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– Part I
Eileen Lindholm is too smart to think she has stumbled upon anything other than the ultimate rookie. Frankly, I cannot imagine why she is interested.
That notwithstanding, even in prostitution, there must be a special place reserved for the uninitiated, for the candidate who has never donned the hooker’s habit. I, who know nothing about sex for pay—am that candidate, and such things crossed my mind when I made the appointment to see her.
Alone, I sit in the quiet of her office complex, waiting for private time with a madam I briefly met out only hours ago.
I am excited; my heart pounds. I am insecure. I replay the encounter from out on the street, where the city’s general dissonance had obscured almost everything she said. This time will be different; this time, I will face her in peace and quiet, fully aware that she heads ‘Vixens,’ New York’s most exclusive escort service
After meeting her, I researched professionals—what they did and how they did it. The internet is obsessed. Running page after page, I found service listings, hundreds of available women in the New York area. Ordering up a girl takes a few clicks and a credit card. I am intrigued—and frightened at the thought of turning into such a girl.
Oddly, and though I handily find call girl listings, I am after something else, information about Eileen. My search, however, yields nothing. She is a stealth fighter jet flying beneath the radar of the information age.
My eyes wander her outer office; my ears zero in on muffled tones emanating from beyond the door to her inner sanctum. Hers is a sanctuary for recruitment, scheduling, and control over what I suspect is a sizable stable of women who fan out over the city each day searching for something to fill their emptiness.
It is where Eileen orients girls like me—newbies who do not know shit from Shinola. The thought makes me cringe. After all, escort, I reason, is a whore’s euphemism, and I find myself shaking my head over the apparent duality.
I like the outer office setting. Taken by our mutual love of pastels, the near-silent atmosphere bleeds women’s hues. Soft, vulnerable, they shade a scary world with a touch of beauty.
The room is radiant in lilac, lending itself to a mysterious glow which seeps into me, its walls, in effect, framing a large print of ‘Lydia,’ the infamous “Ice Princess,” whose orphic beauty once held sway over the great artist, Henri Matisse.
She looks out at me with that celebrated arrogance, safe in her framed surety. And why not; she mastered the master. I want to be Lydia. She did it her way—I want to do it mine.
I search the delicate Queen Anne table, where my eyes fall upon a photograph that includes a man. He is handsome in a burly kind of way, strong and powerful looking; his arms affectionately wrapped around two pretty teens, no doubt, the madam’s daughters. In the younger girl’s face, I see her face, in the older, their father’s.
The door to her inner office opens. Eileen, wearing a bright amethyst suit, sports a warm smile and waves me inside. Once inside, I sit in the apprentice’s chair, awaiting the shadowy woman’s stamp of approval. “I’ll just be a moment,” she informs. Opening her laptop, she scrutinizes what I assume is my resume.
She senses my apprehension and, without looking directly at me, says, “Please, Wenda dear, try to relax. I promise I won’t bite.”
It is an inviting beginning. Having applied online, I wait as she reads. From time to time, grinning, and now and then nodding, she appears to like what she sees; why, I cannot fathom, since, apart from a decent butt, I have little sexual experience.
My résumé, such as it is, embarrasses me. What is there to like, I wonder; a brief stint staffing the drive-thru at McDonald’s; a couple of jobs waiting tables during high school?
As she reads, I wonder about other girls, our differences, our sameness. Why bother with me, a jittery prospect, trembling inside, yet, conceitedly playing a weak hand across the desk from the mistress of the game.
As she glances at her screen, I glance too, out the window at the city’s towering buildings, the ones that hide me from the prying eyes of family and overly close relationships. Was it fate? Had I come to Manhattan to do this? Here, I have privacy; here, the dots connect. There is secrecy on the swarming island, the kind that exists nowhere else. It leaves me thinking I might—might—pull this off without my mother finding out!
I glance over at the woman of business. Not once has she looked up. She is smart and made me cool my heels in her waiting room for the better part of an hour. There, I had craved distractions, anything to take my mind off where this was taking me. At one point, her office door abruptly opened, inciting a whoosh of air through which a freckled-faced dazzler came raging.
With her long, slender legs and beautifully frosted reddish hair, she loosed vibrations of hostility directed over her shoulder at the madam. Something had pissed the thirtyish avcılar grup yapan escort woman off, and she did not care who knew it.
Sporting a black party dress, seized at the shoulder by a glittering sequined clip, she was terrifyingly sure of herself. Marching straight for the exit, her gold-hooped earrings bounced as her hard heels snapped angrily at the floor.
Leaving little to the imagination, her bedazzling looks and air of self-confidence were bracing. Dramatically tossing her head back, she intentionally snubbed me, prancing by like a detached super-model taking hypersonic flight on fashion’s grand runway.
As she opened the door to leave, the tiny Celeste, Eileen’s administrative assistant, and a Ruth Bader Ginsburg look-alike, half-stood from her swivel chair and peered quizzically over her geek-chic, black-rimmed glasses. The overly severe receptionist called out, saying, “Etta? Remember, if you want the assignment, don’t shave—he insists you…that is, leave your cooch natural!”
Etta stopped dead in her tracks and halting for a scary moment; she slowly turned about. Displaying a mocking smile and in what, for her, must have been a calm sort of way, she carefully enunciated, “All… fuckin’…right! I already told ya; I’ll take the assignment with the Arab guy—natural snatch and all! Got it?”
“Um…just needed to make Mrs. Lindholm’s instructions clear,” Celeste muttered.
Arrogant bitch, I thought as the door slammed behind her. God, she was magnificent.
A hundred questions clutter my mind, but I venture not a one. Fearing I will appear amateurish, instead, I work myself silly over dumb things like, ‘what can Eileen possibly expect from a candidate who knows nothing about anything?’
To make things more awkward, I despise talking about myself; I hate interviews. Still, the prospect of high-priced hooking intrigues me.
One thing is certain; in keeping with my submissiveness, I want work thrown at me, to be told what to do. Then, remembering my first impression of Eileen from the lingerie shop and our chance meeting, I doubt the crafty madam operates that way. It is not her style.
I imagine other women and wonder what motivates them to work as escorts: Who is a nude dancer taking a step up before her looks fade? Who, at the age of nine, was molested by “wicked Uncle Ernie” and developed an eating disorder that never went away? Who is simply a nut case? Other than ‘nut case,’ for me, it is ‘none of the above;” my life is boringly normal.
I imagine Eileen’s eyes racing over my profile: ‘Raised by loving parents…played field-hockey in eleventh grade…braved Advanced Placement classes in the same school where her mother taught!’ Conveniently absent from the résumé is a fondness for sex with women, a minor detail I succeeded in suppressing until having met Jordan.
My thoughts scurry back to last week and how, while window-shopping outside ‘Felina’s,’ the world slid from under my feet. It happened so quickly. Standing outside the shop, the reflection of a smiling woman slipped into the glass next to my own. She was statuesque, her expression beamingly friendly. Standing behind me, the fortyish knockout’s blazing eyes instantly seized mine. It was as if she had spied something in them I had no idea was there.
“You’d look heavenly in that,” I heard her say. “It’s erotically virginal, don’t you think? You simply must have it—in white.” She extended a delicate hand, which, since it happened in New York, I cautiously grasped.
“Thanks,” I said awkwardly. “Not sure I can afford it.”
She was slender and stood erect. To-die-for high cheekbones governed her expression, and her partially open coat highlighted a willowy waist. Her dark hair was full, its texture lustrous. She personified all things stylish.
She introduced herself, but horns blared as drivers backed up behind her very black, very sleek, very double-parked limo, just then brazenly obstructing a full lane of city traffic. Pretending to catch her name, I loudly called out my own, “WENDA, WENDA PAGET!”
As if she owned the city, the woman disregarded her personally fashioned traffic jam, and turning serious, she looked me up and down. “Listen, Wenda, you’re very pretty. I have my own firm here in New York and wonder if you might want to make extra money?”
“I’m in college,” I hedged.
“Of course you are,” she said, half-raising an eyebrow. “Only, it’s nice to have money, isn’t it? She seized hold of my arms and cocked her head. “Anyway, I’m always on the lookout for appealing girls who have that special look. When I spotted you on the sidewalk, I said to Sam, ‘Sam! Pull over this instant! I have to meet her!'” I looked over at her driver, who impatiently rolled his eyes.
Pausing, she rummaged through her purse, eventually producing a business card on the back of which she hurriedly scribbled. I gave it a glance as she retreated to her limo, whose door was held open by a clearly avcılar masöz escort aggravated chauffeur.
“I’m late and can’t talk more right now,” she hollered to me. As she slid into the back seat, I glimpsed the underside of her arresting black stocking-clad legs. She wore a garter belt! I had never before seen one on a real woman!
The rear window slid down as Sam closed the car door, and she shouted a final proposition, “Phone me, Wenda! Call that number WHEN YOU CAN GIVE ME AN HOUR OF YOUR TIME! Tell my girl, Celeste, I gave you the pink card! You’ll like what I have to say—call me! Don’t forget! Goodbye!”
As quickly as her image had intruded into the storefront window, she was gone. I watched in astonishment as she drove off and glanced again at the business card. Its decorative burgundy lettering revealed little:
Catching a scent, I gently fluttered the little ticket under my nose, and sauntering forward a step or two, I thought, ‘Chanel.’ On the back, she had scribbled a puzzling word: “Cub.” Before melting into the crowd, I glanced back at the enticing teddy, thinking, ‘too expensive.’
Obsession overtook me. Fruitlessly hunting the internet, I searched for Eileen Lindholm. There was nothing. Observing my preoccupation, my girlfriend, Jordan, said dismissively, “You just wait, it’s something illegal.”
“Maybe,” I acknowledged. Nonetheless, I could not get the peculiar street encounter out of my head: Tying up midtown traffic to meet me? What could she possibly want?
I called the number and waiting for someone to pick up, I anxiously paced. Finally, a businesslike voice came on the line: “Vixens, this is Celeste; how may I help you?”
“It’s Wenda Paget, Celeste. I’m calling at Eileen’s request.”
Efficiently protective, the wary receptionist did not hesitate. “I’m afraid Ms. Lindholm is busy. Would you like to leave a…?”
“…she gave me her card Celeste.” Acting as if I knew what I was doing, I sprinkled the comment with a hint of resolve.
“Oh? And what card is that?” she replied curtly.
I answered matter-of-factly: “It’s Eileen’s pink one. She wrote ‘cub’ on the back. I don’t know what a cub is, but…”
“…that’s all right,” she said, “I know what it means.” Though intentionally aggravating, her voice abruptly softened. “One moment, please, Miss Paget, I’ll put you through.”
Later that morning, sitting nervously opposite the mysterious dispenser of perfumed business cards, I stole a glance at the other girls with whom I found myself. There were five. All waved pink cards.
Celeste arranged for two meetings. The first was a general orientation where six of us sat together. One, the girl who had stormed out of the office, dripped experience. Radiating industrial-strength attitude, she was disinterested, detached. The rest, like me, were beginners.
Two were soccer moms; their wedding bands a dead giveaway. Each was gorgeous but in different ways. One, in the advanced stages of pregnancy, glowed. The prettiest was a flat-chested, petite brunette. With flawless white skin and sultry blue eyes, she wore her hair loose. Her extraordinary beauty left me feeling hopelessly out of my league.
Reassuringly, four of us fidgeted. The moms were visibly nervous and knew each other. Definitely Suffolk County types, I half-expected their frisky six-year-olds to burst through the office door screaming, ‘Mommy, mommy, I lost my milk money!’
It was a safe bet their husbands were hard-hit by the lockdowns, and they needed money to sustain the Hampton’s lifestyle to which they were accustomed.
Another girl, this one in her mid-twenties, was foreign. Stealing a glance at her boobs, I self-consciously eyed my own. Girls notice boobs. Hers were more beautiful, rounder, and softer-looking. I had caught a hint of her Irish lilt when she asked one of the moms whether our chemists displayed condoms in plain sight in their stores.
What’s a chemist, I wondered? Far too nervous to warm up to one another, eye contact was a no-no. Even the mom to whom the Irish girl put her curious question shrugged, offering a ‘what’s a chemist,’ sort of look in return.
Sitting quietly, Eileen allowed Celeste, who seemed to know everything about everything, to do the talking while she, sitting off to the side, observed. “Dress conservatively,” the office manager advised. “Stockings and garter belts are mandatory on all dates. Vixen girls,” she stiffly insisted, “never wear pantyhose—not ever!”
Her message was clear: slutty presentation is forbidden, overly provocative appearance, taboo. I wondered why the hot number sitting absentmindedly and obviously bored was not “out of the question,” too.
I stole another glimpse of her. A sexy redhead, she was my preconceived vision of the superlative call girl. Yet here, amidst a gaggle of freshmen, she seemed strangely out of place. Feigning disregard for Celeste’s avcılar otele gelen escort admonishments, she casually thumbed the latest edition of ‘Cosmo.’
“I’ll provide general information about Mrs. Lindholm’s organization,” Celeste informed. “Individual interviews will follow, at which Mrs. Lindholm will decide whether you measure up to being a Vixen Girl.”
Everything was conveyed verbally. To my amazement, I learned if I survived the one-on-one interview with Eileen, I would be covered under the business’s health insurance plan! Each girl sat a little straighter at the news; the grinning moms high-fived each other.
When it ended, we were assigned alone time with Eileen. I so wished I had read Veronica Monet’s, Sex Secrets of Escorts or another of the dicey memoirs currently saturating Amazon, but there had not been time.
In the end, Celeste courteously probed for questions but faced stony silence from the antsy mixture of women. No one dared ask anything, at least not out in the open. Besides, what we needed to know, what was on everyone’s mind, was sex, money, and how the two connected.
Smartly, the capable receptionist never once brought it up. I felt a gentle tap on the shoulder. “Am I missing something?” The Irish girl asked innocently. “She hasn’t spoken about…you know…” She hesitated, unable to say the word sex.
“Shouldn’t we be asking?” Her look was entreating, as though she needed answers, soon. Assuming her visa was about to expire, I shook my head and looking into her friendly green eyes, I whispered, “I think Eileen will do that privately,”
“Oh…I see. Thank you.” For sure, she was here illegally.
“Wenda darling,” the madam said squarely, “I want you to work for us. But stepping into an escort’s world where you will share your body with strangers isn’t easy, so I have several touchy items to put to you today.” She smiled warmly, adding, “Your Cover-Girl beauty and sparkling personality will draw considerable demand. Can you every week?”
My mind went blank, and I blurted, “Every week?!”
“Some girls naturally want to work twice each week…”
“…but we prefer you give your body a break, so, each year, and if you are up to standard, we’ll send you to soak up the Aruban sun. My treat! That’s only the first year. Later on, we’ll see to other interesting things. Ever shop in Paris?”
“…good. If it all works out, we’ll talk about Paris after year two.”
“Wow…all right, but…” My mind turned arithmetic: Every week means, God, that many clients! “Gee! I had not considered volume!”
Eileen, in that charming way of hers, laughed. “It’s not so bad, hon. Condoms are mandatory. And…if you don’t mind, can I ask a ‘between us girls sort of question?'” I nodded uncomfortably. “May I know how many sexual partners you have had?”
Unlike my previous thought, this question involved little calculation. There were four. Jimmy was my last, and he happened two years ago. “Six,” I answered.
“Good,” she said.
“Good?” Assuming she wanted lots of experience, her reaction surprised me.
“Yes, good; it’s what I suspected. It’s why I introduced myself at Felina’s. Wenda, remember I told you how virginal you would look in that teddy you were admiring? With a minor exception here and there to account for differences in taste, you’re the face of Vixens: soft, inviting, innocent, and gorgeous.”
Her unexpected compliments prompted suitable blushing, but her words baffled me and appeared contradictory. Virginal call girls? Was there such a thing?
“Think about the group meeting you just attended,” she continued. “Picture the other girls.”
Eileen was a cat closely monitoring the reactions of a mouse she had cornered, and I nodded, calling to mind the faces of those others. “Do you see what I see? That virtuous look? Women who have never done it before? Pretty suburban moms? Innocent coeds. You? Taryn, from Ireland? She bleeds strict Catholic upbringing. Men pay money for it—lots of money. I want my girls treated like classy ladies. Can you step out looking ladylike for me Wenda?”
“I guess so,” I sheepishly granted, all the while knowing, ‘ladylike’ was not my style. I suspected whatever ‘look’ the madam had in mind, she intended to extract from behind my chronic bashfulness and tomboyish presentation. The theme was obviously crucial to her, but I could not help thinking about the other girl, the redhead. Eileen did not mention her. Her look was slutty. What about that?
“Are you open to sex with women?” She asked.
“…we are getting requests from more and more female clients,” she added. “They come to us when their marriages sour. Some are just curious about same-sex experiences.” I blanched. “You like women, don’t you?” It struck me that she might have had me investigated so I nodded.
“Yes, I live with…”
“…great Wenda! Bringing flexibility to your repertoire, appealing to dissimilar sexual desires will serve you well in this business. You know, oftentimes men buy our services for their wives and lady friends, so I need girls who do girls. Sometimes, not often mind you, but sometimes, women even contract with us directly, you know, to surprise their man with an enjoyable threesome for a special tenth-anniversary present,” she added.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32