Please don’t hate me for saying this."

"I won’t." I lie.

"For a man, or at least for me, sex makes me feel connected with life. I need to make love to feel life is okay. That it will go on. I need it to re-cover. Can you understand that?"

I don’t understand it at all because it is not what I feel at all. But what I do know, intrinsically, is that men and women are very different in this regard.
"Okay."

He comes over the next night. We make love and I cry as we do. I can’t help it. It is too painful for my body and spirit to affirm life when there is so much death and tragedy. It feels sacrilegious to my soul.
He holds me tight to his chest afterwards.
He asks and I tell him why I am weeping. I tell him about the day of September 11th. Who came here and what happened.

"So, yes." He says.
"Yes what?"
"You don’t see it? You don’t get it?"

I shake my head.

"They could have gone anywhere. A hotel lobby. A restaurant."
"Those places might not have been open."
"Hotel lobbies were open."
"What are you saying?" I am too emotional and confused.
"They came to you. They came to you. In the middle of the biggest panic in their lives, as they ran or wandered up the street, not knowing what to do, where to go, where was safe, where they could find comfort, shelter, they came to you."

After that day, for over a year, business dropped off significantly. Many girls in my business left town. Luckily, my neurotic fear of poverty had me stashing away much of my income throughout the past years of plenty instead of spending it on Prada bags, that I was able to hold on.

During that year, because of my visitors that day, a feeling of peace in regards to my business, infused my spirit, so that whenever anyone looked down on me for what I did for a living, I no longer looked away or made excuses. I knew that whatever I felt I had done or given translated to the hearts of those that saw me through my work.

And that was all I needed to know.

The two clients who exchanged business cards that day allied in a business venture forming a very successful private investing firm together.

All three are still regular clients of mine.

Memorial Day Weekend--Grrrrrr!

2005-05-30T00:40:00.000-04:00

Do me a favor as you read this Blog:
Try to read it without judgement.
Just take it in.
It is going to sound self-aggrandizing at first,
But trust me, that is not the purpose.

I love my job. I hope you can tell that by now. But bottom line, it is a job in which I earn my livelihood. It is a Business.
In my Business, just as in every Business in which one is an Independent Contractor,
Money is only earned when the Client and I are present at the Job.

Like the rest of the world, I have monthly bills that must be met and financial goals to reach in a Business with a limited life span,
Therefore, it is imperative that a certain salary is reached every week.
To accomplish this, I must schedule and work a definite amount of hours.
Sometimes, I am booked fully, so when new calls come in; I must turn them away as I have no extra time.
Thus, when a Client cancels at the last minute, I have lost not only the income from that session, but other possible replacements for that time.
Not to mention possible Clients forever, as since they cannot see me, they will most likely find someone else and perhaps never return to see me again.

Point?
Last minute cancellations cause great grief.

A call comes in from Winnipeg, Canada. (That is where Winnipeg is, right?)
Sounds very nice. Sounds older. Respectful.
Books a time with me for May 20th.

On May 20th I arrive at my apartment two hours in advance to prepare for him.
I have given him the same instructions I give to all my first time Clients:
Go to the corner and call me on my cell phone when you arrive.
From there I will give you my exact address.

At 2pm, his appointment time, I am sitting, bathed, perfumed, coifed, in a long velvet gown over sexy lingerie surrounded by a waft of incense, music and dozens of flickering candles.
By 2:08, I am concerned.
On a hunch, I call into my work line.
(I never call my work line once I am booked, as there is no reason to.)

Message received at 1:48pm (same day):

(and why not on my cell so I would have gotten the message?)

"Oh…uh..hi..Geisha. This is Leslie Tomas from Winnipeg. I can’t make our meeting today. My plans changed but…um..could you call me? I want to arrange something for the 29th..thank you."

GRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

But I do return his call.
I give him one more chance.
We arrange a meeting for the 29th of May.
He asks for my email address (something not included in my Website, as I prefer to hear voices.)

Between the 21st of May through the 27th of May, the following exchange takes place via email:

Hi Geisha,
Once again it was so nice to hear your voice. You certainly seem to be as beautiful on the inside and you are on the outside, which is very, very special and highly impressive.

I was quite disappointed that I had to postpone my trip to NY not only from a business perspective, but very much so from not being able to see you today. However, I take comfort from knowing I will be able to see you next weekend. There certainly is truth to the statement that anticipation is half the fun. I do enjoy my thoughts of you (good thoughts... perhaps a little bit naughty)

Anyway, yesterday I was thinking of you and all of your ambitions and goals in life that I read on your website... this led me to put thoughts of you into words... it became very obvious to me that you are the type of person who leaves a mark in the lives of people you meet, whether they be male or female... however, obviously more so with men.

I do a lot of writing as my creative outlet... it helps me keep in touch with who I am and what things in life are important to me. As well which people are important. Knowing you has become important to me and due to your very interesting and creative manner through your website writings, it has reinforced my thoughts of you.

Here is a poem I have written for you... because of you... as a result my thoughts of you will now be with me forever, as any time I read this poem, I will be able to reflect upon this beautiful young woman who has impacted me, even from a distance.
I know all of these feelings to be true...

In case you are interested my business in NY is due to expansion into the US which has already begun and looking extremely promising.

Part of what I wished to say is that I would like to assist you in whatever manner possible in making your "better world"... wouldn't this world be so much better if all were of your mindset... I would love to work with you in developing a business plan for your quiet retreat in the Caribbean. It sounds delightfully peaceful.
Leslie T.

A Special Place
There is a special place where love surely grows
Finding the peace you always wished to know
Embracing tranquillity… so soft and serene
Forgetting other places where you’ve been

Your mind will open to all life has to provide
Joyfulness will surround you and never hide
Feeling a gentle breeze against your brow
Whispering to cast away all your troubles… now!

Your eyes will see beauty captivating your heart
Dreams of life eternal will never ever part
Reaching out to feel its gentle touch
Caressing your soul… pleasure is so much
Your heart will no longer need repair
Love is the fragrance floating in the air

Feeling birth of your new life… so sublime
Finding freedom… no boundaries of time
This special place is meant for you and me
Sitting with dreams of all we wish to be
Opening our hearts, let love consume our souls
Walking hand in hand to our lifelong goals!

Dear Leslie,
How utterly moving…thank you for such a lovely tribute--and golly-we haven't even met in person yet!
You are very kind. I just hope your expectations of me are not disappointed by reality.
Can't wait to meet you…I will cherish the poem
xx
Geisha

Hi Geisha,
I am pleased that you enjoyed the poem. You already have given me so much joy with wonderful thoughts of you. I have absolutely no doubt whatsoever in my mind about what you will be like in person.

After reading your thoughts in your website and then hearing your voice in the brief chat we have had, my instincts will not deceive me. You have an overwhelming soft gentle manner to you filled with immense compassion and love, which erupts from your soul, as you speak. When God made you, he obviously did not spare any of the good stuff! You are a wonderful person!

Did you get my phone message about whether or not you might also be available on the Monday evening? I am having difficulty in sorting out my travel plans to NY. However, if Sunday the 29th is your only time then, so be it... there are simply some things in life a man can't live without... and for me, you are clearly that for me!

I know this may be silly of me, however I wanted to send you this particular poem I had written some time back. After reading of your plans for that special retreat for those who wish to get away from it all... this poem reminded me of that particular place you write about.

I promise to not flood you with any further poems at this time.
I hope your day goes well... full of sunshine, laughter and smiles.
Hugs to you.

Leslie

My dearest Geisha,
I have been working very long hours these past few days and will continue through this week. I just took time to pause and reflect upon something that I knew would bring a smile to my face... I went to your website...

I can't even begin to consider how many men have fallen deeply in love with you over and over again... you truly are amazingly beautiful... I look into your eyes and I find myself getting lost in you... I honestly have never come across a woman who has such alluring eyes...
I can't believe any man could ever say no to you...

I know that I already am feeling nervous about seeing you but in a very good way... I will feel very humbled in your presence...
I hope all is well with you.
See you soon.
With huge adoration & devotion...

Leslie

PS. I couldn't resist sending you another poem... it definitely is a reflection of you...

Angels of the Heart
Angels often come in an earthly form
Never to say that is the norm
They bring sunshine into our life
Freeing us from toil and strife

They are there to share our woes
Why just for us, nobody knows
We gaze upon their beauty, so sublime
Taking us away from all traces of time

In their presence we sense no fear
For we know they are always near
They place a smile upon our face
Worries are gone without a trace

God’s special angels sent from above
To fill hearts with a great love
They come to give birth to a life of joy
Like the innocence of a newborn girl or boy

Their grace and beauty does shine so bright
Like the stars so brilliant throughout the night
Giving hope and peace to those who dare to see
To simple folk… just like you and me

For you see, they are angels of the heart
Once we embrace they will never part
They are simply answers to our prayers
A special gift from God above, who truly cares

May they be granted a life of peace and serenity
Their special place in life will surely last an eternity
Blessings brought to them with tender care
Should be theirs as well… it is only fair!

Leslie T.

And so, I did not leave town for the Holiday weekend, as I was booked with Leslie for 8pm Sunday night.

I arrived at my apartment, as usual three hours in advance to make everything perfect.

8:00: Candles flickering, incense burning, air perfumed, music playing, I am waiting for the phone to ring.

8:05. Call into my workline again, just in case. No message from Leslie. Perhaps he is just running late.

8:11
8:23
Sigh.

8:36 Light a cigarette. Blow out the candles one by one. Turnoff the music. Brighten the lights.

For one brief black-hearted, vengeful moment, I lift the phone and consider calling the work number he's given me, to leave a very indiscreet message for the entirety of his co-workers to hear on Tuesday morning.

My eyes shift to the small photo of Audrey Hepburn balanced on a shelf in eye distance and instead, place the phone back on its receiver.

It is one day. It is one time. It is one appointment.

Before I write this Blog, I send him a quick email:

Leslie,

We had an appointment tonight at 8pm.

Geisha

What more is there to say?

2005-05-27T02:53:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow will be our fourth meeting.
This is surprising as this Client is a man of few words and specific expectations.
That coupled with my innate insecurity and neurotic desire to love and be loved
Disaster should have been imminent.
But for some inexplicable reason, it was not for as I mentioned,
Tomorrow will be our fourth meeting.

Although it is my rule never to mention names,
I feel impelled to give a proximally, not far from the real one
As it is too precious not to.
His last name is very close to: Hornywoodypecker.
Thus, when he first called to arrange an appointment, I was skeptical that he was a ‘real’ Client seeking a legitimate appointment.
But he was real, and indeed, showed at my door at the appointed hour.

He, being not one for words or conversation, the first fifteen minutes of our time was a supreme bust with no intimacy established leaving me in a state of disconnection and confusion as to how to proceed without the next step feeling forced and pre-meditated.

I did however determine, from the brief information I was able to extract, that he enjoyed erotic fantasies and stories and wrote many (published) himself.
Having little else to go on, I chose this as our springboard to the Horizontal.
We played out a short scenario or two, fairly innocuous, mainly involving mild Dominance—
He to me,
And spent the remainder of the time post-climax finally chatting.
I guessed him a Libra and he rolled his eyes dramatically signally he hated that ‘bullshit.’

Surprised to hear from him again, at the beginning of our second meeting, I asked if he had a story in mind.
In fact he did and produced, from his back pants pocket, rolled in a tube, a series of pages typed in script format complete with dialogue.

The fantasy itself was titilating but as we proceeded to play, he quickly became annoyed with me as I didn’t say the lines exactly as they appeared on the page.
I pleaded for time to memorize and we postponed the game for the following session giving me sufficient time to prepare.

For our third session, even though my time is severely limited,
I had memorized my lines and was ready for ‘Showtime’.
(I am, after all, lest you forget, a proud graduate of the RFDS.)
However, this time he was no longer interested in the same game.
Before he arrived, he left me instructions on my machine:
Dress casual. Little make-up.
My interpretation: A long sexy nightgown with nothing underneath and high heels.

As I open my front door to allow him entrance, I greet him with a hug his body stiffens against, and reach for his lips with mine.
He turns his face.
No words answer my vocal greeting.
Only his eyes speak, scanning my body’s length head to toe and back again with a stern look of anxious disaproval.

"What?"

No answer. Eyes that say, ‘not happy.’

"You said to wear something casual so I thought a nightgown was about as casual as one could get."

No answer. Eyes that say, ‘should I stay or go? This isn’t what I wanted at all.’

"You don’t like it?"

No answer. Eyes that say, ‘Just forget it. Now everything is ruined.’

With a wry, teasing giggle, "Do you want me to change?"

No answer. Eyes that say, ‘what’s the use. My expectations are forever shattered.’

"Do you want me to wear a skirt and a blouse or jeans and a top or—‘

He nods his head once.

"Okay. No worries love. I can change fast. See?"
I begin to rummage through my closet.
"Why don’t you sit and relax? It’ll only take me a second."

He remains standing by the door.

"How ‘bout this skirt?"
I produce a black mini.

A nod.

"Aaaaand, hmmm, this blouse?"
A sheer white button down.

A nod.

"Okay. Relax. Sit. It’ll just take me one second."
I undress as I talk.

He remains stiff by the door giving me a ‘don’t change in front of me’ look.

"Want me to change in the bathroom?"

He nods.

"Better?" I model the new look.

He nods.

Something in the room has changed in the moments I was in the bathroom.
Where’s the music? Where are the flickering candles?

He has turned of the CD player leaving the room in uncomfortable silence.
He has blown out each and every candle I so pain-stakingly lit to create atmosphere and turned on the Halogen lamp to the highest wattage.

"You didn’t like the CD? Do you want me to put on something else?"

Head shakes ‘no’.

"Do you not like the candles?"

Head shakes ‘no’.

"Okay. Should we sit?"

No answer but we do.

I’m a bit peeved.
It’s a kin to going to the Theatre, taking away the costumes, the lights and the sound and still wanting Magic.
Magic can happen but what’s the point of disarming the Players?

"Would you like something to drink? I have water, flat and sparkling, wine and champagne."

Shakes his head.

"Nothing?"

Shakes his head.

"Well, I’ll pour you a little water just in case. I’m going to have Champagne."
(I need a shot of whiskey.)
"So how have you been? It’s so nice to see you again. Is work going well?"

He shrugs. His eyes shoot me a ‘who cares. Same old, same old.’

"Same old same old?!" I speak for him. "Now Mr. Horneywoodypecker my dear, how can that be? Do you know how many men would be envious of your job?"

He shrugs crinkling up one side of his mouth as in ‘who cares?’

(Mr. Horneywoodypecker has the enviable job of working for a very sexy Men’s magazine.)

"Would you want to play a fantasy today?"

"Not today."
(He speaks!)

"Okay then, do you just want to go into the other room and let me pamper you?"

"Not today."

Sharp but consciously silent exhale from me.
99.99 percent of the time I never have to ask this, and I hate having to utter the words but I feel I have no other option so I say it:
"What would you like to do?"

Unceremoniously and without me, he heads into the bedroom.
Scooping up the glasses, I follow.
Placing the flutes on the nightstand, wrapping my arms around his fragile shoulders, I begin the daunting task of trying to engage his immobile lips in a warm soft kiss.
His lips too are unresponsive.
Finally and without aplomb we fall clumsily onto the bed.
Somehow we manage to start stroking one another’s arms, legs, backs, torsos.
His touch is light and pleasing.
A sigh; a light moan escapes my mouth.
I guess.
I don’t hear myself.
But he does.

"Don’t do that." He orders.

"What? Don’t do what?"

"Make fake acting sounds like that. I don’t like fake stuff like that."

"I wasn’t. I didn’t. I was just enjoying."

"Just don’t be fake. I don’t like fake."

"Okay. Sorry. I won’t make a sound."

We resume touching but now I’ve lost my concentration into a vortex of self-consciousness and effort to control sounds that may or may not escape me.

Quickly bored with this non-direct sexual play, he rolls onto his back, pulls my hair up in one hand pushing my head forcefully down to his cock.
Closing my eyes, my mouth swiftly sucks his entire member inside, and I begin to imagine my tongue dancing along his shaft as if it were a flute in time to a jazz song playing in my head.

"Stop it. Just stop it."

Startled, his cock still in my mouth, eyes peeking up above his bouncy pubic hair, I ask with my eyebrows.

"What you’re doing."

"You don’t like it?"

"You’re making sounds again."

"I’m sorry."

"Just do it for real."

"I am."

"Don’t fake."

I sit up on my knees between his legs.
"Listen hear Hornywoodypecker," I say playfully, "Just because you don’t make sounds doesn’t mean when someone else does, they’re not genuine. I’m expressive. My body is used to expressing in all the ways it has available. That doesn’t mean it’s fake. It means I’m getting lost in the feeling."

"Don’t do it."

"Okay my dear."

(I’m getting frustrated. I hate that I’m getting frustrated. I try to imagine him as a vunerable little boy and wonder what horrors might have happened to him to make him so stiff, so unable to enjoy, so filled with unnecessary expectations.)

I close my eyes and try again picturing the child in him. Desperately trying to reach to soft center obviously so damaged.

"Forget it."

"What? He likes it. See? He’s getting harder."

"It’s not going to work today."

"It will. Just relax. Close your eyes. Stop your mind. Just feel."

"Don’t. Just get up. Sit here."

"Hornywoodypecker." I kiss him on his forehead.

Actually I kiss the wounded boy on the forehead.
"I want to make you happy. Tell me what I can do. Tell me. I can’t read your mind. I wish I could but I haven’t honed that skill yet. It’s okay. Whatever you want. I’m not judgemental. Just tell me."

"There’s nothing you can do."

"There is. We did it before. Last time."

"It’s not going to happen today. Forget it."

"I don’t want to forget it."

"I’ll tell you a story."

"Okay."

"A man and a boy."

"Okay."

"’The man says to the boy’," he says this with a Yiddish accent, "’You are not wise enough to be a man.’ The boy says, ‘But I want to be a man’.
The man says, ‘Answer this question and I will see if you are wise enough to be a man. What is Blue, Hangs on a Wall, and Whistles?’
The boy replies he doesn’t know.
The man says, ‘A Herring.’
The boy is speechless. When he recovers he says, ‘but a Herring isn’t Blue.’
The man says, ‘You can paint it Blue.’
The boy says, ‘A Herring doesn’t hang on a wall.’
The man says, ‘You can hang it on a wall.’
The boys says, ‘A Herring doesn’t whistle.’
The man shrugs and says, ‘So?’"

I laugh at the last line mainly because I get the Jewish humor but I’m confused.
"So what are you saying?"

"Life. It’s about Life. You can paint it Blue. You can hang it on a wall. But you can’t make it Whistle."

There is a long pause between us. Wetness burns my eyes. I attempt to wrap my arms around his neck. He shrugs me away.

"You’re wrong. Life whistles. It does."

"And the worst part is, even when things are going well and you think you’re happy?"

"Yeah?"

"The worst part is, even through all that, when it should whistle, it doesn’t."

"Oh god. Oh my god. Hornywoodypecker. You listen to me. I am going to make him whistle."

"You can’t."

"I can."

"You can’t make him whistle and you can’t make me whistle because no one can make Life whistle."

"I can."

"Just stop. That’s Life. No one has the power to make it whistle."

"Now you listen to me. Life whistles. The only reason why it’s not whistling for you is first of all you have to accept that we are all, and I’m sorry but its true, we are all disposible. We all die. And no matter how famous you were during your time, you die and soon so does your memory. Unless you’re like Martin Luther King or someone like that who changed History. But even people famous, or well-loved, we all die."

"I know we die."

"You know but once you accept that you’re disposible, no matter who you are, then you can start to live. And wait. Hear me out. The other thing is, you have to drop all your expectations and disappointments of Life—what it was supposed to be. What you were supposed to be. You can have them and you can grieve the loss of them, but then you have to let ‘em go. If you don’t, its not fair to you and it’s an unreasonable request to make of Life. It is."

"There’s nothing wrong with having expectations—"

"No. Of course not. And being sad and being wronged and being disappointed, but the trick is to let it go. It’s not personal. Learn and move on. Or as Judge Judy says, "Put a period and move on."

"You watch that ridiculous show?"

"I love it. But that’s not the point. I already wrote my tombstone."

"You’re morbid."

"I’m morbid? You’re the one who thinks Life is a hanging Blue Herring! It’s not morbid. I just figure Death is part of Life and once you let it be what it is, it starts to whistle."

"You can’t make it whistle for me."

"Oh yes I can.That's my whole purpose in Life!"

On a mission now, I devour his lips, his cock, his balls.
My nails pull electricity from his pores until his skin lifts with goosebumps.
My heart bangs and pleads and pulses begging the little child within him to trust me.
Finally, his lower head whistles.

Tomorrow I see him again.
My mission?
One head down, the upper head to go.

Keep your ears open for the sound of a Hornywoodypecker whistling,
somewhere in Manhattan around 3pm.

No make-up. Short black skirt. Blouse, not see-through. No stockings. High-heels.
(Meaning ‘ceiling-walkers.)

Assole Factor Revisited

2005-05-26T01:38:00.000-04:00

One of the most difficult and frustrating elements involved in the Life of a Courtesan is getting out.
An Escape Plan is ‘a must’ and yet harder to grasp than imagined.
My 'Autumn' is quickly approaching.
I am now at the stage in which this must become a priority.
If not, I will go to a Hell worse than Hades.
Possibly living in a trailer and working at Wal-Mart.

So with this monster dog snapping at my heels, I ask, I beg, I grovel, (in a very nice Marilyn Monroe way of course) to anyone who will listen.
I’m not asking for ‘a fish’ mind you. I’m asking ‘to be taught how to fish’.
(You know the saying.)

A year ago, I got the brilliant idea of lessening my expenses.
Then I realized I lived in New York City and most of what I made went out the door as soon as it came in.

So then I got the brilliant idea of moving.
The complication then arose that my salary in any other place would be markedly less, in the end, leaving me with less freedom of movement.

So then I got the brilliant idea of having a second place to live, possibly in Florida where the cost of living is less and just coming up to New York once a month to work.
What I needed then was financing. But how?

In the meantime, I was seeing a Client every so often who happened to live both in New York and Florida.
During one of our first meetings, he tells me the Story of his Mistress:

He owns several properties on in Miami. The Hip district.
There, he met a Model/Escort. ‘Gorgeous’, he says.
And he repeats it over and over until I am a speck of chopped liver droppings on my sofa.

A Model. Famous. From Brazil. Only 22 years old.
Gorgeous.
She lives in one of his properties.
Pays her $25,000.00—yes that’s twenty-five thousand dollars—per month.

He’s sitting on my sofa. He’s paying me for my time. This isn’t the moment to get upset.
In his presence, without words, I feel him, I know him.
The need in his Soul is clear.
The warmth from his Heart pulses out around him.
I understand all without having to inquire.
But still I must know.
Like the strange pleasure/pain of biting your lip in stress until blood is drawn.
I must hear it.
I want to know what her secret is and why he needed that particular Pandora’s Box.

Jealously chokes my words to a whisper: "She must be amazing in bed for that much money."
"Naw. She’s not really into sex. We only had sex maybe two or three times."

"Two or three times? Huh. If she’s so gorgeous, why do you come to see me?"

"The sex. You blow my mind. You take me to another place. I never had sex in my entire life like I have with you."

"So why don’t you keep someone like me, who makes you happy?"

"Hey Geisha, no offense okay?"

"Okay."

"I only need good sex once in a while."

"Oh. So then what does she do that’s worth so much money?"

"I told you."

"You did?"

"She’s Gorgeous. She’s a Model. Tall. Guys like that."

"Ah ha. But, do you and she have a lot in common? I mean, do you laugh together? Does she like you? Are you friends? Do you talk and share things?"

"She’s twenty-two. Naw. You know more about me in two hours than she does in the years I’ve known her."

"I don’t get it."

"You’re not a man."

"Thank you. And very True."

Pause.

"I like to have her on my arm when we go out. Everyone looks at us. At me."

"Oh. Okay."

"Here’s the problem. I gotta let her go."

"You’re firing her?"

"C’mon. Don’t say it like that."

"But you are. Right?"

"In a way."

"Why?"

"I don’t know. The last time I was in town, it was like she was too busy to see me. I finally got the feeling that she only likes me for my money."

"What? Finally? I can’t believe you’re saying that. Gio, you're a smart man. How could you ‘have just figured it out’?"

"You don’t get what it’s like to be a guy. To walk into a restaurant or a club or the beach and have this deluxe babe on your arm."

"It’s an ego thing?"

"I guess."

"And the ‘ego thing’ is worth that much money?"

He shoots me a look that says, ‘give me a little break here’.

"No really. I’m not judging but I want to understand. I could see taking care of a woman that takes care of you in so many ways. But just to have an ‘arm-piece’? And nothing more?"

"She’s a sweet girl. I put her through College. Anyway, that’s what it is."

"You really are so kind to her. Really. She’s very lucky to have you. You have a big heart. But, so what are you going to do?"

"I gotta give her the apartment and the car and a last months—"

"Severance pay? Why? Why do you have to give a twenty-two year old a million dollar apartment and a Mercedes just to say ‘good-bye’?"

He doesn’t answer.

"Seems to me she’s been treated pretty well all along. Twenty five thousand a month and she only sees you every three or four months for a night and then, there’s not even any hand-holding or any sex. Don’t you think it’s enough? She should be thanking you."

"I have to give her the apartment."

"Oh. Because you’re afraid? Afraid she’ll call your wife?"

"You know how it is."

"I wish."

I am aware Men are visual creatures.
I am, after all, in The Business.
I am aware many men value Beauty above all.
Initially.
But I had no idea how deep and how far it went.

"Tell me what’s going on with you."

"Well, I’m desperately trying to build a home in Florida or the Caribbean so I have a place to call my own. Some place to retire to that I can live happily and maybe write."

"What’s the issue?"

"Can’t seem to get financing."

"That’s sorta what I do on the side."

"What do you mean?"

"My Cousin Matt finances private parties. I could hook you up if you want."

"I don’t want to trouble you with it."

"No trouble."

"No. It is. I like that you come see me. If you make me a promise to do something and then I call you and you really didn’t want me to, you’ll avoid me."

"I mean it. I keep my promises."

"No. Don’t worry about it. I’ll find a way on my own."

"I’m gonna call you tomorrow about it. Get your Financials together."

"Okay."

"No. Do it. I’m gonna call."

Just in case, I do get my ‘Financials’ together.
And true to his word, he calls.
At his request, I FedX all my personal financial papers to his Cousin Matt in California.

And then, I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait.
Finally I call Gio for an update.

"Yeah yeah. Matt’s on it. He’s got his fingers in a lotta pots right now. He’s comin’ to New York in a few weeks. You should meet with him when he comes."

"Okay. Have him call me and tell me when and where?"

"Will do."

And then, I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait.
Finally I call Gio for another update.

"He’s in town today and tomorrow. Call him and set up a time."

Oh golly gee and ugh!
I get booked a week in advance.
The only way to see him is if he can drop by my work apartment in between appointments.

I call.
Matt agrees on 1pm, my place.
I have from 1 to 2:30 free. That’s it. But this is important.
To me.

One o’clock comes and goes.
One fifteen.
One thirty.
I call his cell.

"Hey, Geish! On my way. Just finishing getting my hair cut."

Who gets a haircut at the exact time they’re expected to be at a meeting?
And a meeting in which he stands to make a hefty profit in interest.
He must be a Libra.
(Don’t misunderstand. I like Libra’s. My friend B is a Libra.)
(It’s just that he reminds me too too much of ‘poop-with-the-door-open’ Jerry Umberto.) (Earlier Blog)
(Also a Libra)

1:50 my doorbell rings.
Up my stairs walks a short, thin, balding guy.
A man who should, by all rights, be plagued with low-self-esteem.
But this man oozes self-adoration and is surrounded by a gooey aura of self-agrandizement that can only come from having oodles of money.
The kind of wads that make up for lack of character.

He ushers himself into my apartment, planting himself on my sofa, pouring himself an un-offered glass of wine.

"Thank you so much for coming. I really appreciate it."
"Wow. You are a babe. My cousin told me about you. He didn’t do you justice."
"Oh. Well, thank you. Did you want to see anything else besides the papers I sent?"
"I know what I want to see. Woe. You are hot. Great tits."
"Did you want to see the plans for the house? I also have the land and property valuations."
"Sure. Show me that."

I stand and walk to the shelf with the paperwork.

"Oh no, no. Walk slower than that. I gotta drink you in. I’m telling you. Gio did not do you justice."
"Thank you. Gio is wonderful. We have a nice relationship. I really adore him. But, so here’s the rest of the paper work. This is my only copy so I made you a FEDX envelope to mail them back to me when you’re finished with them."
"You know what I need though?"
"Hmmm?"
"I need a kiss. Oh man. Look at those lips. Those lips are ripe. RIPE."

I giggle coyly but uncomfortably.
Would he be doing this to a possible client who happened to be a man?

"Let me kiss those fake lips."

I cringe at the insult, choosing to ignore it.
"Later."

"Now. Oh baby, NOW."
"I’ll make you a deal Matt. You get me the loan and I’ll kiss you until your lips are numb. Okay?"
"Oh no. I need that kiss now."

I kiss him.

I am afraid.
I don’t want to lose this opportunity for my future.

"Better than Gio described. You are so hot. Do you come to Miami?"
"Only if you bring me."

I’m slightly flattered he asked aware he’s an obvious ‘player’ and has been with countless Professional and Real Life women.

"Do you need to see the plans for the house?"
"You know what I need?"
"Do you want to see the plans for building and the estimate of costs?"

Without answering, he suddenly stands.
"I need this."
In one swift movement, he unbuttons, unzips and lets fall his trousers leaving him barelegged before me in just his tidy-whiteys and his pants bunched at his calves.
"Blow me."

"No."
"Come on. You are so hot. Blow me."

What to do? What to say?
I know people sleep their way to better positions. I'm not that niave, of course.
Yet I don’t trust him.
He’s treating me like a whore.
Perhaps he thinks I am a whore.
Why not? He’s never been with me. He only knows the box he thinks I live in.
But never has a client treated me this way.
Only men from my ‘real-above-ground-life’ act this way toward me.
What to do?
What to do?
In the few seconds that pass, my head whirls.
I know no other way.
I am trained for no other alternative.
I take the female route.

"Matt. Now come on. How do I know you are even going to get me the loan? And besides, we don’t have enough time."
"I’ll be quick. I’m fast. You’ll see. You’re so hot, I’ll cum in a minute."

There is very little wiggle room.
I’m confused. I’m angry.
I’m caught between humiliation and the possibility of a future.
"I’ll tell you what, when you get me the loan, I’ll not only pay you interest of course, but I’ll put aside two hours to pamper you entirely."
(Which by the way, I don’t owe him since I will potentially be paying him quite a bit in interest from the loan.)

His hand digs into his undies. He pulls his semi-hard pee-pee into the air allowing his underwear to cup his genitals under his balls.
With his left hand, he waggles it in front of my face.
"I need it now."

"Matt, no. We don’t have enough time."
"I’m fast."
"I don’t want you to be fast. I like men. That’s not the way I do things. I like to make things nice. To take my time."
"I don’t care about that stuff. Just blow me. Come on. Where’s the bedroom? Here?"
He leaves me going behind the curtain into the other room.

I sit for a moment starring at the wine glasses.
Deep sigh.
I follow.

He is naked on the bed stroking it, keeping himself ready.
"I’m not going to do this."
"I’ll pay you. How much do you make?"
"A thousand for two hours—two hour minimum."
"Jeezus. Expensive."
"Up to you."

(Expensive? To a man who has Billions? Expensive? To a man who sees hundreds of women? He probably bargains them all down. Cheapening each and every one. Making each and every one feel like a piece of meat at an Arab Market.)

"Okay. I’ll pay you. Just blow me now."

I do.

I do because I know no other way.
I do because at the very least I will have made my few and perhaps,
Just maybe,
Perhaps the afternoon won’t feel like a complete, humiliating waste of time.
I hope.
So I do.

His cock smells like Lentil Soup.
Instead of a hair cut, he should have considered a shower.

But he knows himself.
It’s over in three minutes.
He dresses.
I never got UN-dressed.
I hand him the papers.
He goes to the door.

"When will I hear from you?"
"Soon. Baby you’re good."

"Are you going to…?"

"What?"

"Pay me?"

"Oh yeah."

He pulls two hundred dollars out of his wallet and tosses it onto my coffee table.
I stare at him, waiting.

"What? Is it more than that?"
"Yes." I say shyly, not wanting to rock any of our many boats in motion.
"What?"
"It’s a thousand."
"It took three minutes."
"But you were late. I saved the time for you. I have a minimum."
"It took three minutes. Don’t be like that. I’m getting you this loan. Right?"
"Um-hmm. I hope so."
"Matt?"
"Yeah."
"By the way, just curious, are you a Libra?"
"Yeah."
"Call you soon."
He’s a Libra. I know he won’t.

Please understand, I have two amazing Libra friends in my life. But the only times in my Life I have been deliberately ‘screwed’—no pun intended—really! Has been by Libra’s. Jeremy, Valentino, Mark the Builder, and Matt. (All of whom I have Blogged in the Archives) And a few others that have slipped my mind at the moment. So forgive my generalizations if you can.

He leaves and for the first time in my eleven years in the business, I truly feel like a Whore.

I’m sure you guessed by now, I didn’t get the loan.

P.S. I did see Gio again who was and is a Prince.
He loves his Cousin Matt and had no idea of what actually happened that day.
I felt terrible even telling him the details.
I could see the embarrassment and pain in his eyes, that sense of responsibility even though none of it was his fault. (After all, he is not his ‘Cousin’s Keeper’)
But to clear the air between us, it had to be revealed.

And I’m glad we talked about it, for Gio will always be in my heart and I will always be so eternally grateful that he took my situation to heart enough to even try and help.
He is a generous, enormous-hearted Spirit.

His Cousin however is a very young Soul and in this Lifetime, a Villain that hopefully few will have to run into.
Best to keep the reach of his slime to a minimum.

Blips on the Run-Including a Blog on Vegetables

2005-05-23T00:22:00.000-04:00

sorry. sorry. sorry.

Everyone who has emailed and not received a response yet, please know this:

I am in Chaos. Wake at 7. Home at Midnight or One. Exhausted.

Down on my knees. Forgive me.

Thought One: Passing through Times Square at Midnight, chomping down two McDonald's cheeseburgers with extra onions--(Why does a day of sex make me want Ketchup and Onions? Basically I throw the Burgers and Bread back into the sack.)

Note to Self: Call other Escort Aquaintances. Inquire about Onion Addiction after full-day of Clients.

See a Billboard for Dyson Vacumns. Think of a similar slogan for my own Website:

"It Zigs! It Zags! It never loses Suction! The Geisha Courtesan! (cums in a variety of Designer Colors!)"

Maybe I'm tired. It seemed Genius as the Cab passed 42nd Street.

Thought Two: (To those several who wrote concerning Geisha Summer Camp for Cocks)

You are already in the few Elite. Just need to get the Five-Star Tatoo's.

In Fact, and you know who you are, a more advanced plan would be to make your special 'Member', Camp Conselors in charge of the Mentoring the other Penises.

(No payment, but growth guarenteed and extra credit for your services.)

Thought Three: Vegetables--Unfortunately neglected in conversation; highly erotic when put into Action on a Solo Run; Mischieviously Dangerous in the Long Run.

Right. Right. Vegetables. I know it seems like an odd segue. Here's how the thought was born and took root:

I have allergies. Terrible Allergies.

My hacking seasonal cough makes me sound like the Whore-with-the-Heart-of-Gold who will soon, appropriately and according to all stories and myths, soon to die of Consumption.

(Not to worry. I have my Epitaph already composed: Based on a Song sung by Madeleine Peyroux--)

"Did I have fun you ask me? Holy Gee! Was I drunk? Was he handsome? Did Mama give me Hell? Mmm Hmm!"

So that's all set.

Admit it. There's nothing worse than having a boring Tombstone.

'Born this year, Died that year. Beloved so-and-so of so-and-so. Blah Blah Blah.'

No one would stand around your site.

When I first pass, none of my Clients would be brave enough to attend. I understand this.

But in thousands of years, I'll have a crowd around my tombstone wondering who the heck this girl was.

No?

So back to the Veggies:

My mouth sinks down from nipples, to rib-cage, to tummy, to my clients gentials. My nose takes in his scent. Surprizingly, he smells like something not unpleasant and yet familiar but not like Penis.

What is it? I wonder as I lick and stoke and dance on his shaft with my snail tongue.

Ah ha! Chicken Soup.

With noodles.

And Matza Balls.

At that moment, I take a momentary break to mention to him a fantastic Epitaph for his Stone: 'Goodness gracious great balls of Fire!'

Even though I was thinking: 'Goodness gracious great balls of Matza!'

So I started thinking about the Chicken Soup I had traveled all the way downtown to the famous Second Avenue Deli to procure (hoping it would ease my horrific snorting, coughing, sniffling, entirely unattractive allergies).

But when I got the soup home and began slurping it up, I was sorely disappointed in the lack of vegetables contained, or rather, not contained in the soup.

A sad statement for New York Jewish Cooking.

They say they're Jewish.

They say they're Kosher.

So 'Where's the 'Beef'?' So to speak. Or, rather, 'Where's the Veggies'?

So smelling my Client's cock, during a long drawn-out Blow Job, I begin to ruminate on Vegetables in general, and suddenly Corn.

Not that Corn goes into Chicken Soup, But Corn came into my head, and I remembered a girlfriend of mine, who, on a particulary lonely evening boiled an ear of corn and used it to pleasure herself.

As luck would have it, she had an intimate date the next evening.

She and her Beau made passionate love and to her horror, when he withdrew, the condom covering his now softening Penis was coated with bits and chunks of yellow corn.

When she related the story to me, she exclaimed, "Imagine my horror!"

I did and was hysterical to tears. But I couldn't help imagining his horror as well.

As my Client's lovely cock hardened filling my mouth,

Cucumbers came to mind.

One friend I knew, masturbated with a non-organic Cucumber.

(Much against my fervent suggestions never to stray from Organic.)

Never-the-less, it was after midnight placing her in a pinch as the Organic shops were closed, leaving her forced to purchase her Cucumber at a local all-night Korean Deli.

The following day, she complained of an unusual, indescribable and somewhat uncomfortable sensation from within.

Two days later, she had no choice but to visit her GYN.

The Problem? In-Organic Cucumbers are coated with wax.

She suffered from what in Layman's terms could be termed, "Waxy Build-up."

Waxy Build-up so severe it could only be tended to by a Professional.

So there you have it: The Bizarre workings of a Courtesan Mind too late at night with a bloodstream coursing only with Champagne, a stomach of Onions and Ketchup; having concluded an evening of Chicken Soup Cock.

Again,

sorry. sorry. sorry.

By the Way...

2005-05-19T01:44:00.000-04:00

Remember that woman from the phone messages who scheduled an appointment with me for she and her boyfriend as a birthday gift to him?
(See 'Dull Routine' Blog below)
I set the time aside, turned away other appointments and she never called to cancel.

On the same day, the other client, also in the phone calls listed, booked a time earlier the same day.
I called him to confirm.
"Oh. I was just about to call you. Something came up. Have to go on the road."

No offer of a cancelation fee or any concern of the inconvienience he had caused.

I looked in my Blacklist file and hit my head against the wall many times as hard as I could to try and teach myself a lesson.
There he was in the file.
He calls once a year. All his references at work check out. And once a year he books with me and cancels at the last minute.

UGH!
And what a puky thing to do.
(Also no offer of a cancelation fee for the problems he caused due to 'his emergency'.)

But how stupid am I not to look him up in my Blacklist.

Fortunately, at the last minute, I was able to re-book the time.

My therapist, similar to my situation, sees people and deals with the pain of last minute 'no-shows'.
Sadly and selfishly, hearing this made me feel a bit better as I no longer took it personally.

But,
Question:
How do people not feel bad, or accountable for the wasting of the valuable Time of others?

This is something, despite eleven years of therapy, I have never come to understand.
I have come to let it go.
I have come to not take it personally.
I have come to release them like broken birds to their own recompense.
But still cannot seem to grasp it.

Referendum:
Do you think, in this Era of Parenting Government, we should make a Law punishing this Irresponsible Behavior?
I think I should suggest it to my Right-Wing, Conservative Government Representative.
It may give him an erection.

Geisha's Summer Camp For Cocks

2005-05-19T01:40:00.000-04:00

As you probably guessed from my lack of Blogs,
I have been drowning in the Tidal Wave of Real Life.
(Otherwise stated as ‘Life Above Ground’)

Thankfully, Business has picked up tremendously.

I attribute this to two elements:
1. January through April is always slow until after Taxes, Easter and Passover. And now it’s May.

(“It’s May! It’s May! The Lusty Month of May! The time for every Whim, Proper or Im---“)

2. Luciano’s photos of me, now new on my website has motivated ‘past, and absent clients’ to take a new look-see.

(Luciano is such a Genius that I don’t even recognize my plain old self in his stunning renditions of me.)

(In fact, I asked him to follow me around in my daily life with his Lighting Magic so I might look just as alluring every moment of every regular day.)

(Can that be done?)

(I’m sure Nicole Kidman does it.)

(Maybe even Ms. Streisand and Ms. Oprah.)

That being said, I have time for just a quick Blip.

I have been mentioning to all my over-worked, stressed, A-Type personality Clients of late,
My Grandiose Idea:

(If you have been following, you know I am moving and a little money-tight.
So, being enterprising, I figure, for one Flat Fee—)

Geisha’s Summer Camp for Cocks:

Here’s how it would work:

I think all Men, exhausted and who must work, nose-to-grindstone throughout the summer months,
should simply detach their Cocks—

(Whom we all know are separate members of the ‘family’ already,)

--And leave them with me for a Summer of Fun, Exercise and Frolic, at,
(And I’ll say it again,)
Geisha’s Summer Camp for Cocks.

I mean, why should the Penises suffer?
They don’t have to work on the Trading Floor.
They don’t have to close deals.
They don’t have anything to do 5am-11pm.

Except maybe, Pee.
Every now and then.

(Every now and then because it has been my experience that Men have bladders the size of an SUV.
As opposed to Women, who seem to have bladders the size of a small Pistachio nut.)

At my Summer Camp,
They relax, meet others, get pampered---
They can Swim, Climb my ‘two mountains’, Learn social skill such as how to get along with other Boys,
And by the end of the Summer, when the Boy is picked up in September,
He’ll be well rested, invigorated, and just Spitting with Life.

Weekly phone calls are allowed, of course.
And as I mentioned in Blogs previous, I speak fluent Penis so I would be able to help in the translation of any letters or calls home.

One Client objected, due to his own perceived lack of ‘proportion’ of his Cock’s Size.
Stating, because of this, he was worried his Member Child would be picked on by the other ‘Boys’.

I responded, The Camp and it’s Main Supervisor (Me) and any other invited ‘Counselors’, (My sexy Friends) would keep an eye on the issue to make sure any competition was Healthy; Based on Merit, on Action and on Performance rather than Physical Stature.
Ego and Pride would be respected and nourished thereby enhancing self-confidence.
And of course, learning.
Learning that size only matters in relation to body chemistry.
An important lesson all Cocks need to internalize.
In my humble opinion.

There would also be courses taught throughout the Summer with a requirement to attend the most important and mandatory dealing in Listening. Listed on my syllabus as:
“Penis Listen and Respond to Vagina 101”.
Other courses include:
“Entire Body Erogenous Zones 101.”
“Giving Your Ego a Valium—how and when. 101”
“When and when not to Mutiny the Upper Head 101”
“Slow First. Fast Later. 101”
“God exists in a Woman’s Body. 301” (Higher Course for Advanced Campers)
“Learning to say “Goodbye.” Learning to say, “I’m Sorry”. Learning that taking responsibility is a ‘good thing’. Learning that stepping on the garbage can pedal is not the only way. 201”
(Also for Advanced Campers.)

I also declared that the Gentlemen who are amazing Lovers already,
there by ranking them in the ‘Geisha Five Star Alliance’,
(Of which, at present there is only a handful, as regretfully this is a small, exclusive membership),
should don a series of tattoos of Five Stars:
One tiny star on the inside base of each of the five fingers on their left hand that cannot be seen unless they spread their fingers like a duck’s webbed foot.

This should be an International symbol that not only have they been exclusive members of the Summer Camp, but that they are remarkable Lovers—being in a group of maybe twenty in a poll of, oh, say, maybe, 300,000
(thousand)
(or more?)
(YIKES!)
(That must be the case as every dollar of my apartment was paid for Penis-to-Mouth-or-Vagina, and my apartment costs more than 300,000.)

And when these ‘Five Star Members’ meet a woman they care to be with but feel intimidated by,
they will be able to subtlety spread their fingers enough to give the prospective woman a glance at their Five Stars and BOOM!
The woman knows.
She knows.
And now is not only in awe but desirous to have a go at him herself.
Since he has been ‘Certified’.
Like the Zagat’s of Sexual Acumen.

Perhaps, depending on the number of Penises detached and enrolled; I shall have to call on my friend Electra to help oversee the Camp.

I think it would be good.
I think it would be great.

One problem:
How to talk Men into detaching their Penises.
Especially for an entire Summer.

Sigh.
Nevermind.
That was ‘Plan B’ anyway.

I’ll let you know if I have any ‘takers’.
In the meantime,
I suppose I’m back to ‘Plan A’.

In the meantime, because of all the soot covering my walls, with the help of a friend and ex-lover, we spent a grueling weekend, from 9am to 1am, painting my ‘work’ apartment.
And uh-oh.
And Oh god!
I’m not sure what happened, actually.
When I saw the color on the little card, it looked so serene.
But after a few brush strokes—
Oh my god!
My love nest is now a painful shade of needle-on-a-nerve electric blue, thus putting me back in the position of having to work twice as Dramatically Horizontally to distract from the vibrations emanating from the walls.

(Are you getting the idea I need an assistant who tells me ‘no’, and then directs me to more reasonable decisions?)
(If your answer was ‘Yes’, you are correct.)

Oh, so right.
(Since enrollment may be sparse due to Men’s selfishness and lack of desire to part with their Penises even for the betterment of the whole and even if only for a elated Summer.)
Back to ‘Plan A’.

‘Plan A’?
Hugging, Kissing, Listening, Loving.
Two hours at a time.

P.S. Thanks for indulging me.
I’ve been working since 8 a.m.
It is now 1 a.m.
For sustenance today, I began with a ‘whore’s breakfast. (A Glass of Champagne before food, water or coffee.)
Continued the day, (as I was three times booked) on Squashed Grapes,
And concluded with the same Spirits with which I began.
All this to say,
I may be missing a few brain cells as I write this.

(Do I remind you of the filmmaker ‘Wim Wenders’ who does not see his artistic crime in not editing and simply enjoys, as an artistic exhibitionist, masturbating all over the screen?)

My Clients indulge me in this flotsam and jetsam banter,
Mainly because they know they will be rewarded during the second hour.
But You indulging me?
Well that’s just Altruistic.

Everyone Gets Into a Dull Routine...

2005-05-16T01:28:00.000-04:00

My Friend: why haven’t you written in the Blog this week?

Me: O, so you’re reading?

MF: I actually feel like I know you better from reading the Blog than I have in all our years of friendship.

Me: No. Really? I guess I understand. We don’t really reveal our ‘day-to-day’ much, do we?

MF: Crazy week?

Me: Beyond. And a bit sad. Became yet again a disposable woman a few days ago. Boomp. Foot on black pedal of garbage. Lid opens. Pops me in. Foot goes away. Lid comes slamming down. Devastating. No explanation. Just bloomp. In the garbage.

MF: Write about that.

Me: I will. I can’t yet. It’s too big. Too confusing. Too painful. I need to understand. I need time to digest it. I just haven’t felt creative—tired, busy—

MF: You know what I liked? I liked when you just wrote out the transcription of your weekly phone calls.

Me: Why?

MF: I find it sort of fascinating how complete strangers perceive you and how they talk to you without even knowing you, just based on your business alone. Write that. Write something!

Transcript of this weeks cumulative messages on my work line:

1. Hello Geisha, its Laurie McGee.

(A man-I used to see him alone for years then he and his wife as a couple for many years but we’ve not seen one another in at least a year now.)

For whatever reason, my Blackberry doesn’t seem to have you’re private number in it so again, once again, I’m calling on this line…

(He always calls on my work line even after five years as he never records my personal number in his Blackberry no matter how many times I give it to him, with the explanation that I sometimes don’t check my work line and may not get his message in time if he doesn’t call me on my cell phone.)

Give me a call at the Office. It would be great to see you again, as I said. Thanks. Oh. By the way, Lisa and I are getting divorced. Bye.

(Oh my god! They were High School sweethearts, had an open marriage and two children—what is going on?)

2. Hey Hey Geisha? Know what I’m doin’ right now? Staring at your hot photos on the Internet and wackin’ my Jack. Does that make you hot baby? Huh? Does it? I got a big slab of meat for you baby. Call me back. Now. Call me back so I can cum in your ear. Call me. 917-888-8888 Oh god yeah. Call me Geisha!

3. Uh uh hi Geisha? This is Jimmy O. We met before and I’ve tried to set something up with you lately but it hasn’t worked out—uh, uh, I know this is last minute (Clears his throat several times loudly)—and I know this is very last minute and uh, I don’t know if you have something available for time early afternoon tomorrow—um, if so…that would be great. If not, um, um, we’ll have to work on something else so if tomorrow isn’t possible then don’t call me back but if it is then call me back…Jimmy O. You have my number. I think. Jimmy O.

(I called him back and set time aside to see him but he didn’t get back to me.)
(This is our third ‘go-around’ like this.)

4. HI. This is Daniel. Just wondering if you had some time tonight. Call me and let me know.

(Daniel calls almost everyday. I saw him three times over a year ago when somehow he was able to plan in advance as my schedule requires. Since then, he just calls my machine everyday for last minute appointments. I rarely call him back as I am rarely available last minute. One time I did call him back—just twenty minutes after he called. I informed him I could see him that evening and inquired as to what times he’d like to come by. He hemmed-and-hawed and finally he told me he would call me back shortly. He never did. Instead he called the next day and the next day and the next day wondering if I were free that evening. Now, no matter how slow my week is, and no matter how much I could use the booking, I do not call him back. He only enjoys playing ‘cat-and-mouse’ and I don’t care to be the mouse.)

5. This is 910-000-0000. (Gravely male voice, sounding perceptively intoxicated) I would like to talk to you. Can you understand that? Can you? Can you understand that? Can you understand me? Can you? I would like to talk to you…if possible. Uh..910-000-0000. Give me a call back Geisha. Do me that much. Or is that too much to ask? Bye.

6. (Giggly female voices near the phone in the background with barely discernable conversation):
‘Say something’. ‘You!’ ‘No you!’ (Into the receiver) ‘You whore!’ (Giggles howling triumphantly in the background. Phone slams down.)

(Well, they sure told me, didn’t they?)

7. Hellooo sweet Geisha. I’ve been following your reviews for quite some time now but I live in Atlanta and haven’t much opportunity to travel to New York. But, as luck would have it, I’m finally coming into the Big Apple on business next week and would be most delightfully honored to spend time in your company for at least two hours.

You can reach me at my office through a switchboard, as you request, at: 444-444-4444. As I said, my name is C.J. or did I say? In any case, my name is C.J. I am truly a gentleman and I believe I fit the description of the type of man you enjoy spending time with, as you state so eloquently on your website. I hope you’ll give me a call.

In terms of being discreet when you call me, as you suggest, this is my Office and I’m sure you’ll do fine in whatever you come up with to say as introduction to yourself. I look forward to hearing from you. Good bye.

8. Hiya Geisha! (An upbeat, warm female voice)

(Immediately I assume it’s another Escort with one of my Clients looking for a reference. I’m wrong.)

My name is Fay. I want to—I was—I saw your website and it’s very beautiful by the way—I was wondering if you see Couples? I actually would like to give this session to my boyfriend for his birthday. We live in Connecticut but we can come to you in the City. No problem. Uh.

We’re both very very very clean and very very well groomed and we’re both in very very very good shape and both good-looking. And I’m not just saying that. I promise. And anyway, we went onto Eros and saw your ad there but also I remember my boyfriend had see you there before and had mentioned he liked you and I remembered that so…

anyway, my last name is Ray and my first name is Fay. Yes. Like the one in King Kong. Ha! Ha! And you can call me back at 555-555-5555. Call me back either way. Just so I know. I know that my boyfriend picked you out a long time ago on Eros and so I remembered that, as I said and so, have a nice day and give me a call at your convenience.

9. Hi. This is John. You can reach me on 828-288-2888.

10. (Male voice)—FUCK YOU!!

11. What a terrific website! Fooling around on the Internet. Saw the Website. Absolutely blown away. Not what’s expected. Not the ‘norm’. Just wanted to let you know that. You are absolutely exquisite. Remind me of a young Sofia Loren. Hope that doesn’t bother you because I find her--- (Click. Phone line goes dead.)

12. Geisha. This is Noah X.

(The Conservative Rabbi who wouldn’t see me again after he found out I was Jewish. Hadn’t heard from him in years.)

Long time no speak and see. I hope you’re doing well. My number in case you no longer have it is 908-888-7777 and uh…just..uh….was gonna be in the City tomorrow and was curious if you have any availability. So…uh…you can call me and leave a message. And if not, some other time then.

13. Yes. Hello Geisha. My name is Paul P. We have a great offer for you. We have a new ad site opening up, and you can find us at www. fuck your girlfriend. com. We’re offering you one month of free advertising and after that, an unbeatable rate. Call me. I know we can help your business grow in these 'troubled times'.

14. Hey Geisha.

(A taunting, somewhat threatening female voice)

This is a blast from your past. I hear through the hooker grapevine you’re planning to move to Florida. I’ll tell you what. It better not be the East Coast. That’s all I’m gonna say. You try it on the East Coast and I’ll have you fucked up before you even move in. It’s my territory. Got it? By the way, if you don’t know who this is, you have the memory span of a gnat. Welcome to Florida. Click.

(I know who it is. A gorgeous but vindictive girl who now runs a service and, in the past, tried diligently to put me out of business. Although, I’m not afraid of her, I’m relieved I will not be on the East Coast. I suppose every business has its ‘Jerry Springer’ folks.)

15. Hi Geisha. My name is (unintelligible). I uh, I had the delightful opportunity to, you know, get to know you a bit through your Website and I have to compliment you on that. Undoubtedly one of the most highly enjoyable Websites that I’ve come across and its extremely one of the most positive presentations that I’ve ever come across. And I thank you for taking the time and energy in putting it together. It certainly does what exactly you said it. It helped me, or anybody, to get to know you better.

I’m traveling in from out of the country, soon traveling to New York City. I’m in the process of expanding my business into the US and that’s part of my reason for visiting. But my other reason is finally to get the opportunity to meet the legendary Geisha.

Again my name is (unintelligible) and you can look up my Website at: (unintelligible) or you can just call me back if you are so inclined. As I hope you will be. And as far as calling and leaving me a message, calling and leaving your name is just fine. I guess. I am looking at you right now, and if you just want to say, "This is Geisha calling", I would be glad to say I knew you because you are extremely, extremely beautiful.

And now hearing your voice—uh—a voice that encompasses all the charm and beauty and grace that has been bestowed upon you—I know it is you I want to see.
I hope you have…a…awesome weekend. And everyday turns out the be as good as you wish it to be.

16. Hang Up.

17. Hang Up.

18. Hiya Geisha. This is (unintelligible) again. I hope I’m not bothering you by calling you again. Jus thought I’d take a chance again before I…uh…settle in for the evening…and uh…selfishly, it’s just nice to hear your voice again, if even on the recorder. As I indicated, my number is: xxx-xxx-xxxx. And my name is: Gale Lea Gordan (Finally Intelligible!) Strange name for a fellow, I know. But that’s what my mother gifted me. I hope you’ll call, as I can’t wait to see you in New York. In person. And hear that luscious voice in my ears. Up close. I hope you have an awesome weekend.

19. (Male voice in what sounds like Arabic. Phonetically--) Ruuf-ka Soo-ka!—FUCK YOU!

Although each week has it’s same callers and many different ones, as I listen back to the calls from this past week and the ones prior, they all seem oddly the same in so many ways.

Now that you’ve read two separate weeks, do you think so as well?

The Theory of 'Blonde'

2005-05-11T00:52:00.000-04:00

Heesham-Hoosham Salon and the Theory of ''Blonde'.
Relax into it.
Why not?

I think I know how it happened.
Again.
Or at least, I am clear about the conditions that existed that allowed it to occur.
Again.
What I am still confused about is the conversation that followed it after it happened.

Again I am in the Hair Salon Chair of Hoosham (as I am everyday),
And again he asks in that little-boy-begging-Mommy-for-a-candy-way,
to sneak a long feel of my,
Boobies.

"No." I say.

Of course.

But I belie my firmness by actually saying:

"Na-giggle-ooo—giggle-giggle".

Don’t get down on me.
I explained this to you before.
A Courtesan is severly disadvantaged without a good hairdresser.

"Plaaa—leee-zzze!" he whispers.
"Na-ooo! Giggle giggle."

I am a wet rat plastered with dye.

(Now that I am a Blonde, my red roots are beginning to show and I must resort to color.)

Goopy hair limbs spring from the top of my scalp.
Strands stick out in all directions in a form of hair anarchy.
And as ugly as I am looking right now, he still wants to have a sexual moment with my breasts?
Ladies, why do we even try?
From my chin to my thighs, I am completely covered by a shiny black rubber looking cape that would only be appropriate in a hair salon or considered attractive if I were a Dominatrix about to embark on a session of ‘Golden Showers’.

"Na-ooo. Giggle giggle. And that’s final. Giggle giggle." I say. Unfirmly as unfirmly can be. "I just want to read my book and have some 'alone time'."

"Let me just give you a massage?"

He rubs an oily hair product on his palms.
Before I can giggle a protest, his thumbs are soothing my shoulder blades.
His touch creates a sigh that relaxes my entire body.
My eyes close.
There are others in the Salon.
I make no sound but allow the warmth and expertise of his hands to penetrate the stress in my back.

Delicious.
Utterly, completely delicious.
Muscles exhale.
Bones disintegrate.
I hear myself sigh.
I hear myself tell him he has sensuous hands; a remarkable touch.
And I need it.
I need it so much.
No one touches me like this.
This is how I touch others.
Or how I imagine others feel me when I touch them.
Or how I hope I affect when my hands roam the terrain of the bodies I soothe all-day and evening.
My body, so used to giving pleasure in such a physically demanding job rarely receives such tenderness that need not be returned.
This is why I allow it.
Again.

The hand that I am following with my inner being, is on my neck, tracing circles.
My concentration is such that I lose track of the other hand.
It surfaces on my right breast.
Cupping it from underneath it’s low slung slope, gently coaxing the nipple, I am lost in sensation.

This is crazy.

Opening one eye, in the mirror I see his hand is undetectable under the cloak.
No one else in the Salon is watching us or able to notice the pornographic activity just a few feet away.
Hoosham’s eyes are closed as well.
The top of his pants are growing a mighty tent.
My one eye closes again.
Hands find both breasts. Both nipples.
In the same fashion I treat my Clients, when I tell them, ‘No, don’t move. Let me do everything."
Torture, yes. But the lack of responsibility—the idea of not having to respond in any way is scrumptious, allowing for complete relaxation and total absorption of feeling.
I cannot speak.
I cannot sigh.
I cannot move.

Within minutes, my nipples are sending signals to my lower half.
Wetness drips into my panties.
I yield to the sensation.
I want to f*ck him.
I want to f*ck him so bad, I start rationalizing excuses as to why this would be okay.

Why not?

We could do it in the basement—me up against a wall, fully clothed, sliding his cock inside me-
We could do it before business hours, before my morning blow dry—or just after before his clients arrive—
We could do it after work with me in the chair leaning my head back to take his cock in my mouth as his hands roam the mountains and valleys of my torso---
Fantasies take root and blossom as he massages my nipples to hardness.

But he’s married.
He’s married, and I KNOW his wife.
I LIKE his wife.
She would be DEVASTATED.

This is not ‘Work’.
This is Play.
This is an obvious deception in which I would play an active role.

When I ‘Work’, they find me.
They come to me.
I know nothing of their lives beyond the theatrical walls of safety and pleasure I create for them.
I know only after, and only if they tell me.
It is their choice, and between themselves and their relationships at Home.

But this?
This would be my choice.
My choice too.

Hoosham leans to my ear and whispers,
"I want to be inside you so bad right now."

I giggle.
But I don’t open my eyes.
And I don’t move away from his hands.
Instead, I figure, "Why not?"
'Relax into it'.

Hedonistic enjoyment.

People are walking by on the sidewalk outside.
Some are looking into the ceiling-to-floor-front window of the Salon.
Can they see?
Who cares?
Why not enjoy it?
It’s bizarre.
It’s naughty.
And it feels so yummy.
So tantalizing.
And ultimately, so sweet to have a loving touch stroking my body not requiring an active response.

So then I think, ‘So what if I get felt up by my hairdresser every now and then?’

I am unable to stop myself from enjoying the carnal, voluptuous indulgence of this moment.
But I want to stop.
I should stop.
We must stop.
I open my eyes and say, "Perhaps I should let my red hair grow in again."

Slowly, imperceptively, so as not to attract attention, he slides his hands out from beneath my bra and back on to the tops of my shoulders, still pressing his thumbs in delectable circles and says,
"I like you as a Blonde. You just have a RedHead personality. That’s why you feel that way."

"Of course I have a Red-Head personality. I am a Red-Head."

"Its better this way. Blonde." He says, still stroking my back.

"How? How is it better? What do you mean?"

"When a man meets you as a Blonde, he immediately thinks Blonde."

"And?"

"And so he thinks he can get away with stuff. But then, wham!"

"Wham?"

"Before he knows it—he’s got You—and he can’t give you any shit cause you’re You."

"Because I’m really a Red-Head—"

"Right. Camouflaged. Bam. He’s broadsided by the Enemy."

"I’m ‘the Enemy'?"

"Not the ‘Enemy’, but you know what I mean—"

"You mean, he’s expecting a ‘Dumb Blonde’ and instead he gets the opposite."

"He can’t take advantage of you like a guy thinks he can with a Blonde—"

"Guys think they can take advantage of Blondes?"

"It’s a fact. But because you’re a Blonde but under camouflage, he’s hit from the behind. Unsuspecting."

"I see. But because I’m really a Red-Head?"

Bing bing bing bing bing bing bing bing—

The timer goes off.
Time to get washed.

Huh.
Okay.
A bit flummoxed.
Aren’t I now a Blonde?

Hoosham, of all Men, is quite clear that I am a Redhead.
And yet, weren’t his hands just rubbing my breasts?
Even under (albeit ‘giggly’) but Protest none-the-less?

I’m confused by his Theory. To say the least.

After the wash, I return to his chair.
"Okay", I say, "I’m ready for you to ‘blow-me’ now." Giggle giggle.

"Don’t say that. Don’t say it that way." He answers.

"I’m teasing you."

"I love when you tease me. But no lie. I want you to blow me so bad---"

"Hoosham—"

"Anything you want. Anything you want."

"Forget it. Stop thinking about it right this instance."

"You don’t Love me."

"I do love you. Don’t bring love into this. Do you love me?"

"I’ve known you since the Salon opened. You're my first client. You're my best client."

"I know. But--Do you love me?"

"I love you."

"So give me free blow-drys."

Gives me a skewed-up face.

"Hoosham. I don’t mean it. I'm giving you heck. I'm making a point. Here's the thing: Just because I’ve been with you from the beginning and just because you love me doesn’t mean you should give me free blow-drys."

"I would pay you."

"You couldn’t afford me." Giggle giggle.

(How annoying am I?!)

"What would it cost?"

"A year’s worth of Blow-Dry’s."

"C’mon."

"I’m serious."

"Your Clients are so lucky. How about three hundred? Dollars."

"Three hundred would get you about 20 minutes."

"That’s all I need. I won’t take long. I promise."

I wonder how he knows, in all reality, what I do for a living. We’ve never discussed it in all the years I’ve known him. Do I just seem like the type that it’s okay to make such an offer too?

I know I tease and flirt and play with words and so on; and I know I’m now Blonde and therefore suddenly, since I’ve become Blonde, it seems okay to feel my boobies every time I come into the Salon, but this is what confuses me: He knows I’m not actually Blonde.

And, even though we've known each other all these years, he has no idea what I do for a living.

And yet—and yet, he feels free to play this 'cat and mouse' with me.

Now I am absolutely, without-a-doubt positive, there is a HUGE, invisible to my home mirror, Hologram on my head that says, "Escort"

(And due to my 'Housing Situation with the Builders', there must be another sign that says, "No Vacancy—All Holes Filled.")

Sigh.

"Na—ooo! Giggle giggle. Give it up Hoosham!"

"Please! I want mooooore."

"God. You’re just like a little boy. Or a puppy."

"I don’t care. I’ll be little boy or a puppy. Just say ‘yes’. You promised me something for my Birthday--"

"Hoosham. You are a Premium Hairdresser. A Premium Hair Artist. And a Premium Man."

(When at a loss, go for the Ego. But be truthful. We all know what we excel at and what we don’t. False flattery is not welcome. And he is, by all accounts I mentioned—quite ‘Premium’.)

He smiles.
"Premium? Premium? I like that word."

"Hoosham, my Premium Warrior against Hair Anarchy?"

"Umm?"

"Just blow me."

And he does.

Of course, tomorrow is another day.

Under my arm is tucked, "Prince Machavelli" (His Principles of War and Relations).

And in my purse, a yellow neon high-lighter marker to take notes.

I have a feeling I may need it.

Wanted: More Holes or Bigger Dicks

2005-05-10T22:46:00.000-04:00

My Friend: (mid-conversation) How’s 'the house' coming along?

Me: Let’s talk about something else. What else is going on with your life?

MF: I told you everything. What’s up with 'the house'?

Me: Don’t ask. Really. I don’t want to talk about it.

MF: When’re ya moving?

Me: (raising my shoulders in a ‘who knows’ gesture)

MF: Shouldn’t it be ready by now?

Me: (another ‘I don’t know’ gesture)

MF: What are you going to do?

Me: I don’t want to talk about it.

MF: What did they say?

Me: Did you know that Skeet are not actually live creatures?

MF: They didn’t even give you a date to move in?

Me: I thought Skeet were a kinda bird—

MF: Have you even talked to them?

Me: But then I asked my 'Masterbirder Client' and he informed me that Skeet, were actually Clay.

MF: Are you following up on all this? Is there someone there to keep an eye on things?

Me: And not even Clay shaped like Birds. Just Clay.

MF: If it’s not finished, where are you going to go?

Me: This was horrifyingly embarrassing because I said to my other Client, who is the ‘Skeet shooter’, when he came back from his Skeet shoot, ‘What did those poor Skeet ever do to you?’

MF: I want to talk about this. Now I’m getting concerned for you.

Me: You should have seen the look he gave me—the Skeet Shooter--

MF: I know you’re trying to change the subject--

Me: Obviously! There’s nothing I can do. Anyway, the Skeet thing was a big faux pas.

MF: What does your contract with the Builder say?

Me: They have two years. The point is, I haven’t made a faux pas like that, in years. The last time I made a faux pas like that was when I was the youngest one in a touring theatre company and we were on the road in bum-f*ck towns in a bus and truck Shakespeare tour for 365 days and our last stop was D.C. So you can imagine, everyone was pretty well done with each other—

MF: Basically, they’re not giving you any answers?

Me: So here we are, all sick up to here with each other, and together we’re all walking to The Kennedy Center for our last show. And we’re walking up this hill and on the way we pass this apartment complex—

MF: I can’t believe they’re leaving you out to dry like this.

Me: And on the outside of the apartment complex is a sign that proclaims: "Watergate Towers"—or something like that—

MF: Why don’t you want to talk about it?

Me: I just don’t. So I see the sign, and everyone in my company is older than me and pretty sick of my giggly young-ness, but I don’t know, and I see the sign and I say, "Oh my god! You guys! Look! They named an apartment building after that Scandal!"

MF: You didn’t?!

Me: I didn’t know! It was my biggest faux pas until the Skeet incident.

MF: Tell me about the house.

Me: Let it go. Really. I can’t talk about it.

MF: Just tell me one thing—

Me: What?

MF: Have you at least talked to the Builder and told them your situation?

Me: This is how it is: The Builder is in cahoots with the Devil.

MF: (gives me a ‘oh c’mon’ look)

Me: Not to be too Dramatic, but, in all reality, he’s lost his Soul to the guy with the red suit and a pitchfork. My house, my finances, my family is entangled in his mercenary lair. Not to be too totally Dramatic, but frankly, if I had another hole, they’d be in it. Really. They’re screwing me in every hole I have and they’re still searching for more. More holes Please! Really. And not to be too utterly ridiculously Dramatic, but either more holes or a bigger dicks with which to screw me. Luckily, as luck would have it, phew! I’m out of holes! As far as I know. Who knows, maybe in their search, they’ll alert me to a few I didn’t know existed! That could be a good thing, a really good thing, considering the line of work I’m in. But basically, as it stands, they’re screwing me in every hole I have. So, not to run too far out on a Dramatic limb, but even if they find more holes I didn’t even know I had, or bigger dicks with which to F*ck me, either way, I can do nothing about it. So basically, I’m not thinking about it. I’m just zen-ing into the vice-grip sandwich in which they are squeezing me, blissfully pretending it’s a cuddle. Not-to-be-too-Dramatic-or- anything-thank-you-for-asking!

MF: So what you’re saying is, you don’t want to talk about it.

Me: That’s what I’m saying.

MF: Cool. No problem.

The Wisdom of Elephants

2005-05-07T01:53:00.000-04:00

My Client reads me an excerpt from a Travel Writer named Theroux’s book on Africa.
One sentence in the book reads, (and I am paraphrasing),
‘The children scramble about gleefully playing while the women double-bent over with children ties to their backs an bodies perform labor in the fields puling and plucking for strenuous hours as the men sit on the side getting high on the local beer, discussing…"
"What’s your take on this?" he asks.

"What’s yours?" I shoot back.

"I was just wondering if you knew a reason why this is so—why women allow it?"

"Interesting question. What is going on there is going on everywhere. Women make up most of the work force and work 80% more hours and jobs than men but make considerably less money for their labor—inmost positions all over the world. This is a fact. There are rare cases that come as an exception. For instance my job. But even in my job, I make more than most women but considerably less than most men. If I make say, $250,000 per year on my knees and on my back in active labor, although that’s quite a salary for a female, minus $50,000 a year for taxes and more for expenses, I am still making much less than most men."

"But that doesn’t answer the question. Why do women allow it?"

"Two reasons come to mind and of course I am not a Cultural Anthropologist, but here’s my limited take on the matter: Men are physically stronger than women are. In order for a woman to obtain a place of power and independence, she must have two things—one is, and forgive my language, but one is, ‘fuck-you’ money. That gives her the ability to choose rather than be ruled and toil as requested—no matter what form the ‘toiling’ comes in. And second, she must live in a Society that reveres and understands the power that women innately possess. We haven’t lived in those times since before Judeo-Christian times."

"When was that?"

"You know!"

"I don’t."

"Okay. Well, there was a time where women’s body and their innate intuitive abilities and sensual abilities were revered. If men honored the power of women, and worshiped God in the form of Goddesses, they benefited."

"How?"

"For instance, Goddesses were mirrors of what the Universe performed. They cycle monthly. They produce children. They nurture all things and people. They have innate intuition. They have a spiritual wisdom. The Goddesses of these Pagan Religions were worshiped by men and women alike and both sexes benefited."

"How?"

"Because. Because when women follow their nature, they seduce. Their femininity is powerful, mysterious and ultimately, delightfully drowning. Men desire this. Men love to spar with other men. But not with women. With women, they ache to be seduced. A woman’s power comes from her abilities to seduce, entice, nurture and direct. A man’s power comes from his strength. He has no monthly cycles—no weak periods during the month, no times of distress caused by natural hormonal cycles. Women want men to understand their innate power to love and seduce and nurture and want to be treated with respect and delicacy in regard to this nature they possess. They want men to understand and protect them for these qualities. And why not? A man possesses the need and ability and desire to protect. At one time, this was so—and dare I put forth—probably both sexes were quite content in the arrangement."

"Have you ever thought of being a Philosopher?"

"God no."

"Or a therapist?"

"My therapist suggested it when I was hankering for a career change but ultimately, I don’t want to change anyone. I like people as damaged as they are. I like them that way. I don’t want to change them. What fun would Life be then?"

"You should have been born ten thousand years ago."

"I think I was. I do. Do you know, that way back when, when the Pagan Religions ruled and Women were the Goddesses worshiped, it was a great honor for a woman to be a Holy Prostitute?"

"I hate the word ‘Prostitute."

"You hate it in today’s standards. But back then, it was not only an honorable position, but akin to having a child go into the Priesthood. Really. Parents who thought they had a daughter that was extraordinary, would take her to the Temple of Love and apply, like we do today with our kids to private nursery schools, and apply for entrance."

"Like the Junior League that oversee school admissions in New York?"

"Exactly. Very difficult to get in. Only a few girls a year are accepted. But once they are and are deemed talented enough, they are trained to become Holy Goddesses of Love. It was thought that Love and Sex was the Human Conduit to God and these girls cum Women where trained to take Souls to that place of Divine Ecstasy. It was a very honored position."

"And they were worshipped?"

"Not like Deity’s. But as Goddesses of a Sacred Art Form. Who wouldn’t want to be wholly taken over and transported out of their Human State into an ethereal communion with God?"

"Can we do that tonight?"

"Come into my lair, my love, and let’s see how close to God we can journey."

Later:
"It’s sad." he says.

"You’re sad? Did I make you sad?"

"It’s sad that women can’t seem to regain their place in—"

"It’s sad yes. But women banded together then. Like Elephants. You know how Elephants are, don’t you? You’ve been on Safari."

"I’ve been on Safari but I’m unclear on what you mean."

"Elephants stay together. The females roam in groups—all females and babies. When the males get to puberty and it becomes a world for them including mostly the desire of their Dicks, the Female group sends the Male Elephant out on his own to roam, only to invited back when he is in Dick dragging on the ground, Green Moss growing on his organs, howling, laying on the ground moaning passion. And even then, no matter his ache, no matter his pain, he will not rape. The women have banded together like an animal mass of Lysatrada and they tell him when and with whom.""

"Yikes."

"Human Female women have not figured this out."

"Why not?"

"Are you that naive? We are ruled by a Patriarchy for Centuries. Our Mothers, our Grandmothers, no one has told us any different. I am independent. I will not marry. I enjoy being Independent even if I have to struggle because I refuse to give up my finances and my Independence to eventually be ruled by either a beneficent or fascist ruler. If I give up my financial power, I lose my freedom and essentially my ability to keep you a man, and hold on to the power that is my femininity which in the end, does give you your manhood—although most men would think otherwise."

"Elephants huh?"

"Women can learn from Elephants. I think they got the concept down."

2005-05-07T01:46:00.000-04:00

A Client tells me he visited St. Peter’s Church in Rome.

"Did you know, he says, that at the threshold of the Cathedral, there are markings on the floor that measure the length of the knaves of the most famous Churches in the World?"

"What does that mean?"

"On the floor, they state that St. Peter’s in Rome has the longest knave of all the Cathedrals in the World."

"And a ‘knave’ is?" (Sorry but I’m not Catholic.)

"The Church is shaped like a Cross…the knave is the long part of the cross."

"Like the aisle leading to the front podium?"

"Um Hmm. And then, also on the floor are the measurements of the many other famous Cathedrals such as St. Patrick’s in New York, etc."

"Why? Why did they do that?"

"I don’t know. But I found it interesting. I like to tell you things I find curious—and interesting."

"So in other words, even though these are Priests, they are still concerned about the who has the longest—"

"Knave."

"A.k.a. Penis."

"Um hmmm. A.k.a. Penis."

Sigh. Men.

Even Priests do it?

My goodness.

The Subway Today

2005-05-07T01:42:00.000-04:00

The Subway Today:

3 p.m. All the kids getting out of school.
The subway platform is jammed with screaming, unbalanced, unsettled, overly-loud teenagers.
I board a car with the desperate urge to sit.
Not only am I tired from lack of sleep, but also I want to be out of the way of the loose-cannon kids.
A man, mid-thirties, light-skinned Black, is sitting, legs spread on a seat by the end pole.
A second man, mid-thirties, Indonesian or Indian, with long straight black hair to his shoulders, sits a seat away.
Both hold the Business section of the New York Times in their fists.
Between their massive shoulders and spread, tree-trunk thighs, is a tiny space that is called an empty seat.
I am tiny.
I weigh 100 lbs.
I fit.
But not completely.
I am not made-up. I am wearing Cargo pants, hair awry, glasses and no make-up.
This is Public Transportation.
I have a right to the seat.
I excuse myself and squish myself in between.
Neither moves a leg inward to make room for me.
Neither moves an arm to give me space.
Neither moves a shoulder forward or back to make us all more comfortable.

The train moves and with the movement comes the shifting side-to-side of bodies, just enough for me to settle to my back to the back of the seat making me the Oreo Cream in this sandwich.
I am silently outraged.
My thoughts smash to the extremes.
What if I was pregnant?
No. I don’t look pregnant, but I could be. Women up to four or five months don’t necessarily show.
What if I was in the throws of a bad Period, dying of cramps and hemorrhaging out of my Tampon onto a Napkin I have discreetly tucked into my panties?
Men go through none of these things.
Is it so much to ask to move a thigh in and inch?
To move a shoulder over a few centimeters?
I know why they don’t.
Power.
Power.
‘I don’t have to move.’
But why that choice?
Why, if you are faced with a simple choice, as we all are day-to-day, moment-by-moment, why choose Power instead of Kindness?
This, at first, is what’s torturing my mind, as I am a squashed piece of lunchmeat in this man sandwich.
Do they think, when they are on their deathbeds, and they look back at their lives, they will say,
‘I did good in the World. I let no one take advantage of me. I kept my Power.’
???
Rather, I tend to think, when we are in our deathbeds (not to be too morbid but come on!) we are vulnerable finally and we’ll look back and think, ‘Was I a kind person? Did I do my best to be the best I could be to others? Even when I was tired? Even when I needed, wanted, to sit—even when I was needing to be Lazy, even then, did I do and was I more than I thought I could be?"
And then it happened.
The bizarre thing that always happens to me.
The thing that seems to be a built-in part of my temperament.
You know those ‘hour-glasses’ made of two spheres filled with sand? When you tip it over, the sand runs down counting the time passing?
That’s what happens to me.
Suddenly, the ‘hour-glass’ is turned over and I begin to feel the situation upside-down.
I look at my legs—tiny and sweet.
I look at their legs—strong, masculine, and firm.
I feel their shoulders immobile against mine.
Ummm.
And Ymmm.
I am held tightly between these two incredibly strong bodies.
Fantasizes blossom.
I imagine the man to the left of me, naked.
I imagine the man to the right of me, naked.
I feel the push of their thighs against mine.
I feel the push of their shoulders and biceps against mine.
I picture the three of us naked, making love.
Thunderous Thighs.
Bulging Arms.
Thick necks.
Masculine desire and stupid stubbornness.
Eegah.
And oh god.
My body relaxes into the squeeze they have stubbornly put me into based on their own stubborn sense of needing to win.
The next stop is a harsh one throwing us all to the left.
I have my iPod in my ears and have closed my eyes listening to the music with my ears and feeling the tingle of my present fantasy.
My head, by the force of the stop, falls on the shoulder of the man to my left.
In a split second decision, I decide to leave it there.
Like a girlfriend taking a catnap on her boyfriend’s shoulder.
What can he do? What can he say?
He’s the one who hasn’t budged.
He’s the one who has forced another person into an intimate physical position with a stranger by his refusal to give any space.
I feel him looking at me.
I feel him shrug his shoulder as if to shirk me off.
But I don’t move.
I am happy.
I have a plan.
I have relaxed into the situation.
Okay.
Okay.
They refuse to give a woman space to sit.
They force her to diminish herself and be ashamed to request a place of comfort on a long train ride.
After all, I have a right to the seat.
And if they choose to be body-to-body with me without giving an inch,
Then I choose to enjoy it.
And take advantage of the intimacy they seemingly unknowingly, but stubbornly forced upon me.
I leave my head on the shoulder of the man to my right.
Through his skin, his energy, I can feel his confusion.
I am happy even more.
I like it this way.
He started it.
And now I am going to finish it.
My stop is upcoming.
I stand, wiggling out from in between the young, rude, New York Times Business Boys.
As I move forward to exit the train, I lean forward enough (as I do when I am with Clients) for them to see not only the outline of my ass, but the part of my tiny waist left nude as my shirt rides high with the position I’m in.
I exit the train but instead of heading directly to the exit, I turn to watch through the windows.
There I see both men, eyes wide, starring out at me, then back at each other, then back at me.
Before the train speeds away, I look at them both through the Plexi-glass, firing them a wicked, knowing smile.
I know.
I know,
They will be plagued, at least for the rest of the day, with wicked, un-resolvable fantasies.
Revenge. But unharmful and utterly delicious.

Asshole Factor # 3?

2005-05-05T03:15:00.000-04:00

I don’t know. Maybe it’s me.
Maybe it’s the way I’ve been trained to view things based on the Profession I’ve been involved in for the last 16 years.
I’ll just tell you what happened and how I see it and then you can tell me if there’s another way to look at it besides "Asshole Factor #3."

Most of us have been through it—Contractors, Builders, Painters, Electricians, etc.
I hardly need say more but mention their titles and most people groan before another word is uttered.

What is a Home?
A Home is a place of refuge. A place where Private Lives occur.
A place of sacred privacy.
A place of security.
A place where Love can flourish or Die.
A Home houses Bodies and therefore,
Spirits.
Souls.

What is a Body?
A Body is a Home that houses the Spirit.
A conduit through which Life is experienced in all it’s Joy and Pain.
A Body can offer comfort, can offer learning through Emotion, can offer Ecstasy, and finally, can offer a bridge to an Other Worldliness—or God, reached by a communion of two bodies connecting through Touch and Sex.

That being said, here’s why I am extremely pissed off.

It became clear to me about a year ago, due to circumstances in my life that I have not yet exposed to this Blog; I could no longer afford to live in New York City.
For various reasons, I needed to find a place that was ultimately less costly.

Preferring to eventually habitate in Europe or the Caribbean,
I delved into the practical possibilities of building a life somewhere out there.

Europe was out because I do not and am unable to obtain a Visa that would allow me to live and work there.
Marriage would be the only option.
Unfortunately, this choice is much more difficult to pull off in the EU than it is in America.

The Caribbean was even tougher in that I would need to have enough money to own a Home outright and still keep employment in the States.
Most Caribbean Countries prefer Locals to work or, if say, the Island is a French Colony, one must still have a French or EU Passport.
Once again, requiring marriage.

Amazing how everyone can come and work here, in America, but we are not allowed there.
Hmmm?

Okay.
A Journey throughout the US ensues.

First Choice: San Diego.
For a two bedroom, one bath, ranch-home with a small backyard, approximately 1500 square feet?
Almost a million dollars.
Out of my budget and not what I see for myself.

Second Choice: L.A.
(I like California because of the weather of course, but also because I have friends there)
Same issue. Same size home. Nothing fancy.
Around a million or so.

I visit Portland, Oregon.
Amazing City.
So much to do.
So many nice people and quite Cosmopolitan.
But I long for warmer weather all year long.

(I am cold even in the Caribbean! You know how women are. When I was living with Philip G., he would push the entire side of his comforter on top of me so I was buried so deep it was impossible to see even my body outline. And still I was shivering. While he lay naked, blanket-less and panting like a dog in heat next to me on the mattress.)

Southward, I go.
Savannah Georgia.
Sexy, dangerously strange, and romantically Southern with a built-in Artist community.
Two things:
One: I could see myself getting bored there after a while.
And Two: In the winter, the temperature drops below 30 degrees.

Long Excursion with Real Estate Agents covering the entire ‘right side’ of Florida—the East Coast.
Too many ‘Alter-Kochers’.
And something unspoken that makes me cry each night in my room after a long day of house hunting.
Too much ‘Bling-Bling’ without the substance to back it up.
Lots of Bravado and too many rude New York accents.

Finally, it comes to mind that a friend of mine from long ago at the RFDS had moved to the West Coast of Florida and has become a successful Real Estate Agent.
Mentioned to a Real Estate Agent on the East Coast, before I make any decisions, I would like check out the West Coast of Florida.
Her response: "That City is for the Newly Wed or the Newly Dead. You’ll HATE it."

Never the less, my friend and his wife, both my age, are there.

Although I quickly discern it an Ultra-Right Wing, Conservative Republican, Christian-tell-everyone-else-how-they-are-supposed-to-live, they do have strict Zoning Laws which makes this tiny town rather stunning and almost European-esc: Outdoor Cafes, Quality Restaurants, Sexy Bars, Well-Funded Theatres, Pedestrian Walking Districts…

Within moments of landing, I know I can never advertise my business or work my Profession there.
(They would burn me on a cross on my front lawn.)
But I instinctively feel I can find away around this issue if I need to.
IF,
I find, ‘A Home’.

My desire is to be near the center of Town.
And I want to be on the Beach. If Possible.
Everyone does.
And that’s why it’s impossible for me.
Homes in town or on the beach—or even NEAR the beach start in the millions.
Alas, I am relegated to sub-divisions.

The sub-divisions created by Developers that domino one after another off the main highway.

"Not for me’ I insist to my friend cum broker.

He maintains that he understands me, knows me since better-not-say-how-long and has the perfect Home I will fall dead over.
Together, we pull into a suburban community.

"Oh my god no! No! No! No! Every house is Beige! No!"

"There’re not all beige. Look. This one is Taupe. This one is off-Brown."

"Are you kidding me? I would shoot myself with a rifle in the temple if I even contemplated living here."

"Trust me."

"You don’t know me anymore."

"I know you so well. I saw you naked both physically and emotionally everyday at RFDS.’

"I can’t live in Beige!"

"What do you want?"

"Europe. The Caribbean. Anything BUT Beige!—Oh god. Why are we pulling in here? This is a Ranch House. I definitely DON’T want a Ranch House. I want two levels at least. I mean if it’s got to be Beige at least give me two floors!"

"Trust me. You’re gonna love this house."

Heavy Sigh.
"Saul. It’s a Beige Ranch House. We shouldn’t waste your time or my time—"

"Let’s just see it. It’s just a model. C’mon."

I follow, exhausted, wanting to cry.
Will I ever find a place to live in this entire United States?

From the front, it looks like a typical Ranch-Style Home.
Beige, as I mentioned a hundred thousand times.

We open the front door.
Instead of walking into the expected boring foyer, the doors open to a breath-taking Hacienda patio.
A pool with fountains run and tinkle with the sensuous sounds of water kissing.
Bougainvillea drip from Pergolas.
Statues lounge around an outdoor grill and dining table.

"Where is the house?"
"Here."
"Where?"
"All around it. Surrounding the outdoor area."

Indeed.
The Home wraps around the outdoor area like a Home in Sao Paolo.
Like a Home in Ipaneema.
All glass walls face the outside pool and patio.
Speechless, I follow him through the interior.
4000 square feet.
4000 square feet of a Home? A Single-Family Home?
Oh my God!
I’ve been a City-Dweller most of my life.
My apartment that I pay many thousands of dollars a month for is 1600 square feet
(Which is HUGE for New York.)
Never imagined so much space could be mine.
With a pool, a fountain and a Hacienda too?

"How much? Please tell me ‘how much’.
"Let’s go to the Sales Office."

Philip, the Sales Rep., talks a fast, enticing rap.

(Yes, another Philip. Do you get the feeling I have a strange Karmic bond with ‘Philip’s’ by this point?)

The Home costs only $655,000.
That is a lot for some, but so so much less than anything in New York.
(Besides, perhaps, a Studio apartment.)
"Where do I sign?"
And I do.

The Bank Loan comes easily as I always pay my debts and claim all my money and pay my taxes.
(Even though I am ‘illegal’.)
And now comes the part in which, if you have been following this Blog, you know that my Client who mentioned my ‘Achilles Heel’—
(That I don’t take into account the ‘Asshole Factor’)
is proven correct.
I want my Home to be Special.
I want it designed as if it will be the last Home I will ever inhabit.
Because it may be.
I have no idea how long I will be able to keep up my business.
I am getting older.
It is a short-lived business.
Add to that, complications in my personal life I have not yet revealed in this Blog.
It may, indeed, be my last Home.
I may end up living a dying here.
I want it to be what I want.
I want it to be Europe.
I want it to be the Caribbean.
Of course I know its going to be a Compromise.
I’m a Fool.
But not completely.

Since I desire so many elements that the Builder (Royal Palm Builders) does not offer, my RFDS Friend and Broker recommends a General Contractor/Decorator that will help me build almost exactly what I am fantasizing.

She and I meet and swiftly do not get along.
She is a Leo.
I am a Scorpio.
Need I say more?
Okay I will:
She is a Bulldog. A Pit-bull.
I am a Cocker Spaniel in comparison.
But, on the recommendation of my friend, combine with the fact that I know no other person nor way to accomplish my dreams, I hire her at a fee of 35 percent of all she buys and does.
I am in New York.
I know a Pit-Bull will get the job done.
I know before I even begin, I am going to be sucked dry.
I don’t know what else to do.
I pray she is not as mercenary and ostentatious as she appears.
I pray she has a heart.
Prayers are not really a good way to do business.
But I pray anyway.
My ‘Achilles Heel’ Client says he worries about me.
Especially in this venture.
I say I love him for caring.
But know no other way.

Royal Palm Builders, it turns out, are not too pleased with my decision to go with an outside source.
Seems they make quite a bit of cash on what they call ‘upgrades.’
Yes indeed, the Home itself is only $655,000. But do I want a floor?
Because a floor is considered an ‘upgrade’.
Of course I could have the standard floor, but yuck.
Most anyone would have a floor that’s not linoleum.
If they could.
Do I want Cabinets?
What do you mean Cabinets?
Wouldn’t a $655,000 house come with Cabinets in the bathrooms, the kitchen and etc.?
Yes and no.
Pine or Pressboard? Or do you want something more?
Well…something more appealing would be nice.
That’s an ‘upgrade.’
EVERYTHING is an UPGRADE.
In other words, $655,000 is just for the Frame.
Everything else is extra.
What the house comes with is basically what a mobile home would come with.
So they are pissed.
Royal Palm Builders are pissed at me.
Pissed at me because they are making no money off ‘upgrades’, since I have contracted all the ‘upgrades’ out, and ‘upgrades’ seem to be where, perhaps, they make their ‘real dough’.
A War, I haven’t yet discovered I am engaged in, ensues.

They promise me C&O by April.
Once we get C&O, my other Contractor (the Pit-Bull and her gang of Hounds) can come in and finish the Home according to my specifications within three months.
Their only job (Royal Palm Builders) is to provide me with a base of a Home worthy of C&O.
Basic walls, unfinished.
No doors.
Tubs, for sinks.
Cement for floors.
You get the idea.
Not much to do.
Based on Royal Palm’s estimation of April, I set a closing date for the sale of my New York apartment at June 30th, thinking, of course, by then, all will be completed.

HA HA!
I know you are laughing in my face right now.
You are and you’re right.
I am so so stupid.
I am so so gullible.
I am so so foolish.
I have too much faith in the word of others.
Why do I do this?
Because.
I do this because of me.
I do this because of my business.
Okay. I know. To the Outside World, I am just a Prostitute.
I’m aware of this perception.
But when I am with people, okay, yes, perhaps I am a Prostitute, but I am keenly aware that when someone hires me for several hours, I am placed in the august position of being in charge of, taking care of, and nurturing, their Home—their body.
The Home that houses their Spirit.
It is a position of honor and not to be taken for granted.
When someone hires me, as an Independent Contractor—just as I’ve hired these Builders or this Contractor—they have handed me what is most precious to them.
How can this not be comprehended?
I charge a fee, yes.
But I charge a fee and have developed my artistic sense to a level in which the fee is justifiable because I know I can benefit their ‘house’ and elevate their Spirit within that House.
Maybe even together, we can drift beyond the walls to God…who knows?
Time and Energy and Love can be rewarded by Barter, by Money.
Through practice, through study, through devotion, through Time, Energy, and Love, I make a living.
Is it not the same for these people who have the remarkable task of building a Home for families?
I am confused.

What happens next is this:
Royal Palm Builders, by obligation, graciously gives me rebates on all the ‘upgrades’ I do not take through them.
They allow me $19,000 for flooring.
In reality, flooring for a 4000 square foot home is in the range of 30-90 thousand dollars.
Thanks for the pennies.
They credit me back a few hundred for cabinets.
In reality, Cabinets for a 4000 square foot home is close to $40,000.
All this with my Independent Contractor/Broker, using her own people, takes a 35% cut off the top.
As you guessed, saving me NOTHING.
And so it goes.
On and on and on.
Now, a 655,000 dollar home is costing almost a million and ugh!
If this were going to be the case, I could have been in LA or San Diego.

Back in New York, the closing of my apartment is drawing near.
Of course I realize that we haven’t even gotten CO yet on Florida and therefore, there is no where to move to when forced out of my home here at closing.

In desperation, I contact my Lawyer and ask him to explain the situation to the Buyers.
I offer to pay any rentals they have, as well as storage fees, if they will just allow me to remain in my apartment until Florida is ready.
I offer because I need to.
And I offer to be nice.
Because frankly, by Law, I am able to post-pone but I don’t want to surprise them with any hardship.
I would rather give them warning and perhaps, together, we can find an equitable compromise.
No go.
They will not hear of it.
I can still delay but I hate the idea of causing them inconvenience and pain just because I am inconvenienced and in pain.

In the midst of all this, the Pit-Bull contacts me.
She needs $200,000 dollars to give to her subcontractors so they can order supplies so that the supplies will be ready when they say ‘go’.
She also wants her fees up front, as she usually doesn’t wait to take them until after the job.
I am a businessperson.
I understand.
But I don’t.

She knows we don’t have CO on the house.
She knows I close on my apartment in NYC on June 30th and she can have all the money then.
She also knows my household situation.
She picks me up in one of her three elaborate vehicles wearing a sapphire and diamond ring the size of a 50-cent piece.
Her sunglasses are Dior and framed all the way around the lenses in diamonds.
Her Rolex has no space that isn’t a gem.
I do not deny her her luxuries.
She has earned them.
But she understands my situation and the hardship she will cause by asking now.
She also is certain she will be paid either way or my house will not ever be completed.
None-the-less,
She needs the money now.

Most frankly, I don’t have $200,000 sitting in a bank account.
Most frankly, she makes me feel as if I should.
I do understand don’t I, that to people ‘down here’, a half million dollar home is trailer trash?
I understand that, right?
The thought is exhausting.
There are days, nights, I worked so hard, so long. My face in crotches, in body creases, hours dragging on, watching the digital clocks tick over one red neon number at a time, fighting to stay awake, fighting to stay there, fighting for the next hour…my body, my arms emptied of all viscera, bones, blood. Depleted of substance. What remains is skin around hollow—like a deflated balloon. And still I stay. And still I wake the next day on two hours sleep. And still I do it again. And again. And again. Year after year for 16 years. All for this. For a Home I can call Safety. I can call my Haven.
And to them, it’s Trailer Trash.
$655,000 base price Trailer Trash.

I am most lucky to have a friend/client I can turn to who trusts me enough to loan me the money.
Of course he knows I will pay him back at the closing of my NYC apartment.
But my god. How terrible is it to be forced to ask for a 200,000 dollar loan?
And how awful is it for the person who has to trust you to loan it to you?
But he is a Prince, and he does.

In the meantime, Royal Palm Builders, who essentially have to furnish me with only a shell of a house—enough to pass CO, are blaming their lax-ness on the ‘Hurricane’, have done nothing.
When I finally contact Mark—the head Honcho—and plead my case to him—this is what happens:

"I know things are tough. But I based my closing in New York on your estimate of April. I even gave it several more months, just in case. I have not only myself, but a family with me—if it was just myself, I could live in a hotel, but I have others who are with me and depend on me, so all I’m saying is, if there is anything you can do to speed things along, I would greatly appreciate it. And basically, I just wanted you to understand the situation we’re in."

And he said to me, something I could never imagine coming out of my mouth, no matter if I could help the person or not—he said to me, something that couldn’t come out of my mouth because it lives no where inside me—he said to me something that only someone I never hope to know or ever have to know could say—he said to me:

"Well, gee, Life is Tough sometimes."

First I couldn’t breathe.

Then,
I walked away.

I knew I was dealing with a person who had lost all touch with Love and Life and God and what was important.

I knew I was in the midst of a person who thought he was winning but had lost already.
And I know, there is no fighting that.

So, in practical terms, my family and I will need to pay for two moves: one, into temporary housing, and the second into our home, whenever they feel like finishing it.

But on another level, I am so sad for him and for the World, and for Builders and Contractors everywhere.
It is a sacred job.
Other human beings are hiring their talents to create a Home, in which they may live and create and love.
And instead of being aware of that duty, it is desecrated and dishonored in the name of money.
Disgusting.
Mercenary.
And sad.
I don’t want to be there when they are on their deathbed contemplating the life they lived and the actions they performed.

How I relate it to my own world? Why I get so upset?
I have the privilege of healing ‘A Home’.
Like a Landscaper.
Like a Contractor.
Like a Painter.
Like a Builder.
People hand me ‘their home’.
Their most precious possession—their bodies.
Their bodies that house their Spirits.
If I touch their bodies with love; if I touch their bodies and bring them comfort; if I touch their bodies and through our connection and my touch we realize God, I have done what I think I am meant to do.
What I hope I am meant to do.
Is it any different with a Domicile that houses these Bodies and Spirits?

I wish I could send my thoughts to Mark at Royal Palm but I know it would make no impression—his Soul is too young and Karma needs to hit him hard before he explores ‘why’.

In the meantime, he will keep building and ripping people off for their ‘upgrades’ and inconveniencing families because hey, ‘life is tough’.

In any case, in the meantime, until Royal Palm Builders decides to finish our home, we will be vagabonds from June through who knows?

(Just between you and me—I think these Builders and Contractors should be arrested for Prostitution. Let the Courtesans go!)

Is that another Slogan?

"Why are we Supposed to be with Men anyway? I Feel Like I Used to Know."

2005-05-04T13:03:00.000-04:00

(quote by: Lorrie Moore)

A barrage of calls hits my machine.
Yesterday afternoon, I check my messages at 4 o’clock, have no new calls, therefore assume I am off for the evening.
This morning I check again:
‘You have 14 new messages.’
Fourteen?

1. Hi Geisha. My name is James Jim. That’s J-I-M-M. I am very very discreet so I appreciate your concern here. Um. Terrific webisite and I would like to talk. I’ve got some possible times I’m gonna be in the area. Right now, I’m going to be around until 6. Right now it’s 5:15 so if you can call me in the next forty-five minutes um, otherwise I’ll call you. 954-544-4444. No. Um. I’ll call you.

2. Hi. Sean. 333-333-3333. Call me Geisha.

3. Hang up.

4. Hang up.

5. Hi Geisha. This is Jacob Johnson just confirming our meeting tomorrow at 8. Call me if you need to, otherwise I’ll call you from the corner as you requested. Look forward. Bye.

6. (6:38pm) Hello Sweetheart. (The voice is male but is soft, pretentious and suggestive—like a would-be Marilyn Monroe) It’s Jeffery Michael the Third. We saw each other a few months ago and I’d love to see you. You’re new photos on your website are absolutely lovely. My number is: 201, 201-222-2222. I’d love to see you. Gimme a call. Bye.

7. (6:46pm) Oh I wish I’d written down your numbers my dear Geisha…I would like to see you tonight. Or any other time. My number is: 201, 201-222-2222. Or tonight. Monday. At 8. I wanna see you…Bye.

8. (7:55pm) Hi Sweetheart. 201, 201-222-2222. I would like um…I’d like to see you again. (long pause) And I’ll give you the money in advance…or I’ll bring it…tonight…whatever…I just would like to see your, um, pretty little…panties…what can I say, um…you’re a special lady…201, 201-222-2222. Good bye sweetheart.

9. Hang up.

10. (8:22pm) Hi Geisha. It’s Jeffery The Third…um…you know, I had your home number and your other number and I lost it. Sorry. I just wanna taste…um…your lips…um…tonight if possible. Call me. 973-777-7777. I repeat: 973-777-7777. I’d love to see you darling. I really enjoyed my last time with you. You are exquisite. Anyway. Give me a call sweetheart. 973-777-7777. Make time for me. (his voice has gotten progressively more desperate with each message.)

11. Hang up.

12. (8:31pm) Hi darling. I really want to see…I really want to see um…I really want to see you…a lot. 973-777-7777. Gimme a call…um…leave me a message if you have a problem. (Pause) I want you…Bye.

13. (8:40) I wanna be with you tonight. (Pause) Yeah. (Pause) Um. (Pause) No problem. 973-777-7777 I want you honey…I think you won’t be unhappy…um…yeah…granted, it’s just another job…for you…but…I like you…a lot. Give me a call. 973-777-7777 Bye bye.

14. Hang up.

Deep inhale.
Oh dear. Jeffery. My goodness.
Sigh.

First I call Jacob Johnson and re-confirm our time for tonight.

Then I call Jeffery.
"Jeffery? Hi. It’s Geisha. Thank you so much for your calls. I’m so sorry I couldn’t get back to you last night."

"No Problem. Um. What’s your schedule of free times for this week and next week?"

"Let me get my book out. Okay. I have Thursday day, Friday day, Saturday day and then most of next week."

"When next week?"

"Um. I have Monday day. Wednesday anytime day or evening. Thursday anytime day or evening. And Saturday day. (No response from Jeffery) Does any of that work for you?"

"Yeah you know… I’m gonna have to get back to you. I might have a business meeting or I might have to travel for business…or something might come up and I don’t want to cancel on you…so I have to think about it…cause I might have to do something one of those days…"

"Okay."

"I don’t want to book anything and then have to cancel."
"I understand."

"Thanks for calling back…but I might have a business conference or something."

"No problem. Sorry I couldn’t have called you back last night."

"No big deal."

"Okay. Well—thanks for calling."

"I’ll call you sometime."

"Okay Jeffery."

"Bye."

UGH. All that? A half hour to listen to and retrieve all his messages and then?
Men can be so odd.

Will I ever understand?

She's Baaaaack!

2005-05-02T00:41:00.000-04:00

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."
"Yeah."
"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."
"Yeah."
"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."
"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."

"Maybe."

"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."
"Okay."
"Call me if you need to, alright?"

"I will."

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

"Me too."

"I lowered my rates."
"Why?"
"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.

"Yeah?"
"Rick?"
"Yeah?"
"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?"

Silence.

"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?"

Silence.

"Rick?"
"Yeah?"
"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."

Silence.

"Rick?"
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.)
"Yes?"

"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?"
"Twice."

"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."
"No?"
"No."

"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?

My Leprechaun Doctor and Me

2005-05-01T18:05:00.000-04:00

If you haven’t been following, I don’t see M.D’s in my business. But I came down with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and was forced to see a Doctor in my ‘above ground’ life.

A handsome Irishman who used to be a Priest in Ireland, still sporting a thick musical Brogue, he came to America, became a Doctor and either way, is still gay.

He came through recommendation from my Therapist and turned out to be not only an extraordinary Medicine Man but also a very witty Human Being who I adore madly and call my Leprechan doctor.

Three months earlier:
I’m on a vacation in the Caribbean. At low tide I venture far out into the middle of the Ocean to sit on a sand bar where I fall asleep naked only to be awoken by an atypical high tide moving in and a storm about to break overhead.

Making my way back to the shore, I am grabbed by a forceful current and slammed into the pointy end of the spiral shaped shell of a very startled snail. The screw-like tip of the shell bores into my hip above my right bum.

I can’t pull it out in the water as it is in deep to my hipbone and yanking it out may bring blood, which I am almost positive, is not a good thing to do in the middle of the Ocean. I apologise profusely to the snail and his family as I un-suck him from his rock.

Together we walk, me barefoot holding onto his shell as it protrudes out of my butt, and he, his little gummy feelers panicking in the breeze.

Once in the shower, I manage to unscrew him from my flesh and place him in a bucket of salt water. I bandage my wound and the next day, return him to his home where I can only pray he is now the hit of the rock, having such a good adventure to tell of.

I return to New York and head directly into the Office of my new Doctor—the Leprchan from Ireland—who has only met me once before to draw my blood.

(Don’t worry. I’ll translate.)

Leprechan Doctor: (Removing the homemade bandage from my hip) Thet goes rether dayp. (That goes rather deep.) Ahl the weh to the bone. (All the way to the bone.)

Oh Lawd. (Oh Lord)

What heppend to ya then? (What happened to you then?)

Me: Nothing. I just got stabbed by a snail is all.

LD: Hmm. So ay se thay’r moovin fahstar these days. (So I see they’re moving faster these days)

One month later:
LD: Ya hev wats cahld Chroeneek Fahteeg Syndrome. Stend hair. Put yur hahnds hair. Okay. Nehw bend ovah, leeft yur skahrt end drop yur nikers.

(You have what’s called Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Stand here. Put your hands here. Now bend over, lift your skirt and drop your knickers.)

Me: Hey now. I usually charge a lot of money for that!

LD: Well tehday yull be pehin may.

(Well today you’ll be paying me.)

Me: We’ll see. We’ll see. It’s my job in life to give Doctors a hard time.

LD: Bay cahrfol. Ay’ll cahl aht the snehls on ya. (Be careful. I’ll call out the snails on you.)

Me: Oh you are a (ARGH! OW!) a funny man. You better hope I don’t get better to fast or you’ll miss me I’m pretty sure.

LD: If ya didn git better, Ay woodnt bay doin’ may job. (If you didn’t get better, I wouldn’t be doing my job)

Me: And if you didn’t miss me, I wouldn’t be doing mine.

A few days ago:
Me: (hands on the examining table, standing bent over with my dress up and my knickers down, bracing myself for the weekly needle of my B12 shot) You know you’re the only Doctor I see.

My Leprechaun Doctor: Am I now?

Me: You are. Argh!

LD: Just a little mar, and thar, that’s it. Su, air ya feelin a bit better in general? (So, are you feeling a bit better in general?)

Me: (pulling up my panties) I am. I really am.

LD: Air ya gitting’ mar slip? (Are you getting more sleep?)

Me: No but I’m doing what you said and staying true to my vampire nature.

LD: Ay sed that did ay? (I said that, did I?)

Me: Ya did. Ya did.

LD: And what did ay seh? (and what did I say?)

Me: Ya sed some pipple air jus naht craychers and air bayter slippin a gudt parshun uv thuh marnin end goin’ ta bid letter in the eeven.

(You said some people are just night creatures and are better sleeping a portion of the morning and going to be in the evening?)

LD: End Ay’m guessin’ ay sed it just thet way too, eh? (and I’m guessing I said it just that way too, eh?)

Me: You’re laughing. Admit it. Ay’m yur fevret payshunt. (I’m your favorite patient)

LD: Ahl me payshunts air spayshall. Ay alwes say, ‘yur better ‘en some en wers then oethers, end thets ahl ya cen hoep ta bay.

(All my patients are special. I always say, ‘you’re better than some and worse than others and that’s all you can hope to be.)

Me: Or you can work to be Better and love the Worse so the Worse’ll get Better.

LD: Goodness. Hev ya tawt a goin’ in ta the Clar-gee? (Have you ever thought of going in the Clergy?)

Me: Do you think they’d have me? One of my clients says I should run for Public Local Politics.

LD: Dus hay now? Hmm. Well, ya cud yuse that as yur Slogan. (Does he now? Hmm. Well, you could use that as your Slogan.)

Me: What?

LD: Wark ta bee better and luv the warse so the warse’ll get better. (Work to be better and love the Worse so the Worse will get better.)

Me: Everyone is coming up with slogans for me this week.

LD: Yu sed it farst thoe. (You said it first though.)

Me: Wanna know the other one? 'Just get fucked and be happy'.

LD: (laughing) Thet’d be qwayt a shahker to Emairiken Pole-itics. Ay think yu’d do better with soemthin’ lake thet een Ayerlend.

(That’d be quite a shocker to American Politics. I think you’d do better with something like that in Ireland.)

Me: You’re probably right. Would you vote for me?

LD: Ay bilayve ay wood. (I believe I would)

Me: I’d vote for you too.

LD: Gud. Nehw way just nayd oor oen Cuntri.

(Good. Now we just need our own Cunt-tree)

Me: (Laughing very hard)

LD: Why r ya larfin soo? (Why are you laughing so?)

Me: Just with your Leprechaun accent, it sounded you like said we needed our own Cunt-tree! And I suppose we all do.

LD: Yu got qwayt a maynd werkin’. (You got quite a mind working)

Me: I write about you on my blog you know? I wrote about the Snail fiasco.

LD: Thet wuz qwayt an aypesode. How air thay nehw? (That was quite an episode. How are they now?)

Me: Who? The snails?

LD: Air ya stayn aht a thar way? (Are you staying out of their way?)

Me: They got me on the run.

LD: Cairfahl then. (Careful then)

Me: I’ll see you next week. Thanks. Are you going to miss me?

LD: Ay truleh behlayv ay will. A bit unpraydicktable ya’r. Kips may gaysun.

(I truly believe I will. A bit unpredictable you are. Keeps me guessing.)

Me: Then ayv dun may jobe!

(Then I’ve done my job!)

Get F*cked. Be Happy.

2005-05-01T15:11:00.000-04:00

He: This is my point.
Me: (licking my lips ala Marilyn Monroe) What’s your point?

He: You’re teasing me now.
Me: I am. I am.
He: I was trying to make a point.
Me: I know.
He: Stop kissing my neck. You make me forget my point.

Me: (lightly touching the outside of his crotch) I like this point.
He: See now, what you’ve done?
Me: Mmm hmm. I’ve made him make the point. Hee hee.
He: Geisha—
Me: Try.
He: Geisha—
Me: Try. I want to see if both heads can work at the same time.
He: You’re a minx. You don’t want to hear my point.
Me: I do. I do. Here. Let him tell me. (I put my mouth on the outside of his pants gently on the outline of his hard cock)

He: Stop now.
Me: No. I think it can happen. I want it to happen. I want it to be possible that both heads could work at the same time. It would change the world. The possibility of it would mean that women everywhere could now hold men up to higher behavioral standards. Think of the effect something like that could have on our entire paradigm of relations?
He: Oh. Right. See. That was my point.

Me: What was?
He: That you should run for Office.
Me: That was your point? How did you get there?
He: It was what I was saying.
Me: What are you talking about? I think you’ve had quite enough Champagne.

(Staring up at him, my fingers slyly begin to unzip his trousers)

He: Stop.
Me: Don’t put him away. He was doing so well. I understand every word he says. I speak—
He: --fluent Penis. I know. Listen. Be a good girl. Sit over there. Let me ask you a question.
Me: All ears.
He: When you vote—you do vote?
Me: Of course I vote.
He: When you vote and you see Candidates on the Ballot for say District 102, or 238 or whatever, and you don’t know who these Candidates are—
Me: Never heard of them.
He: Right.
Me: Okay.
He: What do you do?
Me: I guess I just vote the party line.
He: But you vote for them none-the-less. You don’t just not vote and leave it blank, right?

Me: Right. So what’s your point?
He: I think you should run for Office and see how far up the ladder you get.
Me: Why? Oh my god you are nutty. Why?
He: Look at Bush.
Me: He had Nepotism pushing him all the way up.
He: My point exactly.
Me: No it’s not. It’s a whole other point. What is your first point?

He: You run for Office, right?
Me: No.
He: Just go with me on this one.
Me: Okay. I run for Office.
He: It’s not so absurd you know. They have some ex-Porn Star in Office in Italy.
Me: My love, that is in Europe where they don’t have the Christian Right Wing Parenting Groups.

He: But here’s my point: you run for Office. You get voted in. No one at the lower levels discovers your past. You do a good job.

Me: Yes, but I swallow! How can I deny it when they confront me?

He: But you don't inhale do you?

Me:Never that.

He: So okay. You run for a higher Office and a higher Office and we wait to see how long it takes before the tear the doors off your closet. I bet you’d get far. That’s the absurdity. And once it’s discovered, what a mockery it would make of our Electoral Process. Point driven home.

Me: You’re forgetting one thing.
He: What?

Me: Me! I’m gonna bop you on your head.
He: Ow.
Me: The mockery would be of me!

He: A little you, but more the system. Isn’t it worth it to expose---
Me: No! Okay. I’ll run. What’s my Slogan?
He: I thought of that too.
Me: How much thought have you put into this?
He: I was mulling it over since the last time I saw you.
Me: Now that makes me question my very existence.
He: Why? Isn’t it nice you’ve been on my mind?
Me: Nice but I should be on the mind of this head, not this one! You should be fantasizing about me naked, about how my lips and tongue looked on your cock, how soft my breasts felt when they fell into your mouth—not that I should run for Local Politics!

He: That’s the danger of having a brain in a g-string. Hey, now there’s a Slogan: She is a Brain in a G-String.

Me: Nope. Wouldn’t fly. Women wouldn’t vote for me. They’d just hate me.
He: Oh I know. What was that thing you said last time?
Me: What thing?
He: You were telling me a story and I remember you said something in the middle of it and it was that that got me thinking, ‘that would be a great Slogan’ and that made me think about the entire ‘running for Office’. What was it? What did you say?
Me: I don’t remember.
He: You were telling me about—god what was it? Oh. About the guy you had working for you at one time?
Me: Lester?
He: I don’t remember his name. Tell me the story again and I’ll remember what you said.

Me: Um. I was saying, I had this guy working for me for awhile around my house, taking care of the house and the dog. He was pretty cute and so one night, not so long after I hired him, I came home and he was sitting on the couch lookin’ kinda tasty and I asked him to go to bed with me.

And he’s like, ‘no!’

And I’m like, ‘Why not?’

And he says, "I really need this job."

And I say, ‘well, we can consider part of your job description.’

And he says he doesn’t want to because he doesn’t want to get fired.

And I’m like, ‘why would you get fired? I might give you a raise for extra duties!"

I’m laughing but he isn’t so I apologize and he says ‘you know this could be considered sexual harassment.’ Which really makes me laugh because Oh my God! I would think it would be a great job perk for most guys.

So I say, "Lester, please. You want to. I know it. I can see it in the 'tent you're building'. I want to. It would be fun!"

He just sits there starring at me with a big boner so I grab his hand to pull him up to me and I say, "Lester! Come on. Just get fucked and be happy!" And—

He: That’s it! "Get fucked. Be Happy."
Me: Get fucked. Be Happy.
He: It’s a great Slogan.
Me: A great Bumper-Sticker maybe, but a Political Slogan?

He: It's a Platform of sorts. Not a literal thing. But figuratively, I think it could work--The Courtesan Philosophy of Life put into action on a Grand Scale.

Me:You have truly lost your mind. See. That’s my point.
He: What’s your point?
Me: Only one head can work at a time. Disappointing but proven true time after time.

7 Bananas and the GRE's

2005-05-01T02:18:00.000-04:00

Yeah. Okay.
Here’s how the conversation went:

Me: Blah Blah Blah woe is me woe is me blah blah blah
He: You know what though?
Me: What?
He: (Bopping my upper arm with a ‘go-gettem-kid-punch’) You’re the strongest person I know. You’ll be fine.
Me: I’m a Candle in the Wind! How can you say that?
He: (Big fat laugh) (Too ‘big and fat’ for comfort) You? You’ll find a way. You’re a survivor.
Me: UGH! That is so frustrating.
He: What? I believe in you.
Me: Well don’t.
He: It’s a compliment.
Me: No it’s not!
He: What should I have said?
Me: Why is it, when women I know, who really have no issues, cry out for help, they get it? And not only get it but they get a Mercedes besides? When I tell someone the real issues I’m truly struggling through, and I don’t mention them by the way, unless I’m desperate! Why is it when I mention it, I get a light punch on the arm accompanied by a ‘You’ll be fine kid. You’re a ‘survivor’?’ It just sucks. I'm a 'Candle in the Wind' Dammit!
He: (really busting a gut now) Are you serious?
Me: Duh? Of course I’m serious.
He: You just seem so capable. So independent.
Me: Well of course I’m ‘independent’ and ‘capable’. No one has ever helped so how else can I be?
He: I’m sorry. What do you want?
Me: First? I want you to stop laughing.
He: Sorry. (Clearing his throat, sipping his Agua con gas) Okay.

Me: I want to be rescued.
He: (nearly choking on his Agua con gas) You can rescue yourself.
Me: I can’t! Okay. How?
He: Geisha.
Me: What?
He: You’re very smart.
Me: Not so smart actually. Smart about people. Knowing people inside. Knowing skin. Knowing. But what does that have to do with making a living on this planet.
He: What the f*ck are you talking about? You can do anything you want.
Me: Now I’m laughing. See? Ha! F*cking Ha Ha! What are you talking about? If I could do anything, you think I would be doing this?
He: Yes.

Me: (Pause) Okay. You’re right. I would do this BUT I can’t do this FOREVER. You understand that, right? I mean, it’s like being an Athlete or a Model—my business is short term and without the huge sums of money to save that a star Athlete or a Runway Model makes. My business ENDS. And then what? There is a time limit and I don’t have enough money saved and time is running out and I’m buried and I’m qualified for NOTHING ELSE and I have no resume or other talents. Tell me. Tell me what to do and still be happy and not entombed in 'a life of quiet desperation'? You tell me?

He: Whew. (Pause) By the way, in case you’re interested, I come here for a time of escape and here you are plaguing me with all this.
Me: Oh. I’m sorry. Come here and let me suck your cock.
He: Mean. Very Mean.
Me: You asked me 'what was going on' and when I said 'everything was fine' you press me for the truth and when I hit you with it, now you’re bummed. So next time, don’t ask.

We sit in silence.

Me: I’m sorry. (Pause) No, I am. Sweetheart. You’re right. Come in the other room. I don’t want to talk anymore anyway and I want to torture you madly so I can get lost in your flesh. Come.
He: Okay but wait.
Me: No. Come. Really. I want to eat you alive, cell by cell, limb by limb.
He: Okay but one question? I wasn’t insulting you or deserting you.
Me: I know.
He: I just see you as this Vunder-Spirit. It was a compliment.
Me: I know.

He: Why can’t you go back to school?
Me: At my age? With my financial obligations? With all the people I take care of?
He: Yeah. With all that.
Me: Okay. Okay. Fair enough Professor. You teach at (a major Ivy League University). I guarantee you; your school would never admit me to their Graduate Program.
He: Sure they would.
Me: Don’t you have to take the GRE’s?
He: To go to Grad School, everyone does.
Me: And isn’t it competitive? Do they take people who score oh, somewhere around the level of a third-grader on the GRE?
He: You would score very well.
Me: I would huh?
He: You’re one of the smartest people I know.
Me: Maybe I should run for President.
He: We couldn’t do worse.
Me: True. But, my love, I have to tell you, I was a big bust on the GRE’s.
He: I don’t believe you.
Me: Okay. First of all, when I went to take them, I was already many years out of college.
He: So you took them before?
Me: Oh yeah? I think, and thisis very true, that I hold the record, not only for the lowest GRE score of all time, but for being the only person asked to leave both Kaplan and Princeton Review Courses. You know what they are, right? The schools that specifically charge a year’s salary for classes to prepare students just for those tests?
He: No. I know what they are. How’d you get kicked out? You didn’t get kicked out.
Me: I did. Or rather I was asked to not return as they felt there was no hope.
He: Now you’re exaggerating.
Me: I’m not. To begin with, Math and anything to do with Math is beyond me at this point. It was beyond me before this point so I didn’t even focus on it, as I knew there was no hope. But then when we got to those ‘Logic’ questions? Let me tell you this: I sat in the middle seat in the front of the classroom—mostly because I’m blind as a bat and too vain to wear glasses, but also because I really wanted to learn—
He: And?
Me: So the Instructor, who’s a young guy, maybe early thirties, gives a typical Logic question, something like what will be on the test—
He: Right—
Me: If Bob takes an 11 year old Chevy on a trip from NY to California and on the way, he stops in Maryland to pick up his friend Mary, who has two children, both eating Girl Scout Cookies, one a piece, and then drives to Wyoming to pick up Sarah who is carrying seven bananas and on small suitcase weighing 28lbs, then continues on to Las Vegas and gambles for forty five minutes at the Slot Machines winning 70 dollars, how long does it take him to get to LA?
He: I know. I know. Those questions are bizarre but all you need to focus on is—
Me: No. Wait. So the Instructor poses the question right? And I raise my hand because I want to understand and I have questions to his question. So I say, "I think it depends first of all, on how old the kids are because it will depend on how quickly you can get them in the car and secondly, if they have juice or milk to drink with their cookies, they may have to stop and pee and if they don’t have a juice or milk with them, then they will need to stop anyway to get something to drink and why does Sarah have seven bananas because not only can she buy bananas along the way but if she is traveling all the way to California, her bananas will rot and really only someone with a bizarre banana fetish would bring seven bananas so if she’s slightly banana obsessive that would mean she is a bit nuts and maybe they might have to stop at a Pharmacy to get her her medicine and anyway, all this would have an effect on the timing of the trip. Don’t you think? See. Now you’re laughing too. That’s what the class did and that’s what the Instructor did. And I think they thought I was kidding but in all honesty, I couldn’t see why and what other point was to be made. I mean, I think the issues I brought up would be relevant to the timing of the trip. Don’t you?
He: These tests are made for people who have no real life experience.
Me: People who are dumb? So you mean you score better if you’re dumb?
He: Not dumb, just not self-thinkers. You have to be trained to think in the way they’re asking for.
Me: They ask how long it would take. Right? And then they bog it down with details that matter.
He: They don’t matter.
Me: How can you say that? If a woman is carrying 7 bananas for reasons we haven’t discerned, and another has two kids of ages that we haven’t discerned, well, frankly these things matter in life and in the timing of a trip. So anyway, long story long, the Instructors didn't feel they could help me. My money was returned and I was asked to leave. Much like when I was physically removed from the Island of Paros in Greece. I mean, who gets removed from an entire Greek Island?

He: Geisha.
Me: What?
He: The Grad Schools took a loss when they didn’t take you.
Me: You just want to get into my knickers.
He: I do. But they did. I’m a Prof. I’m tenure in Academia. But it ain’t perfect.
Me: But anyway, that’s my point. I can’t get into Grad School because I can’t even score on the GRE’s. So now, Professor, tell me what I do to save myself?
He: Geisha, somehow I get the feeling you’ll find a way.
Me: It’s so easy for you to say that because you don’t want it to be otherwise. You don't want to get involved.
He: I’m a Professor. I have to save my money to come see you.
Me: You’re right. I know. I don’t expect you to save me. I don’t really expect anyone else to save me. I just wish someone who could, would. Hey. Maybe you could give your class one of those Logic questions and see how they do. Disguise it as a Chemistry problem.

(He is a Professor of Chemistry.)

He: Well, every Monday, I tell them a joke.
Me: Do they have a good sense of humor?
He: They’re a pretty serious lot.
Me: So tell me the joke you’re gonna tell them on Monday.
He: There’s no more Monday’s this Semester. They’re in Finals.
Me: Okay, so tell me the joke you told last Monday.
He: They have to be ‘clean’ jokes, so maybe it won’t be funny to you.
Me: I can be ‘clean’. Tell me.

He: Two friends each have dogs. One a German Shepherd. One a Chihuahua. They pass a Pub and want to go in for a drink. One says he doesn’t think they can go in because of the dogs and doesn’t feel comfortable tying his dog up outside for too long. The other says he has an idea. They will pretend they are blind and the dogs are ‘seeing-eye’ dogs. The first one says, ‘Well that’s okay for you. You’re dog is a German Shepherd.’ The other one says, "Just watch and follow me." So he leads going into the Bar. The Barman stops him and says, "No dogs allowed." The man says, "I’m blind and this is my ‘seeing-eye’ dog." The Bartender lets him in and sets him up with a free beer. The second man puts on his sunglasses and walks into the Bar. The Bartender stops him and says, "No dogs allowed." The second man says, "I’m blind and this is my ‘seeing-eye’ dog." The Bartender says, "Uh, I don’t think so. Since when do they use Chihuahua’s as ‘seeing-eye’ dogs?" And the second man replies: "They gave me a Chihuahua??!!"
Me: (guffawing) That’s GREAT! That’s a fantastic joke. I have to remember it! (To myself) ‘Shepherd. Chihuahua. What? Blind.’ (To my Client) Key words. Old RFDS trick. That’s how I keep it in my head.

He: Maybe you could study the GRE’s that way. Key words.
Me: Maybe. But I think you should pose this formula to your students. I think you should write it on the board in all seriousness. "A man travels from a College town to the big city of New York for a Conference and happens to call a pretty petite once red-headed, now blonde girl that he happens to know there and he travels from his medium-priced hotel to her Sheradzade apartment, engulfed in candlelight, swelling with luscious music, wreaking of incense and Champagne. The girl is clad in only the finest silk covering and underneath, dons the choicest lingerie. How long does it take for the interpersonal chemistry to overwhelm them before they can no longer dwell on reality and are forced to communicate through flesh? Write that on the board and see if they are worthy of their GRE skills.
He: You want my car to be bombed?
Me: They wouldn’t!
He: They take their studies very seriously.
Me: Me too. Come with me oh Professor of Chemistry, into my 'Research Lab', and let us see who is the 'Master of Chemistry'.
He: Are you going to torture me?
Me: In every way, shape and form. (Pause) Unless you don’t want me to?
He: That’s what I came here for—
Me: Then, (rubbing my hands together, diabolically) Please Professor, enter my Laboratory…heee heee heee.

Later:

Me: Will it be another two years before I see you again?
He: I have to save up. Academia Salary.
Me: I know. But we have such nice chemistry together. You touch me just the way I like it. I think I should give you a tattoo. Five Stars with the word "Geisha" beneath it. Only a few people would be worthy of that rating.
He: Now you’re just being nice.
Me: I wish. I wish I was lying and everyone touched me the way I truly liked. But alas.
He: So only three?
Me: A few.
He: A few is 3.
Me: My god you are so literal.
He: Aren’t all men?
Me: Yes. Yes they are.
He: So out of how many, how many get the tattoo.
Me: Not to exaggerate but let’s say out of say 300 thousand maybe 30?
He: And I’m one of the 30?
Me: You’re one of the 30. This is what I think. If you have a brand on you with 5 stars from Geisha, then every woman you meet will be like. ‘Wow! The Michelin five-star Geisha rating. I have to sleep with you!’ and that’s it. You got it 'made in the shade'.
He: 'Made in the shade'? Geisha. You’re older than you’re telling me.
Me: Maybe I just watch a lot of ‘Nick at Nite’.

He: So what are you going to do?
Me: What? You mean about my upcoming unstable devastating future?
He: Yes, Drama Queen.
Me: I suppose I’ll just end up in a home for aging disposed-of Courtesans.
He: In that case, I have one suggestion.
Me: Okay...
He: Bring along 7 Bananas. You never know.

"More Die of Heartbreak" (For Rhett who has had a heartbreaking month)

2005-04-29T00:29:00.000-04:00

I have had a lot of cancellations this month, which has put me under considerable financial stress, but considering the alternative—
I have had a lot of cancellations this month because the clients that have cancelled have all done so due to death’s in their family.
Very sad, and strangely so many all in one month.

Saul Bellow died.
I didn’t even know.
A Client told me the other day.
I was in shock and wasn’t listening.
"More die of heartbreak." He said.
And I said, "Yes."

"I meant the book." He said.
"What book?"
"Bellow’s last book."
"I haven’t read it. But it’s true."
"You think so?" he says.
"It’s the one thing in this world I’m absolutely sure of." I say.
"Well. I’m not so sure." He says. He’s a Lawyer.

"I almost died of heartbreak." I say.
"Maybe you like to think so." He says.
"Why would I like to think so?" I say.
"Maybe it helps you justify what you do." He says.
"Oh really?" I say and turn away to sip my Champagne and not look at his eyes.

"I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings." He says.
"You didn’t." I lie.
"Think about it." He says. "If that were true, that more people die of heartbreak—"
"And loneliness. And not being appreciated. And not thinking they are of value." I say.
"And all that blah blah blah." He says.
"You’re a cynical one." I say.
"I don’t play to victims." He says.
"Well harumph." I say.

"As I was saying, if that were true, then you—"
"Yes me?"
"Within your business, would be doing a great service. Not all women in your business, but you and what you do."

"Okay. And is that so horrible?"
"I didn’t say it was ‘horrible’. I just said maybe you like to use it to rationalize what you do."

He lights a cigarette. I let him do so in silence.

"And how do you rationalize what you do?" I say after he exhales the plume of smoke up to the glass Mermaids dangling from the ceiling.

"What? Seeing you?"
"Oh. I didn’t even think of that. I meant being a Lawyer."
"What’s wrong with being a Lawyer?"
"Nothing. What’s wrong with being a Courtesan?"

"Do you know that’s why I first decided to come see you? You, as opposed to all the others out there on the Net?"
"What was why?"
"That you called yourself a ‘Courtesan’ instead of an ‘Escort’."
"Really? Why did that matter? To you?"
"I felt you were implying something. Something I wanted implied."
"I was."
"What were you implying?"
"In words, you mean? In words, I don’t know if I can say it. Don’t you feel it in my actions?"
"I do. That’s why I come back, but now that we’re on the subject, tell me what you meant."

"You’re killing me. I don’t know. I guess I used the word ‘Courtesan’ because it reminded me of an era when women in my profession were respected and an important part of the community and what they did was thought of as ‘high art’ that had to be learned and studied."

"They were still outcasts. Even in those times, still not allowed into ‘respectable’ Society."

"But they were allowed into ‘respectable’ Society’s beds—"

"Of course."

"And hearts."

"True."

"I like the word ‘Courtesan’ because it implies a sort of Elegance between Men and Women that didn’t involve the word, or even the thought ‘whore’."
"Well said."
"I’m not sure if I made it up or I heard it somewhere to be honest."
"Doesn’t matter. You live it."
"That’s a nice thing to say."

"Still mad at me?"
"Not mad at you."
"Promise?"
"Why would I be mad at you?"
"For playing Lawyer. I really should check it at the door."
"How did you play Lawyer?"
"By challenging you—your rationale, your thoughts about yourself in your profession."

"I love a ‘good think’."

He doesn’t believe me.

"Hey." I say. "Wanna have make-up sex? We can rationalize it later?" I wink. He follows.

After he leaves I check my messages.
My evening appointment has cancelled due to a death in his family.

At home, I stare at the white computer screen.
All that comes to mind is all this death happening all at once.
And then Jennette.

When Jennette happened, I was in the throes of teenage blooming pubescent angst—
Otherwise known as 8th Grade.

Staring at the blank screen I am able to remember very little from that time other than the tidal waves of emotion that seemed so life altering and important at the time.
I try to visualize Jennette but her face; her Being won’t form a visage in my mind.

Carefully lifting my printer off the top where it lives, I open the rustic wooden Mexican trunk that houses all my memorabilia. The stuff I cherish that says I have lived here on this Planet for a time; the same stuff my Mother swears she’ll toss in the garbage was I to go before her.
Everything comes out and lands on the floor:
Books, Photo Albums, Letters from friends I no longer know, my first ‘going steady ring’, Diaries.
Diaries and Diaries. And Diaries.
(My god. I’m the Anais Nin of the Millennium.)
There it is. Squashed at the bottom of the heap; the one from my 8th grade year.

My Client, the Lawyer I had the debate earlier in the evening with, has a daughter in 8th Grade.
We talk about her all the time.
He is beyond puzzled. Frustrated. Worried.
Asks me for my opinion.
Hasn’t a clue what’s going on in her young hormone-ravished mind.

I find the dates I’m looking for.
I wonder if what I will find will sound like he says his daughter is like now.
And it occurs to me, if they do, maybe I should make him a copy and share the entries with him to give him an ‘in’ to her psyche that is so confusing him.

I know no other way to sum it up. To say it better. Than just to print it as it is:
The script is big, self-conscious, with big circles dotting the ‘I’s.
The margin is framed by scribbles of hearts.
Hearts with tears dripping from them.
Hearts with flower budding out of them.
Hearts with arrows piercing them.
Hearts with ‘smiley’ faces inside them.
Hearts with breasts and pubic hair.

1. Dear Diary,
We are on VACATION!!
Last night, my whole entire family was in the hotel room (a Holiday Inn!!!) watching the TV and Mom and Dad was sitting like on the edge of the bed and me and my brothers were on the floor on the carpet.
And Mom was wearing her big nightgown and when I was laying on the floor goofing off with my brothers and junk like that I could see under Moms nightgown a little. So I was giggling and stuff and pretending I was just goofing off so I could see closer because it was really important because I was thinking maybe something was wrong with me and maybe I was going to die.
So I got to this place on the floor where I could really see good and I looked and then she saw me looking and this look came over her face and she moved but not before I saw and that was really good because now I know I’m not going to die anymore because my Mom has it too.

See okay this is embarrassing but I was noticing that something was weird going on down there if you know what I mean. Like before, my thing down there was like closed up and it looked like two caterpillars sleeping really tight close to each other. But then one day, when I was playing the ‘HoneyPot’ game, I looked down and there was these two hanging things hanging down in between them like butterfly wings like a butterfly trying to escape and it was really weird.

And another day it looked like I had these two seashells that used to be all closed up like the way you find mussels when you go to the beach and they’re just laying there in the sand and then one day it looked like there were two snail hanging down trying to get out.
And I didn’t know if I was normal and it made me think something was wrong and maybe I was sick and going to die.
And I didn’t know who to ask because it’s kind of a secret place and all and it’s not really the kind of thing you tell your mom about. But then, when I was looking under Moms robe, I saw she had the same hang-ee things and it kinda looked the same as me but she had curly hairs around it.

Phew.
I’m glad I’m not going to die because I am afraid to die.

Thanks for listening Dear Diary. Your one of the only people I could tell.

Live Love Life! Lane

2. Dear Diary,
Four months have past and so much has happened that I didn’t have even a minute to write to you.
Sorry.
Do you forgive me?
I am going steady with Vince Atcheson. He’s Italian and his mother doesn’t want to like me because I’m Jewish but Vince and I know our love is stronger and can’t be stopped.
Vince is a Cancer and that is very compatible with Scorpio.

I got a job at Wimpy Grill as a Waitress. They think I’m 16.
I am not good at the food part of the job but I am good at the people part and that’s important too.
Maybe because I am a cheerleader and know how to smile a lot and talk to people. And also I like them too.

Jennette works there too. She goes to my school and is in my same grade but I didn’t really know her until we worked there because she is not in my group.
She is very pretty in a real pretty way. Without makeup or anything. She has long brown hair and she is shy so she is not popular in school. But she should be if popularity was based on looks. I mean, it kinda is but it’s really not. Do you know what I mean?

She lives like three blocks from our house with her Aunt and Uncle because her Parents died or something.
I like her cause we’re alike. She’s kinda like me…how I really am on the inside but she has it on the outside.
She has only one layer and it is just what it is. And that’s it.
I feel sad for her that she is so shy and has only one layer because she doesn’t have the other layers to make herself get popular.

But I am jealous too Diary because she doesn’t have to get up and go into battle everyday like I do just to try and stay popular.

She likes poetry too.
I like poetry now too because Jennette told me about it but we made a pack not to tell anyone that we like it cause everyone would think I was a nerd and there goes my reputation and my popularity.
So far, Jennette never told.

This is Jennette’s favorite one.

It is about her and Mark, the boy she is in love with.
(He is in a Junior in High School!!! They have been going steady together a whole year!!!)

With every moment
My love for you grows
Wild as the summer grass
Mow it, pull it, if you will—
Soon it will grow tall again
Yearning for him alone,
I wake at dawn to see
Two lonely ducks
Wending their way
Across the Heavens.
What are they?
Arrows from my love?

She didn’t make it up but she can say it just from her memory.

It’s weird that the popular people are popular and they can’t say a poem and they think a poem is nerdy and all but its not. It makes you feel stuff and it puts all the stuff you feel into a way to say it instead of say like stuff like ‘that’s so cool’ and all.

When I am around Jennette, which is mostly at work because we can’t hang around at school because the kids in my popular group don’t like her, I don’t have to fake laugh real loud or act super tough or anything.

This is what I like most about her:

One day I went to her house where she lives with her Aunt and Uncle to pick her up so we could go to Wimpy’s work together and she had to dry her white work apron with the blow-dryer for her hair because she had to wash it by hand because they don’t have a clothes dryer and Jennette could only afford to buy one apron from work so she had to use it over and over everyday. And believe me cause I know it gets really dirty with Ketchup and other stuff.
See that’s what I mean. The money she makes at Wimpy’s is more important than my money because she really needs it. Not just to buy clothes and stuff. I’m saving my money for freedom and for clothes. But Jennette needs it to pay her Aunt and Uncle I think. She never said that but I think so.
So when she was blow-drying her apron, I was telling her about how I used to fly when I was little and she didn’t even look surprised or wierded out or anything. She just kept blow-drying and said she knew what I meant. She said it never happened to her but she knew probably what it would feel like.

I wish Jennette were a boy so I could marry her.

3. Dearest Diary,
It has been 97 days since Vince and me broke up and I don’t think I’m getting any better.
I got so TOTALLED WASTED the other night that when I came home I puked all night.
Luckily my parents weren’t up so they didn’t know. Phew! I got into bed and it was spinning around if I tried to shut my eyes it was like being on a merry-go-round.

I told Jennette but she said it was okay and she didn’t judge me.
I told her I had to find a new boyfriend NOW!! NOW!! NOW!!
She said maybe not and gave me this poem to help me get over it:

Now that our love has drifted to a quiet close
Leaving the empty ache that always follows
When Beauty goes
Now that you and I,
Who stood tip-toe on the Earth
To touch fingers to the sky
Have turned away
To allow our love to die
Go dear, seek again the magic touch.
But if you are wise, as I shall be wise,
You will never again
Love over much.

I read it over and over and even though it is supposed to make me feel better—DAMMIT it makes me madder!
I’m just not like Jennette in that way!
She has Mark so she doesn’t know how it feels to be dumped. Or abandoned. Or have no one to give all the love you have inside to.

I have this HUGE LOVE and this HUGE NEED TO LOVE inside of me and it grows wilder than ivy vine and if you cut it it grows more and more and takes over the whole fucking house until you can’t see because of all the leaves and vines in your eyes!!

Jennette said she understood. She only meant it as a comfort.

4. Dear Diary,
I am getting better. Jennette says poetry is saving me.

Last night, Eric R. had a party in his basement cause his parents were away and we were all getting stoned and I wanted to try and tell my stupid fuckin friends about this poetry shit, so anyway, we’re totally high and shit and I go something like this, I go:
‘Wait you guys. You guys. Just shut up and fuckin listen.’

And they did and so I go:
‘Do you like Poetry?"

And they’re all like snortin and shit like that and so I go,
"It’s not as dorky as you think."

"Yeah I like poetry." That’s what Jim Orbach goes and everyone is laughing and then he goes,
"Heres a poem for ya:

There once was a girl from Chat
Who thought she sat on my hat,
But it wasn’t my hat
It was actually my bat
And knowing that made her shat.

And I was thinking when he said that that really he was the dork but I laughed anyway cause I didn’t want them to make me unpopular.

But later, Eric R and me went outside without our coats, we were so WASTED we didn’t even feel it and it was like 20 below and we sat on a snow bank and he was trying to feel me up and all and I told him he couldn’t unless he liked my favorite poem. And he goes,
"Poetry is shit, man."

And I go,
"You get all pent up right?"

And he goes, "Yeah."

And I go, "Poetry gives you a way to get out a all that crazy shit that fucks up your mind and if like you find a poem that is right on to what’s fuckin you up, it like takes out all the pain like a fucking vacuum cleaner. Like it sucks up all the dirt and when it’s done you feel like you’re light as smoke inside."

And he goes, "Cool."

And I go, "Yeah. Cause if you let all the shit build up it just rots and turns you into black tar inside."

And he goes, "Heavy man."

And I go, "Yeah." And then I let him feel my breasts. Even though I didn’t tell him my favorite poem.

5. Dear Diary,

Here’s the poem that Jennette gave me that’s my favorite poem:
Its called ‘Tell Me’

Say he is wise-
That in his mind are dreams
Tempered strong by other
Earthbound things
For Wisdom is past dreaming.
Say he is good-
That in his eyes lives something
Which all men were meant to have
And all men lost, somehow, but one.
Say he is strong-
That his strength, an inner thing, begins at courage and goes on
Beyond, to heights untouched and clean.
Say all this, all else, or say one thing alone,
Say he loves me
Say that
And having said all,
Be silent.

I’m not sure why it is my favorite but it is.
Do you like it Dear Diary?

Live Love Life!
Lane

6. Diary,
I am exempt from school tomorrow.
Most of my grade is.
Jennette is dead.
Her funeral is tomorrow.
She killed herself.
Slashed her wrists and sat in the bathtub that filled with red.
That’s what they said.

7. Diary,
I never been to a Funeral before so I was pretty nervous and didn’t know how to act or be or anything or what to expect.
I went with my new boyfriend Jett in his blue Monte Carlo.
Practically the whole school was there which kinda made me happy but kinda made me mad too because nobody let her be popular when she was alive or anything. So why were they all here pretending like they really liked her. It was weird.

I found out what happened though.
I found out that Mark broke up with her the night before.
She wrote a note.
It said to play the song, "The First Cut is the Deepest." At her funeral. I think it’s by Rod Stewart.
When I heard that, I was thinking if Mark was going to come, knowing it was all his fault that she killed herself.
And it seemed like the song was meant for him. For his ears. Like a poem she wanted him to know to know her heart better.
And now he would be sorry because she was gone.

But he came.
He sat with her Aunt and Uncle.

Her Aunt and Uncle made short speeches about her but they didn’t say anything about what she was really like. It was like they didn’t even know her.
I wished I could have said something to let them know what she was really like, how sensitive she was, and how she was like a person without skin and how she liked poetry and all.

There was a moment of silence where we all bowed our heads and they began to play the song,
"Baby you know, the first cut is the deepest…"

And Mark was her first and only love.
And so I looked over at Mark.
His head was down and I could see wetness running out of his eyes and is nose and his face was very red and I thought ‘GOOD’!
I thought she meant the song to be played for a revenge on him.
And I felt glad that she was getting her revenge.

But while we were sitting there in the pews, and I was thinking that, I felt something like a hot air blown on my feet and into my feet and up inside my whole entire body up to my neck and into my head, from out of nowhere, cause we were inside and there was no breeze.
And then this thought came into my head for no reason at all—
The song wasn’t really about Mark.
He was just her ‘last straw’ of aloneness.
The ‘first cut’ was losing her parents.

I didn’t really think about that part of her life when we were friends.
I don’t know why I thought this but I knew when I thought it, it was the Truth.

Jennette was like a beautiful silk kite and in her life, Mark was the only one left holding the string.
And when he let go, that was it for her.

"She Liked Imaginary Men Best of All..."

2005-04-28T16:07:00.000-04:00

Ling-Ling: I’m sending you a client—

Me: Thanks. That’s so nice—

Ling-Ling: Not really. You sent me two last month. I sorta owe ya.

Me: I sent you two?

LL: Yeah the one guy and the other guy.

Me: What guy and what other guy?

LL: Don’t you remember?

Me: I don’t think I sent you anyone in a while.

LL: Yeah, last month. God you got a memory lapse girl.

Me: Which guys?

LL: The one guy with the really big nose and the whiskers all spraying out from his nostrils?

Me: Who?

LL: C’mon. Don’t tell you don’t remember that guy! How could you forget a guy like that?

Me: What was his name?

LL: How should I know? I don’t remember shit like that. The guy? With the bulbous-y nose and the spiky whiskers? Ugh. Don’t you ever look at these guys?

Me: Not from a distance.

LL: Well you sent him to me.

Me: Was he nice?

LL: He was okay. And then the other one? The one with the gray teeth who thinks he’s God’s gift to women?

Me: Was he a Doctor?

LL: I think so.

Me: Oh yeah. I don’t see Doctors anymore.

LL: Why not?

Me: I don’t like the way they make me feel. There’s usually no connection—

LL: Who cares about a ‘connection’? They got a dick and a wallet—connection enough for moi.

Me: You are so weird.

LL: You are! You don’t even look at your clients! How could you miss this guy? His nose was like his entire face? And what do you mean ‘you don’t look at ‘em from a distance?’

Me: I don’t know.

LL: How do you look at ‘em?

Me: Microscopically I guess.

LL: So you look at this guy’s nose through a microscope?

Me: No! I think I just see each feature individually and notice what’s interesting about it instead of seeing it as how it fits or doesn’t fit into the whole package.

LL: You are so weird.

Me: I know. So are you. Who are you sending me?

LL: This guy—

Me: What’s his name?

LL: I don’t remember but he’s okay. No conversation, so just give him an hour, in and out.

Me: You know I don’t do one-hour’s.

LL: Believe me, with this guy, don’t even try. He barely even say’s ‘hello’.

Me: Why not? What’s wrong with him? Is he a Doctor?

LL: No. I think he’s a—I don’t remember what he said he did. I don’t think he even told me. He never smiles. He doesn’t talk. Just wants to do it and go.

Me: Why are you sending him to me?

LL: He wants variety.

Me: Ha! That’s crazy. How different can anyone be with no conversation, no connection, no anything else. Pussy is Pussy after awhile, isn’t it?

LL: Are you asking me? Do I even pretend to know how these guys think? He’ll probably call you tonight.

Me: Alright. Thanks love. I’ll let you know if he calls.

LL: Yeah. Let me know how it goes.

Me: Will do.

LL: Trust me. Only book him for an hour. You’ll thank me.

Me: We’ll see.

LL: You’ll be sorry.

Me: I can’t do an hour.

LL: He’s like pulling teeth. He’ll bore the tits off your chest.

Me: I got some to spare.

LL: Give it up. You can’t connect to everyone. Just connect with his wallet.

Me: Oh Ling--

LL: You are so weird.

Me: I know. You too.

LL: Love you.

Me: Love you too.

Ling Ling is right.
On the phone he’s monotone ice.
Never-the-less, I insist on my two-hour minimum.
Reluctantly, he agrees.

Rodney Russell.

Anorexically thin, his belt wrapped almost completely around his waist using extra holes he seems to have made himself with a scissors through the leather, he sits slumped, mum on my sofa.

"Can I get you something to drink? I have white wine, Champagne, sparkling water and still."

"Still what?"

"Still water."

"What’s that?"

"Water without bubbles? Agua sin gas?"

"Oh I thought you meant ‘still something’. Like still as in ‘and still…"

"Oh. No. I meant—still as in 'still waters run deep'."

No smile.

"What would you like?"

"Nothing. I’m fine."

"Nothing? How ‘bout some oh, say, water? You never know. You might get dust in your throat and then you’ll be glad to have some water—"

"Is there lots of dust in here?"

"Not generally but what I meant was—oh look at your tie. That’s so nice. Grapes."

"Do you like grapes?"

"I do. Squished."

I giggle at my own joke.

He just stares at me, raises his eyebrows to himself and looks at his hands.

"Well, I’m gonna have some Champagne. Would you like some?"

"Is it a new bottle?"

"It is. See? I’m gonna open it."

"If it’s a new bottle, okay."

I laugh full and round thinking I get what he means.

"Are ya afraid I might slip ya a Mickey. Wink Wink."

His gaze tells me that’s exactly what he thought.

"Now why would I want ta ‘Mickey’ ya? I like my boys awake and alive! I think the ole ‘slip em a Mickey thing’ is only in the movies."

No smile.

"Have you ever been ‘slipped a Mickey’?" I ask just in case. Who knows!

"No."

I pour the Champagne.

He doesn’t to ‘toast’ with me but takes a swig, emptying the glass and sets it back on the table.

I refill it.

"So where are you from? Ling Ling didn’t tell me anything about you?"

"The Northeast."

"Where? In the Northeast? It’s a big Country." Sweet smile.

"Massachusetts."

"Oh. Massachusetts. Where in Massachusetts? It’s a big State." I lean in to kiss his cheek.

He leans further away.

"Boston."

"Oh Boston. Where in Boston?"

"Do you know Boston?"

"I do." I say playfully.

"Outside of Boston."

"Where?"

"Near Boston. But outside."

"Where?"

"Do you know the Boston area?"

"I do."

"You wouldn’t have heard of it. (Pause) Lowell."

"Lowell? I know Lowell. I know Lowell oh too well."

"How do you know Lowell? You don’t know Lowell."

"I do. Lowell: The birthplace of Bette Davis. Lowell: the place Jack Keroac ran from? Lowell: the City that gave birth to that great man, Rodney Russell? Wink Wink. That Lowell?"

From that one, I am rewarded with a teensy grin.

"How do you know Lowell? No one knows Lowell. Were you there once?"

"I was there too long."

"Any one in Lowell even for a minute is there too long."

We share our first laugh.

"There is a theatre in Lowell called ‘The Merrimack Rep. Theatre."

"I know it. I’ve seen a play there before."

"I used to be an actress and I was in a show there. So I came to Lowell for about three weeks of rehearsal and about a four-week run of the show. I saw some of the most bizarre occurrences in Lowell—like for instance, Lowell has like, what? Fifty or so huge clocks hung off of buildings that I think were donated to the town or something?"

"They were."

"Why?"

"I don’t know."

"Me neither. But that’s not the oddest thing. The oddest thing was that not one of these clocks was actually set to the correct time. It was like being in the Twilight Zone. I mean, I would walk down one street and a clock would say 2:15 and then turn the corner and the next clock would say 8:35."

"Imagine what it was like as a kid growing up there."

"I can’t. I’m amazed you made it here on time on the right day! Oh and you know what else I noticed in Lowell? Maybe you can answer this one for me."

"I’ll do my best."

"Cause this one was really a Mystery. I’m walking down the street on the way to the Theatre one day and I see a man with no nose. No Nose. Just two holes on his face."

"Oh that’s strange."

"And not only no nose but he’s wearing glasses!"

"How do you wear glasses with no nose?"

"I know!"

"Wow."

"I know! And not only that—the next day I see a lady with no nose too."

"No."

"And—"

"Don’t tell me—"

"Yup."

"She’s wearing glasses too?"

"She is. But actually, all in all, I liked Lowell. It was one of the strangest cities I ever played in. But it was kind of beautiful in it’s own strange way."

"What was beautiful? It’s a failed industrial town with hollow Mills everywhere—"

"That’s what made it so haunting. Like ghosts still wandering, there were all these abandoned empty Mills left over from the Industrial Revolution. I would love to walk by them. It was like I could almost feel and hear the history of the lives that occurred there. I used to imagine what it was like to be a young girl, a Mill worker, living on a dollar a week working eighty hour weeks, how hard life was. When you lived there as a little boy, did you ever think about stuff like that?"

"Yeah."

"You did?"

"Yeah."

"Wow. What did you imagine?"

"Just stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"So are we gonna go in the other room? Oh I forgot—" He removes an envelope of money for me and places it on the table.

"Rodney Russell, you are not going anywhere until you tell me what kinda stuff."

"You sure are bossy."

"I am. My house. My pussy. I’m the Boss."

"My Penis."

"True. I guess you could just ‘take your ball’ and go home. But I don’t think you want to. Do you?"

He shakes his head.

"So tell me. Is it bad? I won’t judge you. You should hear the things I imagine. And this was when you were little anyway."

He drinks his second Champagne flute in one sip again. I refuel us both.

"Why don’t you want to tell me? Rodney Russell, did you see a ghost?" I laugh.

He doesn’t.

"You did. Rodney. You did. You know what? This is great. So did I. I did. There was one in the apartment they gave me to live in and there was one in one of the Mills I used to walk by. Don’t feel weird. I really think Lowell was a town full of ghosts. I do."

"I think there was one in my house where I grew up."

"You do? What was it like?"

"The ghost? I think it was a man. Smelled like a man. But I’m not sure. I used to see this thing, like moving air but thicker than air and it used to sweep through my room at night. But I was a kid so who knows. Kids have big imaginations."

"I still do. There’s a ghost in this apartment you know?"

"Here? Now?"

"No. He’s not here now."

"It’s a ‘he’?"

"Yeah and he’s a wonderful ghost. First of all, he only comes when there’s someone else here, so he doesn’t leave me without witnesses. I think he was either one of my clients who passed away—"

I notice a suddenly startled look grip his face.

"I didn’t kill any of them! Rodney, you have got to get a grip—no ‘Mickeys’ and no murders!"
I kiss his lips. He allows me but doesn’t kiss back.

"Anyways, I think he just likes to come and hear the conversation here. Cause he never comes into the bedroom."

"That’s a relief."

"I suppose so. The first time I discovered him, I was sitting here just like I’m sitting with you, with another client and suddenly we both smell this smoke like from a tobacco pipe?"

"Uh-huh"

"And so we both get up and start searching ‘cause neither of us were smoking; so we smell over by the door and the windows and the vents and there’s no smoke smell except right here. Right coming from this chair, rising up like in a funnel—"

"You could see the smoke?"

"No. We couldn’t see it but we could smell it like in a long tube and only from right here above this chair. That’s it. So I figure it’s an older guy who likes to just sit back, fill his pipe with good smoking tobacco and listen in on a Courtesan and her Client."

"And you’re sure he doesn’t come in the bedroom?"

"Positive. But you should. Ready? Let’s go."

Me: (Leaving a message on Ling Ling’s voicemail) Hi Ling. It’s Geisha. I just wanted to thank you for Rodney. And I wanted—(she picks up the phone)

Ling Ling: Hey!

Me: Hey honey.

Ling Ling: Sorry. I was just screening my phone. Didn’t feel like talking to any of the assholes today, you know?

Me: Mmm.

Ling Ling: So what were you saying? I missed part of it.

Me: I met Rodney. I saw him last night.

LL: Who’s Rodney?

Me: Rodney Russell.

LL: Who’s that?

Me: The guy you sent to me to see. (Pause) The guy—the really skinny guy—almost anorexic?

LL: Oh yeah yeah right. The one who never talks. You didn’t make him come over for two hours did you?

Me: I don’t do one hour. I told you that over and over.

LL: Oh God. What are you? A masochist? How bad was it?

Me: It wasn’t bad at all. We had a really fun time.

LL: No way. With the mute runty guy?

Me: We did! He was really nice. Very fragile.

LL: These guys aren’t fragile. You’re so gullible.

Me: We had some things in common so he was really interesting to talk with.

LL: You guys had something in common. Yeah right. What?

Me: Well, we both knew imaginary men.

LL: God I wish I did! I think I like imaginary men best of all.

Me: Me too sometimes. Anyway thanks for the referral. I owe you one.

LL: No you don’t. You gave me two and then another you gave my number to called me last night.

Me: Who?

LL: I didn’t see him yet.

Me: What was his name?

LL: I don’t know!

Me: How could you not know his name?

LL: How could you care what his name is?

Me: You’re so weird.

LL: You’re so weird.

Me: Next time I'll send you an imaginary client.

LL: Please do. But make sure his wallet's real. Bye.

Me: Bye Ling. Love you.

LL: You too honey.

A Wonk or Two from Willie

2005-04-28T12:58:00.000-04:00

Along with my other three phone numbers,
I have a phone line dedicated to first timers calling me from my Website.
When they dial, they hear a two-minute out-going message that goes something like this:

(Spoken in a soft, giggly, Marilyn Monroe voice that I seem to have that most people say sounds like a little girl. I’m not sure why because when I hear myself I think I sound very grown-up. We never hear ourselves as others do, I guess?)

"Hi. This is Geisha. I thank you so much for calling. Just a few things I want to tell you so I thank you for taking a few minutes to listen. Um. I’ve taken a lot of time to build a Website that I hope you’ll take the time to look at. On it you’ll find lots of information about me and about our visit together, and things like my rates, lots of accurate up-to-date photos, my schedule as to whether or in town or not, things like that. So if you haven’t already found it, the address is: www.xxxxx.com.
Also, if we haven’t met before, I prefer to meet for the first time at my place, which is a very discreet location in Manhattan. I do do ‘out-call’ but if it isn’t a problem, I really like it if you come to me. This is because it gives me the opportunity to create a really special atmosphere for us.
I do prefer a two-hour minimum because it helps me lift what might be an ordinary experience into what I hope will be an extraordinary one. Um. I tend to get booked a little bit in advance so last minute appointments are kind of rare, so if you can plan ahead a bit, we will be able to get together.
Lastly, for my own safety and security and for yours as well, I prefer to call you back at your office through a switchboard. So if you decide to leave me a message please leave me your last name, your first name, your office number and any way you would like me to identify myself for your discretion.
Oh! And one more thing. When you leave your number, please! Leave it sloooowly, as I’m a bit—hugely—dyslexic and if I can’t get your number, well, I can’t call you back.
So, thanks for listening and I look forward to the sweet adventures we will create together."

During a busy week, I receive between 10-60 phone calls.
On a slow week, 1-9.
I don’t book all of them and many are ‘fakes’ just calling intrigued but never meaning to make an appointment.

A typical batch of calls taken verbatim from my machine covering the last few days:

"Uh. Yeah. Hi, Geisha. Jeez that was a long message. My name is Bob Bobby. I have seen your website and I got to compliment you on it. It’s very creative and uh, very different than the other’s I’ve seen. Anyway, I was looking at getting together next Tuesday in the evening. Give me a call back at: 212-222-2222. I’ll say it again. 2-1-2-2-2-2-2-2-2-2. I’m dyslexic too by the way. Ha ha! And you can say you’re Betty from American Express Travel. Okay. I hope to talk to you soon. You’re very beautiful."

(This one I’ll call back. He followed all my instructions, was very polite and sounds like he truly wants an appointment.)

"Miguel Migelus. 212-111-1111." Click

(No call back to this one. Probably just masturbating by his computer hoping for a quick call back and female voice to finish to. Or, could be a cop just 'fishin'.)

"Hey Geisha. This is Frank. We met already about 6 months ago. Give me a call. I want to see you again."
Click

(Right. No number. No last name.
I appreciate the idea that he feels we were so intimate that I automatically know him by the sound of his voice but I know at least 300 ‘Franks’ and why, pray tell, if you have a name like ‘Frank’, or ‘Bob’ or ‘John’ or ‘Jane’ or ‘Sue’ or anything like that, wouldn’t you say your last name? I mean, just out of courtesy?
UGH!)

"Hey Geisha. This is Frank again. I forgot to leave you my number. 212-333-3333. Can’t wait to kiss those lips again."

(Okay. Now I have the number but still no last name.
So now I’m off to my files for a ten-minute scavenger hunt.
My files are in alphabetical order by first name so I have to search all the "F’s" and then all the "Frank’s" to find the number that matches him.
I know I could just call him back, but what if indeed I haven’t seen him before?
Or, what if he’s someone I don’t want to see again because he cancelled on me at the last minute?
Or, what if he’s someone I really like? If I call him and don’t know who he is immediately, he’ll be insulted.
So I search the files.)

"Hi Geisha."

(Uh-oh. A woman’s voice. Women’s voices on this line always send my heart into a pounding fury. A woman’s voice can only mean one of three things:

Either it’s an advertising site drumming up business. Sigh. That’s okay.

Or, it’s another escort looking for a referral on a client. Sigh. That’s okay but a bit disheartening, as it’s never fun to know one of my clients is seeing someone else.

Or, lastly, it’s an angry wife/girlfriend/fiancé who wants me dead.)

"My name is Dawn and I’m an escort too and a client gave me your number for a reference. I’m coming to New York to work for a week in May. His name is William Williams. Can you call me back and let me know if he’s all right? Thanks Geisha. You’re the Best.

Oh by the way. I’ve been looking at your website for a long time and really love it and I think it’s really inspiring so I think it’s really cool to get to see a client who knows you. Bye. And thanks! Oh. Dawn. 518-222-2222."

(Reluctantly, I will call her back. It so bugs me when girls tour around and visit cities.
It means they don’t have enough business where they live or enough repeat clientele and it usually cuts into my business because they are ‘fresh meat’.)

"Hey you fuckin whore. (‘giggle giggle’---the anonymous male voice imitates my laugh) are you fuckin kidding me? A thousand dollars—suck me you whore. Oh and by the way, tell your doctor he really fucked up--you got too much Collagen in your lips. You look fuckin ridiculous." Click

(Nice.)

"Hi. It’s Hans Hammer. I saw you last week and I just called to say ‘thank you’. I think that was singularly one of the best sexual experiences I've had in my long life. I don’t see ladies twice so I won’t be seeing you again but I wanted to take the time to tell you you are a very special lady and I’ll never forget you. Bye Geisha and thanks again."

(Why won’t he see someone twice???
Nice call but so frustrating. Even if you do your best and things go well, there’s still no guarantee.)

"Nick. (Pause) Trabino."

(Cold monotone voice—how enticing. What a smart way to get a lady to call you back for an intimate meeting.)

"212-666-6666." Click.

(Nick calls at least once a month. I rarely call him back. He has a ‘history’.
Nick is a Lawyer. Nick once booked with a friend of mine and stood her up.
The one time I actually spoke to Nick and not his voicemail, I explained to him, that because of what happened with Paulina, he would be welcome to see me, but I would just ask that he pay in advance before I booked the appointment. He took down my mailing address and never sent anything.
Since that time, he calls, leaves his name and I ignore it.)

And yes, here it is, Willie’s Weekly:

(Willie is no one I know or ever hope to know but for some bizarre, stalker-kinda-reason, he thinks he and I are in a relationship. Although I have no idea where he lives (I tend to think not in the State of New York) he speaks with a thick, goopy Southern drawl dripping with familiarity as if we’ve just spoken a few moments ago and he’s just continuing the thought.)

"Geesha. This is Willie. Ah wuz juss goin’ ta give you a cahwil…(pause, pause)…um…this is rilly luv…(pause pause)..lot a wee-ad theengs. Ah’m goin be havin a tahwuk with you ebout you’re non-profit companee…(pause) Ah juss rilly wann a rid-hidded baby an if Ah merried you, Ah theenk Ah could hev a rid-hidded baby…um…Ah’ll tahwuk ta you…you need ta cahwil me back ebout this, awl-rye?" Click

"Geisha. Bill Balone. Janet is out of town and I find myself with some free time. I know it’s last minute but if you can do it tonight at 8 at the Regis give me a call back. Sorry about calling on this line but as usual I misplaced your cell number. Bye. Thanks. Look forward."

(He always loses my cell number and he always calls at the last minute and because of these two things, I rarely get to see him.
Maybe he doesn’t really want to get together? Just likes the thrill of the thought of it?)

"Hey it’s Michael. Call me back. 212-999-9999."

(Ugh. This guy and I had fights over the phone.
He calls me at least once a day if not more and I’ve never met him. And I will never meet him.
When he first began calling, I asked him to identify himself with a last name as well and give me a work number. Neither can he seem to do.
By the hundredth time he called, I told him that if he couldn’t seem to follow my very simple instructions, he was not someone I wanted to see and please do not call again.
He continues to call as if nothing was ever said.
Now he is the only "Michael" I recognize by voice alone.
Passive-Aggressive? Or just made his mark.)

"Hello Geisha. This is Don Donnie. We have an appointment tonight at 8. Unfortunately something’s come up and I’m not going to be able to make it. Sorry. I hope this give you enough notice."

(It doesn’t. It doesn’t because not only have I turned others away from the time-slot he occupied all week, but I rarely get last minute calls.
And also, because, even though he has my cell number, he chose to cancel on my work line that I sometimes don’t call into everyday if I’m already fully booked.
I put a note on his card: "Cancelled Last Minute. No Cancellation Fee or Offer of One. Couldn’t Re-Book Time. Pay-in-Advance.")

Gathering those messages takes half-an-hour.

I return the call of the Escort, leaving a message that indeed the Client is ‘fine and nothing to worry about. In fact, very nice. Wish them a lovely meeting.

Then, return the call to "Bob Bobby."
We book a time for the following week.

Find Frank’s card. Remember who he is. Recall he is a Taurus. Wish him a happy upcoming birthday.
Make an appointment for his Birthday next week.
Offer him three-hours for the price of two, as a gift for his Birthday.

I won’t have time to check my messages again until the morning, so just in case, I make one last call back to my machine.

"You have ONE new message."
A message has come in during my callbacks.

"Hey Geesha. This is Willie. Ah’m hopin you’re a vegetareen dahehter bicawz Ah know thet the vegetareen dahet is a good dahet and a vegetareen dahet is awl inywon should have…that’d rilly be a great trait ebout you…(pause)…n’ hilp me be more inta you…(pause)…alriddy into you…um…Ah’m gonna swipp you awaf a your fee-aht…why don’t you cahwil me back?…Ah nid to speek ta you ebout this…um" Click

Sigh.
And I guess it must be Friday.
Can’t call it a Week without a wonk or two from Willie.

TriBeCa Pussy

2005-04-26T23:44:00.000-04:00

Me: Should I open it now?
He: I was looking for something ‘Mermaids’.
Me: That’s Okay. It’s so sweet of you to bring me a gift.
He: Hey. A gentleman never comes calling empty handed.
Me: I love that rule. (opening the package, revealing two intertwined, dark blue, blown glass Dolphins) Oh wow. They’re gorgeous. (Kissing his lips) Thank you so so much. I love it.
He: But ‘Mermaids’, my dear, are very difficult to find.
Me: Well yes! That’s why they’re the stuff of Myths.
He: Ah ha.
Me: But you know that Dolphins are the Husbands of Mermaids right?
He: I didn’t know that.
Me: Who else would be?
He: I hadn’t thought of it.
Me: You know how Dophins f*ck?
He: How?
Me: Do you know?
He: I know how Lions do it.
Me: How?
He: Did you know that Lions have a double-headed Penis?
Me: No! What?
He: They do.
Me: What do you mean? Does a Lioness have two Pussies? Or does she like it both front and back at once or what? What are you saying? And by the way, this is an interesting piece of information to have at the tip of your brain.
He: Well, to repeat what some pretty little girl once said to me—
Me: Who me? What did I say?
He: My brain is chock full of all sorts of seemingly useless tidbits of information.
Me: That’s true. It is. Tell me about the Lion’s dick then my brain will be even fuller.
He: He has a double-headed dick because the female has, on the inside, two exact and complete sets of reproductive organs.
Me: Not two vaginas.
He: No, two sets of ovaries, two uteruses—
Me: Huh.
He: And did you know pigs—
Me: Oh yeah. Weird huh? A Corkscrew Cock. But do you think, based on the Lion-Lioness Theory that the male matches the needs of the female, that a Lady Pig, La Pig, has a corkscrew shaped vagina?
He: See now that I couldn’t say.
Me: Incomplete research.
He: Afraid so.
Me: Okay. But do you know how Dolphins do it? You like Dolphins right? Beautiful gentle creatures?
He: (nods)
Me: When a female Dolphin is in Estrus, bunches of male Dolphins, heaps of ‘em, gangs of ‘em descend upon the poor little girl and forcefully gang-bang her within and inch of her life.
He: No.
Me: Yup. I had a Dolphin try and f*ck me once. I did. Wanna hear about it or is it a boring story?
He: You’ve done a lot of things to me, but boring me has not been one of them.
Me: Not yet.
He: Not yet.
Me: This could be it then.
He: Try me.
Me: Stop me if I bore you.
He: Would you tell me already?
Me: Alright. Alright. So I’m on a dive, I used to Scuba Dive before I became neurotic and claustraphobic, and I’m on a dive in Tortolla which is one of the best places I’ve ever dove, and I’m on this dive with six guys and me and some of the guys have brought their new underwater video equipment to try out, so we actually have it on tape in case you don’t believe me—
He: Somehow I believe everything you tell me—
Me: You do? (Kissing him on the cheek) I love that. Thank you.
He: So you’re on the dive—
Me: Right. And we’re about 60 feet down and I’m wearing a mask like this (I cup my hands around my eyes to make ‘blinders’) so I can’t see unless I turn around, you know? So we’re all just diving and suddenly I feel this really hard push against my back and I spin around to see who bumped into me but everyone else is nearby but just into their own thing. Then, I float down a bit lower and I’m checking out a Lobster when I’m hit again from the side. Now I get a little panicky. I’m holding my regualator in my mouth, trying not to suck up too much air. So I siddle over to the Dive Master and I poke him in the shoulder and I write on my slate ‘something bumped me—HARD’. He reads it and lifts his shoulders in a ‘I-don’t-know’ gesture. We all drift a bit further and it happens again but this time I spin around fast and see something gray and huge swimming away in the distance and my heart starts to bang and of course, from a distance, it looks a bit like a Shark so I’m starting to freak out. Just as we’re starting to make a slow ascent, from out of nowhere it seemed, his enormous Dolphin, a Bottlenose, comes right at me and bashes his nose really hard in between my legs. I think it actually lifted me up a few feet. This guy was either rough or didn’t know his own strength. And it was just to me. I mean there’s six of us and he’s only doing all this to me.
He: He knows a cutie when he sees one.
Me: Oh c’mon! First of all, in all that equipment I look more like a deranged Grouper than anything else—
He: Suddenly I’m hungry for Grouper.
Me: Behave yourself boy. I’m in the middle of a very dramatic story here.
He: Who’s the boss.
Me: That’s right. Who’s the boss?
He: You.
Me: Oh you are a very smart boy.
He: I try.
Me: And you will be rewarded. But so then, now everyone sees it and the guys got the cameras going and he circles around again and heads straight for me and I think it might be fun to catch a ride, you know? And you know how Dolphins are. In the water, they look like they’re swimming so slow and graceful, but uh-uh. Uh-uh. I reach out and grab onto his dorsel fin and last oh, maybe four seconds. These creatures are flying. They go so fast. Maybe like 30 miles an hour. My mask fly off my face. My regualator is yanked out of my mouth and everyone circles around me to help me get my mask and reg back on so I don’t die at 60 feet under. Finally, we get back into the boat and we’re zooming back and everyone is yapping really enthusiastically about this unplanned Dolphin encounter and I’m just sitting there shaking both from the thrill of it and the fear of what just happened. And the Dive Master says to me, "Not to be too personal, but do you have your Period?" "I do." I answered. "That must be why." He says. "Why? Why? He smelled blood? I always thought that was a Shark attractor, not a Dolphin thing." "He smelled female sexuality, most probably."
He: He was lustin’.
Me: Apparently yes. He was a lustin’. And can you imagine? What if I only had a bikini on instead of an entire wetsuit? I would have been f*cked by a Dolphin.
He: I hear they have huge appendages.
Me: Not my thing. I don’t have room. I have a small apartment chock full of furniture.
He: Oh you have a very fine little apartment.
Me: Hey. But doesn’t make you think about this: Okay. The Lion has a dick to match the Lioness right? And for all we know, La Pig has a corkscrew vagina. Do you think that male dicks are made to suit female dicks of all species?
He: I’m going to wash up. (He stands to go to the bathroom)
Me: But wait. But wait. Oh. Is this making you uncomfortable?
He: Only in that for some bizarre reason that I don’t want to think about, it’s making me horny.
Me: Okay but wait. So what about guys who have in-humanly enormous cocks? Like this: (I hold up my forearm with a fist balled up at the end). I once met a guy like that and I’m like, ‘I’m so sorry. There’s no place I have to put it.’ There isn’t. You can’t even give a good blowjob. You mouth is just like, (licking just my thumb) ugh, erg, slurp and ugh. There’s nothing to do. And it certainly won’t fit down here. Ain’t enough KY in the world.
He: C’mon. I always heard women love big dicks.
Me: Women with empty apartments, maybe. You’ve heard of that right?
He: What?
Me: The ‘empty apartment’ syndrome.
He: No. What’s that?
Me: And it’s not based on the outer size of the girl either. You never know until you’re right in there. You never heard of that?
He: Tell me.
Me: Two small stories. Reader’s Digest versions, I promise. The first one was when I was working for an agency for this woman named Ellen, there was this girl who worked there named Charlise. She was the tiniest little thing—about 4 foot 11 and about 85 pounds. Adorable. And really sweet too. But for some strange reason I could never figure out, once she saw a client, she never got back for a second time. It was a mystery really. So one Christmas Eve, I was at the office, and it was just me and Ellen—the only two Jews, right? Working Christmas. And it was really slow, so Ellen, who usually didn’t socialize, came out into the living room to smoke a cigarette with me and somehow we got on to Charlise and I asked Ellen why she thought it was that Charise never got a ‘call-back’ and Ellen takes a drag and says flatly, ‘empty apartment’.
He: Did you get what she meant?
Me: Of course not. But I didn’t dare ask. But so then, a little while later, I get my first ‘couple’ call. I’m pretty nervous because I’ve never done one before and I’m not sure what to do or what to expect. I get there and the woman is gorgeous. A famous Fashion model. Tall and blonde and square-jawed and really really skinny. Like she weighs what I weigh but she’s like ten inches taller. Bones sticking out everywhere, on her chest even. And he husband or her lover or her guy or whatever he was is big and Greek. So she’s naked on the bed with her butt up in the air and me and the husband are behind her. And he’s got this monster size dick that I’m praying I don’t have to attend to. And he tells me to finger her pussy. So I do. I do it the way I would like it, slow and soft and gentle using just one finger, when all of a sudden he grabs my hand, balls it into a fist and pushes it against her pussy lips. I’m looking at him and silently shaking my head ‘no’, because frankly, if someone tried to do that to me he’d be dead. But he is stronger than me and shoves my entire fist into her. Which not only slides in easily but goes all the way up to my elbow!
He: No.
Me: Yes. And the weirder thing was, once I’m in there?
He: Yeah?
Me: Oh you like this story now, don’t you.
He: Two girls. Wet pussies. Yes. Yes. I would say I do.
Me: See how you are?
He: Geisha.
Me: Okay okay. I’m in there and I never felt anything like it before. Here she is this skinny girl and inside her it’s all smooth, like there’s no little feel-ee things. It’s like all open space.
He: Like you could fit several dicks in there.
Me: It was a Loft.
Me: You could furnish an apartment and still have room to hang Art.
Me: Right. It was a TriBeCa Loft.
He: She had a TriBeCa Pussy.
Me: She did. But so the point is—
He: There was a point?
Me: Oh my god. You gotta hang on buddy boy. I’m coming around full circle.
He: How could I ever doubt you?
Me: This’ll teach ya. So the point is, her husband, or whoever he was to her, who had this monster dick, was perfect for her TriBeCa pussy. See what I mean?
He: Elaborate.
Me: Ugh. Ok. The Lion and the Lioness. The Pig and La Pig—
He: Yeah yeah, but—
Me: So after that, I went home and in the cab on the way, it got me wondering, fist of all, how did they find each other. I mean, he was probably just looking to date a model. And she was looking to date a rich Greek guy maybe. But imagine their secret delight when they fit! And so that made me start looking up animals and their sexual mating rituals and genitals and all that.
He: Or maybe, she just put an ad in Match.com saying only men with huge furniture—
Me: And Art to hang—
He: Need apply.
Me: Possibly.
He: I’m exhausted already.
Me: Too tired to go move some furniture?
He: I only have a small table and a lamp.
Me: That’s all I have room for. I can’t afford a place in TriBeCa.

2005-04-24T02:22:00.000-04:00

Just a Blog before I go…to sleep. Long weekend and very little time to write or answer back.
Thinking about my writing on the Blog and felt there was too little material from the ‘outside/in’ point of view.
Starring at my emails packed with abundant love and too exhausted to answer in a manner befitting what was sent. Decided the best thing was to share them:

First, a flock of emails from the lovely Electra, living restlessly above ground, constantly in the eye of the Hurricane, questioning the Basic Fundamental Relationship between Male and Female, while balancing it against my own slightly jaded viewpoint:

Hi Persephone,
Thanks so much for the book(s). I can't believe you sent me a new copy of my own book. Why am I not surprised? You're such a nice person! (Have you noticed I don't paragraph)? That's the ‘lazy’ in me.

(I am paragraphing for her!)

The guy thing, the only thing is, I don't know if I already mentioned, physically he isn't your type. But hey, if there is lots of other stuff that's good/great/amazing, who cares. He is cute though, at least I think so. Not the tall, broad kind of guy, but he treats his ladies' really well. You never told me what you thought. I guess on the blogg hey!

Speaking of men and you, every friend of ours who sees you always raise their eyebrows now that we are talking about this kind of stuff. I think they are overwhelmed when they lay their eyes on you. You can't blame them though! When you leave, it's like they can breathe again, if you know what I mean. It's like they have convulsions (I think that's the right word). It is so funny! Quite amusing, actually!

I don't quite understand men, but I do understand they are very visual creatures.
You're like some kind of treat to men, and the enemy of the girlfriends and wives (at least the insecure ones). So many of them. If they feel insecure with me, god only knows how they must be feeling about you.

You will always be that woman. That is hard to live with. A plunging neckline doesn't help (that's me of course going to pick up my kid). I'm not going to change who I am. I like plunging necklines.
They are so part of me. It would be like chopping a finger off.

Anyway, even the most beautiful women, in any circumstance whatever that may be for her, always, always, cops shit from the rest of them (except for the males)? That's just the way it is. If you're pretty, you cop it, if you're ugly you cop it on both ends. I rather cop it from one end.I enjoyed the blog. Interesting and sexy! Boy do you have some stories to tell! I think you are very right to think that it is that sex energy we both have. Of course you are more obvious physically. Physical or not, if you have it, you have it.

It's like sex. It's either in you or not. Married or not. If you like it, you like it and you do it.
It saddens me to hear about people who stop having sex cause of their kids. It must be a huge reality for a lot of people. It bothers me to think that cause I've been with Dimitri for nearly 18 years, people would assume that we have no sex life. It really bothers me, because it really is like that for most of the population. It just isn't like that for us. I feel like I have to defend myself all the time in that department.

But, yes, you are right. We understand each other, even before we opened our mouths the first time we met. I instantly liked you. I liked what I saw, a very sexual being, not even knowing you. I was excited to meet another woman who could possibly live in the same kind of world that I do. You know what I mean.

I stay well away from the prim, proper, nice girls. They bore me. Most of my fun friends are very sexual and I always have a good time. But you would have to be the most interesting of all.

The last interesting woman I met disappeared. She lived in the Underworld, with a fake passport and all sorts of things. We left Manila and that was that. Just a note of hers that I have kept. It reminds me of her. She was so young. Only in her mid-20's. She desperately wanted her client that she was with to marry her. She wanted a name she said. She was Asian. Had that body you keep longing for. No boobs of course. Was pretty enough, but not beautiful or gorgeous. She was also very smart like you. She told me she used to read a lot while waiting for her clients. She used to listen a lot too. Businessmen and their lunches. She learnt a lot. She didn't have that sexual appeal. Of course all the men loved her. Funny enough, when I first saw her, I thought she had a great bod. But you know us girls we can always find something to pick on. Overall, she was attractive "beige" as you would put it.
‘Attractive’ doesn't offend me. To me it means ‘likeable’ not necessarily ‘extraordinary’. Maybe a word used because it is okay to say attractive, rather than beautiful or gorgeous in social circumstances. I think people use it because it is safe, and it doesn't give away, what one is really thinking. You know what I mean?

Maybe, people don't want the person being complimented to feel awkward, embarrassed. So don't take offense to ‘attractive’. It's just a comfort zone word.

Actually, I though ‘pretty’ was the lowest grade. I even looked up every word, ‘pretty’, ‘attractive’, ‘gorgeous’, ‘stunning’, ‘striking’. Why? Because I’ve been called all of them, and wanted to know what people were trying to say.

Not long ago I went to a conservative party. I wore that pink suit. Remember?
Anyway, Dimitrios tells me the following week, that everybody was asking about me. His client also mentioned to him that I looked so conservative.

People have this expectation of me. Like I should look like a sex goddess all the time. That's how they perceive me. That's how people perceive you too. Sometimes I get pissed off. I told Dimitri that he should know that I have many sides, like you do to. Mainly it is all about sex, like you, but yes why do they think they have the right to touch us?

Men have always tried to touch, kiss me. Dimitri says that I look like the ‘easy’ type. He says they wouldn't do it to certain women. Like the calling out in the street, the comments. You know that kind of stuff. I asked what is the difference between the other woman and me. He says they are more afraid of them. Maybe, I think they are less approachable. They have an un-friendlier vibe. We have an inviting vibe. I could dress like as conservative and all covered up and get the same results. It's happened to me, where men have gone crazy, wild and I am completely conservative. So there you have it.

We are, I guess. female soul mates. It took a long time, but we found each other. I understand you completely. Even when you wore your beige conservative jacket, it made no difference; Persephone cannot be shielded. It's in our eyes! xx ElectraHi Persephone,Me again. It's 1.24am. We somehow live in another time zone to everyone else it seems. I just read your latest blog again. I enjoyed it even more. The first time around I was a little confused with Heesham and Hoosham. Not sure if I got the names right. So this time around, I giggled a lot more. It was a great piece as usual.

Wow, what a relationship you have with your hairdressers. They are strange aren't they? It's the Middle Eastern thing I guess. I'm a little pissed that he did what he did. Although it is sexy and all at the same time (I understand that, cause I understand you/me), but really he had no right.

Like in my last email to you, I don't know what it is about our energy.
Men do seem to think "the gate is open" as you said.
It pisses me off.
It's nice to be noticed, but we have to be able to draw the line.

You are so much like me. I think of the past and some of the experiences I have had.
It's taken me a very long time, to say "no". Although, I still end up with the guys no., only cause I am uncomfortable. You know, about hurting his feelings and all that.

Actually, I was quite proud of myself when I didn't give my number out to a complete stranger. (The guy at Maccanudo’s) It was quite empowering for me.
I felt like I stepped up, and it wasn't my problem, it was his.
He had to respect that I was married and had kids. You know what I mean.

Our problem is we put stranger's feelings first before ours. In other words we respect the way they feel before we respect the way we feel. Why is it okay for the guy to make us feel uncomfortable? Does he even care if we feel uncomfortable?

I have realized "no", they don't. So now I don't feel as bad about saying "no". I still have a long way to go. I know that. It is just a part of who we are. Our makeup. We are generous, nice people and that gets us into a lot of trouble (especially if you're married or in a relationship).
I have also realized that, if a man doesn't necessarily say anything to you it doesn't mean he isn't attracted to you. In fact, I think a man that takes a while to approach you and say anything, is more respectful. It's a girl thing. It takes us a long time to realize this.
I still do it.

There is a guy at the gym. Nice looking and all. I sometimes catch his glance. I do wonder why he doesn't pay any attention to me. But then again, he sees my child, he sees me with another man once and a while. Maybe, he just respects the fact that I am taken and I have a kid, and also he is being professional.

He may not even think I'm pretty, or maybe he does.
I guess it doesn't matter.
But the funny thing is, I am curious as to ‘why’.
So now I go out of my way not to notice him.
I am doing what he is doing to me, and I'm not worried about it.
The truth is, I am waiting to see how long it will take for him to notice me more.

Some guys, like my husband do this to girls too.
Dimitri, doesn't go out of his way when he meets someone beautiful or whatever. He actually does quite the opposite to every other guy. He's weird like that. He has told me girls do wonder why he doesn't go all soft at the knees. So I do have a male's perspective on this.

But the point is, we expect them to say something, to make a pass, to have those eyes gazing for a moment. I guess I am just use to it and when it doesn't happen, like in this scenario, I wonder why.

We are basically people pleasers and nothing is wrong with that. People gravitate to us for unknown reasons. I guess we have a nice energy, a welcoming energy and that's why they approach us. We are very approachable. We are not cold, nor are we stuck up. Sometimes we also sell ourselves short. People have told me that also. "You sell yourself short". I always respond "I don't think so, I just think I'm pretty ordinary, average" and leave it at that. We don't see what others see in us in short. They see alot more, it's sad we don't see it as clearly.

Nighty nite. Sweet dreams.
Electra xx

It's 3.44am and I've done it again. Loved, loved, loved what you wrote. See, I peeked to see if there was anything. There it was. I couldn't resist.
You have started it "the blog" between the both of us.
I think it could be great like you said. I have to get my ass out of bed. Set it up. We will have to set it up soon.

I'm so glad we understand each other. Maybe we were twins in another life. It's great when you can find that someone special. Someone that you get excited about seeing. I'm not that excited these days to see too many people. I want to, but somehow I know I don't really value being with them. It's still nice and all, but I seem to be giving the advice and getting none back. I want to learn new things, but when you are only giving, it is not that much fun.
So with you, we give and take emotionally. We both learn I guess.

And besides that, you are my secret friend.
That's exciting too.
I can't say that about too many other people can I!
It's almost like you are my mistress in the real world.
Like the men in your world.
You're their special gem.
You're in their secret thoughts, when their secretaries go by in the middle of the day, when they lay in bed with their wife.
They play you in their heads, when they want to feel excited, naughty, above the law. More frequent smirks appear on their faces at the oddest moments of their day, in a serious meeting perhaps, in the middle of dictation, on the subway, at the dinner table with their wife.
Our secret is protected.
We value it, nurture it, and defend it.
Bottom line, we need it!! It makes us feel special!!

xxx Electra

And then an email from my brilliant friend the Playwright who is ravaged from a recent train accident:

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 halls.

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!

Just wanted to include what was coming into my life and surrounding me, rather than always commenting from my own point of view.
I am lucky.
I am lucky to have such incredible people in my life that love me no matter that I am Persephone living in Hades.

Next entry: "The Spider and The Fly".
Yes.
Today I was given a script to memorize.

'Geisha IS The Black Widow Spider.'

Cumming soon to a Blog near you!
Stay Tuned.

Persephone and Electra Venture Above Ground

2005-04-23T01:30:00.000-04:00

Although we didn’t meet until in our thirties, as neighbors in our apartment building, Electra and I both stood at similar crossroads when we were in our early twenties.

At twenty years old, Electra was in love with her boyfriend. A man she adored. A man with whom she had ecstatic satisfying sex. In fact, the first and only man she had had sex with at all.

At twenty years old, I, as ‘Lane’ at that time, was in love with my boyfriend. He wasn’t my first man nor was he my first love, nor was he my ‘soul-mate’, but I adored him and he was the first man I had an orgasm with and subsequently had ecstatic satisfying sex with.

Electra’s man, (I will call him Dimitrios) proposed marriage.

My man, Philip Seraphim, proposed marriage.

Electra accepted.

I declined.

And thus, like two trains speeding away on opposing tracks, our lives detoured.

Halloween 2003, I attend a party in our building. Filled to capacity with frumpy moms, sexy moms, bored daddies, tired nannies, obedient servants and flocks of howling young’uns, I enter the room. Through the mayhem, my attention, my focus is immediately magnetized by a stunning petite woman standing with a paper cup next to a man I assume to be her husband.

Her eyes, penetrating; her gaze intense and unwavering. Her tiny face with its pearl white skin, surrounded by a free flowing mane of raven black hair, is accented by an exclamation point of hot-cherry red on her lips. A black, tight mini-dress, low-cut and daring, encases her slender fragile frame.

But it is not these outer lures that draw me to her. There is something else. Something outside the visible.
Something I can’t name.

I make my way over. Introduce myself.
We chatter smiling, lightly laughing in the way people do at parties not really taking in the conversation nor having a conversation worth taking in.
And. Yet.

And yet.
When I crawl into bed that night, her visage haunts me keeping me from sleep.
What is it about her?
I’m not attracted to her sexually.
Am I?
No. I know myself.
I feel innately we long for the same thing, but I don’t know what that ‘thing’ is.
It’s something I can’t name.

Weeks or maybe months later, we meet again in the Lobby of the Building.
We share a drink. Or rather, she has tea and I have wine and a cigarette.
This time the conversation delves deeper. Mostly about sex.
And I lie to her.

A white lie.
I cannot tell her what I do for a living.
I can tell no one until I’m certain my secret is in a safe, reasonable, loving heart.
And I have made grave mistakes of judgment in the past that turned out to be almost deadly.
I err on the side of caution.
I wish I could tell her. I long to tell her as I suspect that she, of all people, would understand.
When she leaves I find myself regretting the lie and plagued with wondering why I so yearn to confess to her.

More time passes. We catch some moments together, here and there.
She talks a lot.
She talks without pausing.
She talks without sentence breaks or paragraph spacing.
She talks without editing. Without guile. With unsurpassed curiosity.
With trust that she will be understood, felt and known.
Her energy is forward. Forceful. Electric.
She is both invigorating and exhausting.
And utterly infectious.
When she is gone, I cannot stop thinking of her.
I love her.

At work soon after, a client tells me I talk a lot.
He tells me I talk without pausing.
He tells me my mind is always whirling.
He tells me I notice everything, feel all, respond to the slightest changes in breath.
He tells me I am a force of Nature, both invigorating and exhausting.
Why do you see me then? I ask him, slightly hurt by his comments.
Because I can’t get you out of my thoughts, he says.
It’s hard not to love you.
Like bad weather? I say.
Some people chase Hurricanes, he says.

I call Electra. I want to see her. I need to see her.
I am desperate to name what I could not name before.

Dimitrios is out of town on business.
What she desires most is a night out, not as a ‘married mom of two young daughters’, but as a sexy, feline woman flirted with and lusted after.
It is the last thing I wish. I have my fill of men all day everyday and although I love them, the last event I want to partake in, is a game of cat and mouse with rich boys at bars.
But I understand.

Maccanudo’s.
A Cigar Bar on the Upper East Side where smoking is still legal, Grandfathered in under the Cigar statute.
Chosen in compromise: I can smoke and there will be plenty of men with whom to flirt.

Surprisingly sparse for a Saturday night, we easily find seats at the bar and are surrounded by mostly individual men in suits and attitude.
I order Champagne, finishing my first flute before she’s had her third sip.

She is telling me she has taken my advice. That she has begun to write. That she’s writing all the time, late at night. That the writing is giving her a release, an outlet, lifting her life out of the mundane she feels is drowning her. She is telling me what she is writing about. Female issues. Issues of Beauty. Issues of Love. Questions of relationships with men, especially with her husband. Writing about sex. Writing about being a stay-home mom.

Suddenly I understand.

She is Me and I am Her.
This is who I would be had I chosen Philip Seraphim.
And perhaps, maybe not in my same profession, but she would be as I am now had she not chosen Dimitrios.
The ‘something’ rises to the surface and takes a name:
We are Kindred Spirits.
Twin Souls on different journeys munching on grass we both feel is greener on the opposite side of the fence.

Wheels are turning inside me. Wheels of a Mill, picking up water, dumping it, churning, churning, picking up and turning, faster and faster and faster until I burst.

"I am a Courtesan." I blurt out, interrupting her.

"I am a Courtesan and you should write a Blog. I have a Blog. We should write a Blog together. Don’t you see? We’re the same—so similar; we just chose opposite so long ago. And now. Now here you are. Here you are which is where I would be had I chosen Philip. Sometimes I think I should have. I look at you and I wonder if I should have. You have two beautiful children and a husband you have great orgasmic sex with and few worries about money. I could have been you. And you could have been me. Don’t you think that would make an interesting Blog? The almost-same woman writing from opposite sides of a fence all based on one choice made so long ago?"

"What’s a Courtesan exactly?"

"I see mostly men for a set period of time and in that time I love them up and hopefully put a spring in their step, or as one client said, a hitch in their giddy-up."

"Do you have sex?"

"Most of the time. 97% of the time, yes."

"My god. I think that’s fantastic! I always wondered what that kind of life was like. And I always wondered what the girls were thinking while they were doing it, you know? And is that what you’re Blog is about?"

"Sort of. Actually, for a Blog that’s about someone in the ‘sex industry’, there seems to be surprisingly little sex mentioned. I’m not sure why it’s coming out that way."

Two men, mid-fifties, divorced or single I surmise, sidle up to the backs of our barstools. Based merely on proximity, one man begins chatting to Electra and the other to me.
Several minutes into the about-nothing conversations, Electra’s guy interrupts changing it into a four-way discussion.

"This is your friend?" the bigger guy, the one over Electra’s barstool says.

"She’s my friend." I smile.

"What do you girl’s do?" the graceful looking man behind my barstool asks.

"We’re writers." I say. Electra gives me a shy look.

"She’s gorgeous." The big guy says to me.

(Why would any man tell one woman that another is gorgeous? Is it because he thinks he can lose one player and by doing so, boost his score with the other? Always confuses me.)

"She is. She’s stunning." I reply, meaning it.

"She’s unbelievable." The big guy says.

"You know it." I say.

"And she’s breaking my heart." The big guy says.

"Is she? So soon? Give her time." I tease.

"Aw no no. That’s it. I’m done. I only make the offer once."

"What did you offer?"

"You wanna know what she turned down? You wanna know?"

"I do. I do."

"I asked her to go out to dinner with me next Saturday and she turned me down cold."

Electra is giggling, looking down at her hands, tilting her eyes up to meet my gaze, mouth agape silently pleading for a way out. She doesn’t want to have to say she’s married. She doesn’t want to have to say she’s a mom. She just wants a night out to flirt. Girls just wanna have fun.

"But boy, that was fast." I nudge him.

"Why? What?"

"You guys were only talking a few minutes when you asked her out to dinner. That’s pretty fast."

"But look at her."

"I know."

"Look at her."

"I know."

"She’s amazing. How can I let that go? You know what I would do with this girl?"

"What?"

"I’d marry her and set her up in an apartment and handcuff her to the wall. I’d never let her out. Gorgeous."

Interesting plan.

"He just didn’t ask me to dinner." Electra speaks finally.

"What did he ask? What did you ask?"

"I told her" he jumps in before she can continue, "I would give her a month’s salary just to go to McDonalds with me."

"Wow. That’s some offer. So what’s that? Like Ten thousand for Micky Dees?"

"You’d do it wouldn’t you? Right now. Wouldn’t you?" he says to me.

"Sure. For ten thousand dollars I’d do and eat anything you wanted."

"Lets go. Right now. Let’s go."

"You have to pay first. Let’s go to the Bank."

We are all laughing now.

"Are you a Capricorn?" I ask the Big guy.

"Why? Are you into all that Horoscope crap?"

"A little. Are you?"

"What?"

"When’s your birthday?"

"January 16th."

"Hmm. Yep. Capricorn."

The graceful guy (Name: Richard. Sign: Libra) speaks,
"How did you guess he was Capricorn?"

"I don’t know. Just the way he’s so goal and business oriented even about romance."

"C’mon. Don’t turn me down." The big guy is pleading with Electra.
She’s penetrating me with a laser stare.

"You know what it is?" I say. "It’s nothing personal. Its not you. She has a boyfriend."

He looks pissed. He reaches past her shoulder stubbing out the ashes of his cigar.

"This is what I always say. I always say, you can’t meet anyone nice in a bar."

"That’s not fair. She’s nice. She just has a boyfriend."

"So she’s sittin’ here deceiving people."

"No. She just wanted to go out with a friend, maybe meet a sexy man and enjoy her femininity and sexuality with a little flirtation. What’s wrong with that? That’s joie de vie! It’s good for the goose and its food for the gander. You get to get a boner and she gets all titillated and appreciated and everyone goes home feeling better about themselves. It’s fun."

A cross-scowl is creating a mask of his face.

"Oh Capricorn man. Let it go. It just life and fun. It doesn’t always have to be ‘close the deal’, does it?"

We are all laughing, all light hearted enjoying the joke until he says,
"Not in your case."

"What does that mean?"

"Someone like you—"

"What do you mean, ‘someone like me’?"

"I know what type you are."

"What type am I?"

"You’re the type that sits home on a Saturday night eating popcorn, watching Mystery movies on late night TV."

I guffaw almost choking on my Champagne, of which now I have had four glasses to Electra’s half-glass and am feeling a bit bold and yet extraordinarily sensitive.
Electra’s eyes and mouth are wide as if she has her finger in an electrical outlet.

"Me?"

"You."

"I look like the type who sits at home eating popcorn and watching Mysteries on a Saturday night?"

He doesn’t answer, just stares at me with a hateful sneer.

"Thanks a lot." I say quietly turning my back to him, lighting a cigarette.
And as the flame burns the tip of the tobacco, my thoughts collect the day seeing my two clients paying me thousands of dollars just to be in my company.

I hate ‘real life’. And I hate the way men treat me in ‘real life’.
At the very least, it’s confusing.
At most, it’s as painful as a stabbing murder.

"So you won’t go out with me?" he’s saying to Electra.
She shakes her head, coy and smiling.

"Here." He hands me a card.

"What’s this?"

"My business card. If she won’t go, I guess I can settle for second best."

My mouth drops. I suck in a huge heap of loud air.

"Second best?! Second best?"
I rip his card into tiny, teeny tiny confetti, drop it in the ashtray and light it aflame.

"I’m not speaking with you anymore." I say turning my back to him, watching the fire die to ash.

"We were gonna go over to Bosco’s if you girls want to come with us?" Richard-the-Libra says.

"No. Thank you."

"You don’t want to come?" Capricorn asks.
Electra looks at him, at me and shakes her head ‘no’.

"You can’t meet anyone nice in a bar. See I told you that." Capricorn hits Libra’s shoulder.

"Are you kidding? How can you meet two women, obviously good friends, insult one and expect the other to want to be with you? Where’s the logic?"

They leave.
Electra’s face is vibrating.

"God! I can’t believe what a jerk that guy was to you."

"I know. He was. Why was he?"

"I don’t know. Men can be jerks sometimes can’t they?"

"Oh yeah."

"You know what I like about going out like this and meeting guys like that? It’s like a fix for me, you know?"

I raise my eyebrows, questioning.

"Because I go and then I meet a jerk like that and then I go home and see what I’ve got and I really appreciate it all over again, you know? And then when I get disenchanted again after a while and I go out again and I see one of those guys again, it’s like a fix. You know what I mean?"

"I do."

She goes home and feels better about her choice.

And she should.

I go home after nights like these, (which is why I rarely venture above ground) and feel a profound sense of despair.
Despair I usually manage to keep at bay by staying away, staying far away deep in the bowels of Hades.

But tonight, I am rescued.

I am rescued one: because I am too tired and tipsy to dwell; two: because I am so tired and tipsy that I immediately fall asleep (snoring I’m sure) and three: because I come home the next evening from work to a flurry of emails from Electra:

From: Electra
To: Persephone

Thanks sweety.

Guess what, this guy I know, is so interested in you. He used to work around the corner from us. I was speaking to him today. He was describing you. I was describing you. He says 'she has big breasts'. I say 'yes, and a tiny body'. We are trying to determine whether we are speaking about the same person. He says 'she has dirty blonde hair', I say, 'do you mean blonde, strawberry hair?', he says 'yes, yes'. Whenever you were more red I guess. I say, 'she has large lips', he says 'yes'. I say 'she a beautiful, tiny nose', he says 'yes'.

He actually has brought you up a number of times. He is the serious type. He knows how to look after a woman too! He is splitting up with his wife. She is leaving him. He seems very giving from what I know of him. I guess he is a free man now and wants to have a nice time, but if the right girl came along, he would commit to a serious relationship. He is that type of guy. He also doesn't care about people's backgrounds. He is quite open.

Anyway, he always talked about this gorgeous girl in my building. I said 'I think you're talking about my best friend'. He goes 'really'. I go 'yeah'. I told him what a wonderful person you are and all that kind of stuff. The only thing is, he isn't a really big, huge man that you like. He is the opposite. But then again, you never know, you still might really like him.

I don't know. I think he is quite cute. He has that All-American next door appeal. I would describe him as the 'pretty boy' type. Actually, he is Jewish also. The fair type. Not tall, but a 'tall heart'. Tell me what you think. He would like to go out for drinks. Anyway, whatever, I thought I would mention it to you. I think I told him that if you found the right guy, you would probably settle. So there you have it some goss for the day.
Love,
Electra

Then another email:
From: Electra
To: Persephone

Now it's 1.20am. I just read your last three bloggs. They were great. I'm telling you, they are very entertaining. It's like when I'm reading my latest favorite book. My eyes wide open, waiting to see what you are about to say next. It's so fantastic. Damn when is the next episode. Have to wait. It is really strange. It's like watching something on t.v. and you have to wait until next week. You write so, so well. I love what that editor or whoever wrote. I feel like I am getting to know you better from your stories. I know what it is like when you're young and something happens to you. It sticks in your head for the rest of your life.

Funny thing is, why doesn't all the positive things stick. You know, everytime someone tells you how beautiful you are, gorgeous, stunning. Funny thing is, if a woman says it, you somehow think it is believable 50%. Why would a woman lie, you would like to think. What does she have to gain from it. But men, well, anything a man says, somehow we are made to believe that they are just lying. I guess it comes from our mothers. Don't believe the boys, he will only trick you.

I've always believed that our world would be much easier for males and females if we just decided to say that having sex with lots of people (if one desires) is okay. If the men didn't treat us like sluts and talk about us like that, then they would for sure get laid a lot easier. Do you know what I mean. If I as a girl, knew I wasn't going to be judged by the guy, society then everybody would be happy. No games, no bullshit. Just great lovemaking. I'd get off, he'd get off and no-one cares. Guys would be a lot happier, if it were like that. They created the mess, so I guess we should let them suffer. We as girls could get laid a hundred times over in a day, they can't. I wonder why??

Anyway, your writing is brilliant. I would definitely buy a book if I were to skim through a book with text like that. I often buy books like that. I flick through, find interesting text and make a decision. I'm telling you, push it. I'm as ordinary as one could be, (sort of) and I love what you are writing. It would sell. No doubt about it. There are lots of people like me who like something out of the ordinary. People would be fascinated, it's a different world. The way you put it, is so fascinating. Even I, am getting into your head, and it is making me think so differently. I can't explain it. You write in a way, that shows you as a real person, not just someone who is there to provide a service that no-one values. From what your colleagues are seem to be saying, it is so obvious that you do something so different to them and different that society even thinks. Like your Asian girlfriend, people think of it like that. In and out. You're not like that. You're a threat to them. I reckon.

See, that's why you could write a brilliant book. You're not one of them. I understand you. You are a Courtesan and nothing less. I understand where that belief comes from you. Most would think what's the difference, but from the way you work, there is a huge difference. Do what you do best (including all your other talents, writing etc.). You're a smart cookie. It is obvious. That is threatening to others. You have sex appeal, you're beautiful, and you’re smart. The world punishes you for that. Doesn't it suck!!

Anyway honey, I find your bloggs entertaining. I'm not even reading my books anymore. Haven't picked one up for a few weeks now. Keep writing, I love it

love me xx

And suddenly I am new. The words of the night before vanish.

From: Persephone
To: Electra

Oh my! Thank you for the 'goss'! How nice to be thought of by someone anonymous! Kinda tingly!

I am in the middle of writing a blog about you and about us.

I can barely express through words how much your even reading the blog, much less allowing it to affect you, means to me…

It is the only creative outlet I have left in my life and it means so much when someone I love takes the time to explore it.
So many of my friends haven’t cared to even peruse it at all.

Through our friendship, we have the rare opportunity to look back in time and see ‘what would have happened had I taken a different path, when standing ‘neath the crossroads had chosen the other road'.

We rescue each other just by being together.
That is the Bliss of finding a Kindred Spirit.

We are Known, we are Felt, we are Understood.
And that is the ‘something’ between us I knew existed but couldn’t name.

Thank you beyond words…

I love you.
Persephone

Heesham Hoosham Electra and Does it Say "Escort" on my Forehead?

2005-04-22T01:30:00.000-04:00

I have a friend—a Girl! A Girl who’s a Friend—but not a ‘Girlfriend’. But YEAH! I have a Girlfriend.
For the sake of the anonymity of this Blog, I will call my girlfriend "Electra".
Odd but precise for she is truly Electric.
I adore her and love her as I would myself; probably that’s part of the point—it may be a narcissistic love—but not entirely. Go with me on this one.
And now I know you’re probably wondering, ‘what does Electra have to do with Heesham copping a feel of your breasts today?’

Oh so now, see? I’m lost on a thread. I’m babbling. I know. I babble when I’m excited and I’m excited because I don’t have many friends that are Girls so I’m excited about something that is unusual for me and therefore exciting but must seem a bit mundane to you. You’re NOT wondering, because as I read this over, I realize I haven’t mentioned the entire point of the story which is why Heesham took a long feel of my breasts today, or rather, being that he is my Hair Dresser and not a Client, why I allowed it. Had I mentioned this first it would have brought me easily on a slippery downslide as to why I mentioned Electra. Obviously, it has been a confusing day.
Week.
Day.
Day and Week.

Today first and then I’ll go back and if I’m lucky, I’ll be able to tie it all together and hopefully, when all is said and done, you can answer my final question at the end.
Sigh.
Breathe.

It all begins with the plague of my hair.
I have hair that is the antithesis of the Pantene commercials—although, because of the genius of my Hair Dressers, you would never suspect such a Horror thrived on my head.
But it’s true and I confess it openly. I have limp, do-nothing, not-good-for the-shape-of-my-face hair.
So then it really begins with an uncooperative face.
I have a very unsymmetrical face.
Combined with unflattering hair.
Which depending on how you look at it, (both literally and figuratively) can be ugly or beautiful.
But never ‘pretty’. Never cute.
And at worst: ‘Attractive.’
Ugh!
I hate that word. So f*cking beige!
This would not be such a tragedy if I were I Girl in ‘Real Life’ but being a Girl that makes her Livelihood partially by ‘Visual Statement’, well, it’s a definite obstacle.
That being the case, here’s the thing:
I get my hair blown out everyday of my life since 1996.

Everyday.

In 1996, I became Bi-Coastal working my Business in both NYC and LA.
In NYC, I was still a protegee of Ellen.
The Internet had not yet bloomed so at this time, Independent Ladies were still with Agencies.
That’s when I met Heesham and Hoosham.
Very handsome Lebanese brothers who opened a tiny walk-in Salon on the Upper West Side.
Their mother lives in Lebanon, still wears complete coverage including headpiece and veil—only eyes exposed and had given birth to eleven children. Ten of which are still alive.

At that time, my hair was shorter, cut in layers and needed a talented hand to whip it into an attractive du.
And talented, they were.
Heesham, a chronic hypochondriac and severely jealous of his younger brother, was my first, and Loyalist that I am, I stuck with him for years.
Also, because I came in everyday, they gave me the great rate of $20 a blow job.

NO.
(For my hair! Dirty minds!)

And the price has remained the same twelve years later.

At one point, Heesham went home to Lebanon for over a month, to pick a wife (as is their custom) and I was passed on to his younger brother Hoosham.

Hoosham was charming, easy-to-laugh, exuberant, and a consummate professional.
We saw one another every morning.
So much so that, if I hadn’t been in touch with my parents for a week or so, they would call the Hair Salon to see if I was still alive.
So much so that I wrote the Hair Salon number on the bland of any application that required: ‘in case of an emergency’.
That’s how much I was there.

Heesham returned a month or so later to New York with a stoic, non-English speaking wife twelve years younger than he, on his arm and in his life.
And I was caught in a dilemma. Who should do my hair?

Hair-Stylists, (as most women might concur) are very sensitive about this issue.
Either way, it was Heesham that was the major owner so even if Hoosham did my hair, Heesham would get a cut.
I stuck with Hoosham.

Heesham, however, taking this personally, decided never to speak to me again.

(Now I understand a little clearer why what happens, happens in the Middle East. There is no middle ground. Truly. Every day I would come into the Salon and even though I had been a friend and a customer for years, Hesham wouldn’t say ‘hello’, wouldn’t take my phone calls, wouldn’t look at me.)

Choosing not to leave the Salon, I continued on with Hoosham, doing my best not to let Heesham affect my emotions or my desperate hair needs.

Eventually, Hoosham and I became friends outside the Salon.
Ten years my junior and, devoutly religious (eventually he would need to marry a woman from his country and of his faith) it never occurred to me that there would be any romantic interests.
With this as a basis for our ‘friendship’, he and I explored the obscure All-Arab areas of New York and New Jersey.

After work, in his SUV, we drove over the Bridges and through the Tunnels to these hidden Restaurants and Bars.

He taught me bits and pieces of Arabic.
He made Arabic CD’s for me.
He taught me how to burn and smoke an ‘Argee-lee’ (a Hooka pipe).
He drove me to Arab groceries and stores.
He showed me the different foods and how to buy them.
He taught me what ‘good Tabooli’ really tasted like.
He instructed me on the difference between ‘Argee-lee’ tobaccos.
He schooled me in Arabic Dance.
As you probably know by now, anything that I don’t know or understand, enthralls me.
I was in Heaven.
When I was with him, I was no longer in America. I was in an exotic land, too dangerous to go to in ‘real life’ but hidden just in my backyard.
I loved not comprehending a literal word but understanding everything.
I adored getting up to dance in a seductive way that seemed to threaten all the staunchly Arabic men at the places we attended.
I knew I was safe because I was with Hoosham.

And then, I began to fall in love with him.
I tried not to.
I tried not to because he was now my friend for several years.
I tried not to because of his Religion and his obvious Destiny.
I tried not to because of our age difference.
And most importantly, I tried not to because he was the most important person in my livelihood—he was my blessed hairdresser, and if anything went awry—woe to my business and me.

On a particularly drunken, Hedonistic, dancing, feasting, Bacchanalian evening, he drove me home and it happened.
We made love and slept together.
It was nice. Quick. But had we more experience together, I could imagine it would get progressively better as our bodies and our energies seemed to match.

We fell asleep around two. (A.M.)
I set the alarm for 8. (A.M.)
He had to go up the street and open the Salon by 9 and had his first customer (Me) at 9:30.
I had to get up to shower and get to the Hair Salon for my 9:30 appointment.
It was sort of bizarre really.

He leaves. I shower.

On my way to the Salon, I pick him up (as a sweet joke) a Traveler’s-size toothbrush and toothpaste, stashing it discreetly in a Tiffany’s bag.
(That was the only difference between that day and all the others that came before. The toothbrush and the toothpaste.)
From my perspective.
It would soon become obvious, not in his.

The next day is a Saturday.
A Client calls and makes an unexpected appointment.
I call the Salon to for a blow-dry.
Hoosham is booked all day but offers that I can see Shanz (an Indian gal working there on the weekends.)
Having no choice (in my mind), I take the appointment.

9:14 (A.M.) my house phone rings. It’s Hoosham.
Now, after having been intimate with him, I’m tingling upon hearing his voice through the receiver—he’s never called me at home before.
But the voice is angry. The voice is hitting my ear in a tone I’ve never heard from him before.

"Are you mad at me? What’s wrong?"

I’m almost laughing. I can’t believe he’s upset. I can’t fathom what I’ve done to cause him to be out-of-sorts.

But he is.
Oh god, is he ever.

After many minutes of trying to assess what the issue is, he finally concludes without making it clear by saying,
"I don’t want you as my Client anymore. I don’t want you to come into the Salon anymore."

I’m shaking. I’m in tears. My voice is rattling.
"Why? Hoosham. What have I done? What happened? Just tell me. Whatever it was, I know—I absolutely know I didn’t mean it. I love you. You are my friend. I can’t imagine my life without you. I can’t imagine my life without seeing you every morning. What is it?"

"You betrayed me."

Shocked Silence.

Finally:
"I did? How? What did I do? What did I say? What happened?"

"You went to Shanz."

Silence.

He told me to.
He was booked all day.
I had to work.
I needed my hair done.
I needed my hair done or my face would have just run rampant.
So rampant I might have lost a Client.

"Hoosham." I am weeping. "Hoosham. Please don’t throw us away. I have been coming to you and Heesham for ten years. Even if you looked at it from just a strictly professional point of view, why throw me away?"

No Reply.
Breathing from both sides of the phone.

"Hoosham. Don’t discard our friendship. I’m begging you. I love you as you. I love you as my friend. You are the best Hair Stylist I have ever had. I only went to Shanz because you said you were booked and you-"

"You are not welcome."
Click.

To this day, Hoosham, who has now left the Salon and owns a Gas Station in Nashville has never forgiven me or spoken to me again.

Middle Eastern mentality is very tough.
Boy oh Boy.
Although I have never been there,
I’ve been there.

A week later, on a Monday, when I know Hoosham has his day off, I call the Salon and bravely speak, for the first time in years, to the disgruntled Heesham pleading with him to take me back.

Perhaps to spite his brother, whom he has always felt his veiled Mother favored, he agrees.

From that day ‘til now, Heesham is now the Maestro of my Hair.

Whew.
Long way to go to bring this up to today.

Heesham’s young bride blossomed into a devoted, loving, friendly Mother-of-his-only-child.
She is lovely, sweet, and smart and now speaks fairly good recognizable English.
Who says these arranged marriages can’t work?
Are they any better than Love dissolving into disappointment?
They choose. They commit. And eventually, they fall in love.
There is no disgruntlement as there were few expectations to begin with.
However.
However.
A dog is a dog. And a man is a man.
And Heesham is one or the other or both.
I think of him as the Artist of my unruly Hair.
And necessary to my Financial Security.

I am sitting in the chair today.
He has just finished ‘blowing me’.
His hand falls to my shoulders and begin rubbing.
Rubbing so firm yet focused that my eyes close as I let my body relax into the feeling.

No one massages me.
Rather, very few people massage me.

"Let me" he whispers a few minute later.

"Hmm?" My eyes are still shut.

"Let me. You know I want to. You know I need to. Don’t make me beg."

"Hmmm?" I open my eyes finding his gaze in the mirror in front of us.

"Perseph—I’ll pay you. What you want. I’ll pay you what you want."

I feel his hands on my back, my shoulders, delicious, soothing, relaxing, but can’t answer.

"I will pay you. What is it? 300? I’ll pay you."

I giggle coyly. Don’t want him to get mad at me again and forbid me from his Hair Services but—
"Heesham! C’mon. Stop now."

"Why? Why? You don’t want me to be happy?"
He takes a hair-cutting cloak, whisks it around covering the front of me, snapping it behind my neck.

"Heesham. What are you doing?"

"Just a little. Please. Pleeeeesssse. Just let me touch them a little. Just for a minute."

I toss him a ‘naughty boy’ look.

"Why not? Why not? How long have we known each other? You can’t do that for me?"
Taking a product off his nearby stand, he drips it on his hands, then rubs his palms together finally placing both hands back on my shoulders.

"No."

"Please?"

His fingers push into my tense muscles coaxing the stress away.

I am torn.
Across from us are the other Hair Dresser and his client watching us in the opposite mirror.
"There are people in here." I whisper.

"They can’t see." He whispers back into my ear, his hand leaving my back shoulder moving forward in circular motions to my pectoral muscles.

I know where he’s going.
He’s going down.
Down beneath the cloak that hides his hands.
Into my bra cup.
Finding my breasts.
Nagging my nipples.
I keep my eyes closed, my mouth shut, my breathing even.
I pretend, to all outer appearances that he’s still only massaging my shoulder blades.
But he is not.
And my nipples are happy, reacting, shooting messages down south to where the wetness begins.

"Stop." I smile. I giggle. I am coy. "No more."
I re-tuck my boobies back into their hiding place away from his fingers.

"Just a little more. No nipples. I promise. No nipples."

"No!"

"Just a little. Please? C’mon."

"Oh you are so bad. You are a very bad boy."

"C’mon. Since the baby my wife and me don’t have sex anymore."

"No! No more. That’s enough."

He relents.

I get up 'making light'. Laughing. Paying him for my ‘blowjob’.

From across the mirror on the other side of the room, I pick up on the whispered conversation between that Hair Dresser and his client, catching her phrase:
"…you guys…like a Bordello in here…"
My face is hot red.

Why did he do that?
Why did he need to do that?
Why did he feel he could do that?
With me.

I squash the round earpieces of my iPod headphones into my ears and head into the street.
It’s set on ‘Shuffle’.
Of course, what comes on?
"Layla" (Eric Clapton) and I remember from when I was young and the song first came out and my name was still Lane-a and men fell on their knees and sang to me from the lyrics,
"Lane-a, you got me on my knees Lane-a! I’m begging darlin’ Please! Lane-a."
And then I think of Electra.

Electra.
My new wonderful soul-mate sister girlfriend.
Electra is the only woman I’ve ever met in my life—Escorts and Civilians included—that just naturally exudes a vibe that pulsates SEX.

And I wonder if we’re friends partially because we recognize that aura around each other and therefore feel comfortable speaking and being together?

Or, I wonder, do others see me the same as I see her? Because if they do, I can understand how men could feel ‘the gate is open to come in and plow the fields’.

Or is it possible, that I have been doing what I’ve been doing for soooooo long, that I have a strange hologram on my forehead that reads: "Escort"

Finally, I toss the question around my brain of,
Why did I let him?

Ah, but that one is easy and can be answered with a question:

What, after all, is a Girl without her Hair Dresser?

2005-04-19T01:59:00.000-04:00

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-filed.
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!

Aaargha!
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."