Alouicious and Emily
She looked at me through watery worry-filled eyes. My blurred silhouette sat patiently in front of her, waiting for her process everything I had just told her. I would let her get out everything she had to say before I responded. As I waited nervously, I became increasingly aware of what I was doing with my hands. I grabbed my mug of coffee to keep them occupied. The coffee was bitter, as though it had been sitting in the filter pot for some time. “Do you have any sugar” I asked. She looked up quickly from an imperfection scratched into the wooden table she had been gazing past for ten minutes. “Sweetener, we’ve got sweetener in cupboard. The one with the red lid.”
I excused myself from the table to retrieve the sweetener. I can’t pretend like I wasn’t disappointed. Sweetener tastes like evaporated bleach dust. However, I welcomed the opportunity to do something other than stare at Emily whilst I sat on my hands as she stared at the table, thinking about how disappointed she is in me. I heard the legs of her chair screech across the marble floor as she moved her position – she was looking at me. “What if you get an STI?! What if someone hurts you?! How will you find love now Alouicious really I don’t think you’ve thought this through?” She began to explain to me all of the reasons why escorting wasn’t for me and why I would be better off getting a job in marketing again. She assured me in that way that many people do that reveals that they consider themselves a business expert, that there’s great opportunity in the current market for someone with my skill set. Although she was probably right, I couldn’t help but lumber her in with the sort of people who point out that ‘there’s a gap in the market for that’ whilst explaining the logistics behind shower goggles. These are the people who manufacture products to sell on wish.
I sat back down in front of her and placed my freshly sweetened coffee on the table. She pointed out the coaster on the table that I had recklessly avoided. “Could you? “She requested as she squirmed. “Oh, of course”, I obliged as I put the coaster to good use. Now that her IKEA table was protected by her IKEA coasters from her IKEA mug, I suppose we were ready to get into it. I was searching my mind for a good way to explain to a stay-at-home mother of three, a floral print enthusiast who winds down at the end of a long day with a good honest game of boggle, that escorting is both an acceptable and healthy profession for her little brother.
Alex had warned me about this. He had told me not to tell my family about my new profession, he said that no one else in the industry does it, and they don’t for good reason. He is of the opinion that sharing this information with family members would cause more trouble than it would do good. Alex thinks that honesty is overrated and that we are all born with this innate duality that allows us to have two sides to our true selves. He doesn’t think it’s a bad thing if he doesn’t share both of his sides with everyone, “It’s none of their business”, he says. I understand what he means, and I do agree in some ways. It’s just, there are certain people in my life that I’ve always been transparent with, I liked it like that because they loved me no matter what.
Emily was one of those people. I didn’t have to cover anything up in front of her. I didn’t have to watch my mouth or be careful about how I dressed. She’s been entertained for years by watching the collection of terrible choices – otherwise known as my ex boyfriends – unfold before her very eyes, but she would never judge. Put it this way, when someone’s seen you trying to unlock the front door with your bank card before vomiting on them at four in the morning, then watch you eat three different kinds of carbohydrate in one meal the day after without judgement – that’s special.
“Emily I’ve never been safer in my life, if any work I take involves sexual acts I always wear a condom and because of the nature of my job I get screenings frequently.” I reassured her. “Before this, I hadn’t been checked in over a year!” she rolled her eyes at me in disappointment, she wishes I had always been responsible before all of this.
“When was the last time you were tested then?” I challenged her. She responded defensively by saying “I don’t need to get tested I have a husband and two children”. I let my eyes narrow on hers with an equal amount of disapproval. I didn’t need to say anything, she knows I think she hates her husband and would give anything to climb the postman like a tree.
“As for people hurting me, I’m sure I will get hurt at some point, but not rhough escorting, and no more than they already did. Doing this, I am part of a community, I have back up. On the whole, there is very little risk. I can handle myself okay?” she replied with a nod, although not fully convinced by my argument. “You asked about love? Well – I have all the love I’ve ever needed right here, in this room, sat at this table. It’s not the fairytale about love that we were taught to pine for growing up, but its real and it’s enough for me.”
She blushed as she leaned across the table to take my hands. Her eyes were still glazed with worry, and her brow continued to furrow in confusion. “You’re happy?” she asked. I nodded at her. “Okay then” she said. She was burying all of her worry and ignoring her confusion just to know that I was living a life that brought me happiness. That is how I can be certain that hers is all the love I will ever need.
The mask sat on my face at a slight angle, the elastic that held it to my head was loose on one side. Through the wonky peep holes carved out in the mask I frantically searched the room. I could see small ones, long ones, bald ones and hairy ones. Ones tipped with large dimples, ones that dance when they become excited and ones that quiver when they feel nerves. It turns out, that to identify a man by his chin alone is a skill that I have yet to master. In a room full of men wearing near identical dinner suits, sporting the same sensible haircut and whose faces were disguised by the same black mask, the only way I was ever going to find my client before he found me, was by his chin.
There was a smaller man who was dressed in slightly different attire to the rest. His clothing indicated that his role at this soiree was to serve the other men in some way. Even his chin differed to the others, his was scattered with thin and sparse hairs, revealing his youth in comparison to the other men. In the middle of the room lay a large, circular oak table. The young server, who was also wearing a mask, weaved his way through the crowds of black and white men to the table, carrying a large silver serving tray. Instead of placing the tray on the table he turned the entire vessel upside down, showering mountains of cooked shrimp onto the bare table surface. The party goers didn’t flinch an inch. Instead they just slowly moved in on the table, casually grazing on shrimp as they conversed with their peers.
I followed him with my eyes as he moved his way away from the hoard of men thickening around the shrimp table. I thought to myself that perhaps he would be the best person to talk to in the midst of my misplacing my client, I had better follow him. I battled my way through the men, excusing myself every at other step. “Oh, sorry”, “Can I just squeeze past”, “Sorry I just need to …”. I watched him disappear behind a nearby door in the corner of the room. I flung myself round the door bend and down the corridor to which he had turned – I soon caught up.
“Hey!”, I shouted after him. “Wait!”. The young man turned around. “How can I help you sir?”, he asked accommodatingly. I explained to him that “I’m looking for my friend, we came here together, how do you tell anyone apart in this place? Have you seen anyone who looks like they are looking for another person?”. The young man appeared to consider his answer very carefully. He examined me slowly from head to toe, before deciding on how he would answer. “Follow me, Sir” he instructed.
I mirrored his directions down a myriad of dimly lit corridors lined with wooden décor until we reached a grandiose, carved door. He nodded toward the door. Nerves began to fill my body from the bottom of my torso upward. My trembling hand wrapped itself around the brass, bulbous handle of this pompous oak door. I stopped for a moment before turning to the masked boy beside me. “This way?” I asked beneath my voice, searching for reassurance. He looked at me as if to say, Obviously!
I opened the door slowly, trying to gage room as best I could before stepping into it. The room was scattered with a few of the men who had been enjoying the party downstairs, only, their clothes were looser now and their posturer more relaxed. They lounged, trouser-less across brown leather sofas, the buttons of their shirts undone. Curiously, their masks had not moved an inch, regardless of how disheveled they had let the rest of their attire become. I scouted the room for what could be my chin. Nothing stood out. There was another door at the far right of the room, I continued my search.
Through this door I found a room in which the walls were projected with explicit videos as the men inside it squirmed with pleasure beneath one another. Ten masked men made up this moving ant hill. The ant hill grunted and moaned, undisturbed by my presence.
One of the masks jolted upright from the ant hill, facing my direction. “We’ve been waiting for you” the mask said, through panted breath. I walked over to the moaning bodies, urging to jump in. I couldn’t help but consider that this would have been far easier had he just told me what we were here for, but maybe the chase was all part of the fun.
I moved closer to the men, removing my trousers and dropping to my knees before I felt three hands reach for my back and pull me closer. I was inside the ant hill. There was one particular man who was the most attentive to me, it must be him. Through the haze of tantalizing enjoyment, I tried to identify him. Through a distracting display of limbs, faces and phalluses I focused on his face. There was nothing recognizable about him. I asked the man to remove his mask. His refusal to unveil his identity was aggressive and final. The kind of assertiveness that lets you know without being told – that you shouldn’t ask again.
Something was wrong. I bolted up, grabbed my clothes, flung myself through both of the doors that I had entered and followed the corridors back to the party, stumbling as I dressed myself on en route. I took a big deep breath before reentering the room where the main party resided. I stood by the big oak table and ate shrimp as though nothing had happened.
I felt a stern hand sink into my shoulder. “There you are!” a relieved voice said from behind me. I turned around and smiled at him. I searched his chin for distinguishing features before making direct eye contact with a large mole that sat on the bottom left of his chin. A mole that I didn’t recognize. Shit. “This isn’t the sort of place you want to get lost for too long, I’ve heard that there are some debaucherous characters doing unthinkable things in hidden parts of buildings like this. I wouldn’t like you to think I’d bring you here to share you with a bunch of anonymous CEOs’.” He took my hand and ushered me toward the cloak room.
It was at this point that I realized I had made a monumental error. I collected my coat in silence from the now sheepish caterpillar ‘tached boy who held the key to the personal possessions of the most lucrative and powerful business influences in the world. I never did come clean to my client that evening. I had made an assumption about the intentions of my client, that he had brought me here to help him ease into the world of elitist sex parties that hide inside the mahogany walls of prestigious buildings. The reality was, all he had wanted was an ally on his arm in an overwhelming battle of power, business jargon and expensive aftershave.
Three is a crowd
After a successful evening with Steven. I was open and excited to experiencing more of what the escorting industry had to offer. Although this wasn’t exactly the sort of business opportunity I had necessarily been looking for, there was no argument that there was little money that I needed to start up a business in this industry. My product is my time and I was learning that my time was worth more than I had known. What’s more, I enjoyed doing it! How could I complain about that? And so, I reached for my phone and I sent a text. After deleting the interrupted un-delivered cry for help I was ready to send before Stevens arrival last night, I typed:
Hi Alex, this is Alouicious. I wanted to thank you for last night’s opportunity. I’m definitely open to more.
I waited for a response; my breath baited with an air of uncertainty – what was I letting myself in for? Sure enough, within thirty minutes my phone sounded from across the room. I leapt across my bed, tackling with my duvet, wrestling against the shortness of my argumentative phone charger. (side note – Why do they make them so small? If Alex’s response was to be a negative one, I would go into making mile long phone chargers you can dance around your room with.)
I’m so glad you had a great time. I do have a job I need help with tomorrow.
As luck would have it, he had an opportunity the very next day. He said that he needed an extra person, to see a client with him. He said he needed a third, impartial party to play ‘good-cop’. I was uncertain of what that meant. I pictured myself clad in police style fancy dress outfit stood over a naked man repeating positive affirmations I had heard on a self-improvement podcast last week. I clearly had a lot to learn.
The next day I woke up to a text from Alex informing me of the address I needed to find. He was already there working with the client, so I made my way to the location. Unsure of what to expect, I took a deep breath before discreetly tapping three times on the front door to a large townhouse. The door cracked slightly to reveal a narrow view of Alex’s face, his cheeks were wild and blushed under a black latex police hat. He ushered me enthusiastically through the crack in the door.
“Take your shirt off and put this on.” He instructed as he handed me a blue, fancy dress police-style hat that looked like it had been purchased from ‘Luvubabes’ in Manchester Arndale. My predictions weren’t far from the truth at this point. I pulled my shirt over my head and put on the hat “That’s perfect”, he said. “Now follow my lead. When I nod, rub his back, just like I told you in the texts?”
I followed him through another door into a barely furnished room, my heart pounding through my chest and my hands sticky with nervous sweat. In the center of the room was a pull-out massage table upon which a man sprawled on his back, aggressively hyperventilating. As I got closer to the table – I noticed a small trickle of blood dribbling down the side of his body as his hands trembled centimeters above the table. Now was about the time that I began to question my decisions.
Is this how they get you? Entice you in with a gate-way Steven before plunging you into scenes reflective of government torture chambers. Only, there were no straps keeping this man to the bed, and as I got closer to the table, I saw a pleasure filled smile plastered from one of his ears to the other. He was enjoying this, and he was asking for more.
“The other one, please, the other one” he begged. Alex lifted his finger and placed it over the man’s lips to silence his requests. His other hand was holding a long, thin metal spike. What the fuck is that for? I watch the spike travel through the air and closer to this man’s waiting body. as my eyes followed it closer and closer to his chest area, I noticed the source of the original blood dribble. This nameless, trembling man had a spike, identical to the one that Alex was holding, pierced straight through his left nipple, and out of the other side, and he was asking for the other one?! I couldn’t help but consider the field day my therapist would have with this guy.
Alex caught my eye, he nodded in my direction, this was his signal. The stage was mine. As Alex pushed the other spike through the Right nipple of his client, I stepped closer, rested my hand supportively on his shoulder and muttered with as much conviction as I could muster –
“Are you okay?!”
As the words slipped clumsily from my mouth, it seemed like a redundant question – of course he’s not okay! He’s got a metal fucking spike piercing straight through the skin on his violently trembling body. However, his boner, as stubborn as it was undisguisable, suggested that he was in fact enjoying the experience thoroughly.
Aside from a fragment of mental scarring – this was the easiest £300 I’d ever made.