Monday, May 10, 2010

Over time I’ve collected bits of possible posts, but for various reasons they’ve never made it into the blog. Usually I found something else to write about or was never in the mood to finish them. I’ve decided to complete some of them and post them as an off and on series. They’ll be divorced of context, time and place, and may be from past professional engagements or my sexual wanderings.

We met for lunch and then to a small boutique hotel nearby. The hotel selection was curious as I believed that larger would allow greater anonymity. The hotel and room were of the belle époque style that depending on your opinion signifies or oppresses Paris. The gentleman was a Parisian, fortyish, slender, who obviously worked hard to maintain his physical condition. He was either quiet or displeased with me and the fact that I couldn’t tell was disquieting, but he provided a generous tip so I must have been satisfactory.

It was my first summer in Paris, the weather had warmed and the city was ablaze in color. My life was looking up, I’d recently moved into a different apartment with a new roommate and I was beginning my third month as the new girl for Marie. Till that time I’d only a client or two per week and I wondered if I could make ends meet. Marie assured me that the appointments would come and over the preceding week they had, four the prior week and five scheduled for that one. Each call was a new client for me and at times for the agency, which was stressful and I kept hoping for the repeat business that I believed would be easier.

It was a few minutes after four when I stepped onto the side walk and saw the gray Peugeot and my driver. He opened the door and I got in and as we pulled away from the curve my phone rang, it was Marie calling as she did after all my appointments. She debriefed me and asked about the smallest details. I didn’t get it at the time, but eventually realized that she created a book on each client and used it to coach us on how to please the client. As she questioned me I knew she would want me to use the client’s name, which I’d forgotten. When I left a client I found myself forgetting his name, probably as part of a coping mechanism, this time I asked the client for a business card and to my surprise he gave me one and included a private phone number and email address. As I spoke with Marie I dug it out of my purse and inserted it into the conversation; “Jacques seemed...” I glanced at my personal phone; there was a text, the boy from the flea market who helped us with the furniture.

A block from my apartment the conversation with Marie ended with her instructions to call her when I left for that evening’s appointment and to meet her for lunch the next day at Le Reminet. The driver opened the door and told me that he’d pick me up at 7:30. Before going in I called the boy. He answered on the first ring and rattled off something that I didn’t understand. Grasping for the French for speak slower, I finally started laughing and said arret arret. He tried again in English; he wanted me to join him and some friends at a club that evening. I told him that I couldn’t that I was going out with friends, but eventually agreed that we’d join them if my friends wanted to. Looking back that was the first of many lies that I told that boy.

Elyse wasn’t home, which I was glad about, as I wasn’t prepared for questions about my day and the upcoming evening. Tossing my clothes on the bed, I headed for the shower and then found something to eat and I wasn’t planning that the client would choose to dine. Our apartment was small and oddly laid out but it had wonderful windows that caught lots of light and since we were on the second floor we could be entertained by the goings on of the street. Two elderly women sat on chairs on the sidewalk talking and watching the passers by, later one would tell me that they’d lived in the neighborhood over 60 years.

In the morning, I’d chosen my clothes for each date, this evening a dark green and tone on tone silk dress over a black basque that was trimmed with a bit of red. The dress hung on a hanger behind the door, the underwear and stockings place together in the lingerie drawer. At precisely 7:30 the grey sedan pulled up.

In the car I called Marie as instructed, who coached me with regard to that night’s client. “He’ll decide right away if you suit him and will quickly proceed to take you up stairs. In the room he’ll suggest that you sit in the arm chair and he’ll offer you a drink. Take him up on it and don’t worry about what it is as you’ll not have an opportunity to have more than a sip. He expects you to make the first move, after he hands you the drink, he’ll go to the couch and sort of sit/recline on it, that’s your cue to begin. As the car pulled up to the Hyatt Vendome, I confirmed with her that I needed to get the payment. We said our good byes as the doorman opened my door; I shut my eyes for a second and took a deep breath before getting out.

Leaving the hotel I asked the doorman if the club the boy would be at was far, he told me a few blocks and suggested a taxi. He gave the driver the address, but before the corner I thought better of meeting him and had the driver take me home. The boy would want to make love and I was soiled with another man. Marie called with her questions and I realized the driver was listening so I put her off and told her that I’d email the details.

Elyse was watching TV when I arrived home, as I undressed we began chatting and I joined her for a few minutes and exchanged a few details about our day and evening. From her frustrations with her booking agent and from me fabrications; it shouldn’t have been a surprise when several weeks later she came out and asked me if I was working as an escort girl.

Before retiring, I pulled the two envelopes out from under the mattress, one contained my tips and the other the proceeds of prior appointments. I counted out Marie’s cut placing it in an envelope and put the rest with my tips for deposit in the morning.



Anonymous Anonymous said...


A beautiful post. It brought me back some memories of my first week as an escort... the Hyatt, doing the walk of shame, yet feeling oddly empowered by the thick envelop in my purse, wondering what the doorman thought of my quiet escape through the revolving door, staring at the driver's eyes through the rearview mirror search for a hint of judgment...


9:31 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

What a beautiful post. I remember the first time I hired a escort and she was so ashamed walking with me but I enjoyed her company and definitely go back and hire her again.

7:53 AM  

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