3 #2
I perch on the edge of the armchair, ready to roll if I have to.
My hands don’t know where to live: knees, purse, neck, folded just in case I need to pray.
She doesn’t ask my name or bother to tell me hers.
She pins me with a stare and I can practically see my Google search history hovering around her. That says it all.
“Listen,” she says, glancing at the door like, ‘any second now the undercover cops or my mother-in-law with the groceries will walk in.’ “My husband is...”
“Your husband is my father,” I blurt, hand to my chest, pure telenovela instinct. I get carried away with myself.
“What? Your father?”
She looks genuinely lost and I deflate.
“Nothing, sorry, me being stupid. What were you saying about your husband?”
“Well, my husband is the kind of man that if he finds out about this, you might end up on the evening news and I’ll be in the ‘remorseful wives’ segment.”
My pulse is a thousand, my mouth is dry, and my brain is screaming “RUN” and “SHHH, STAY, MONEY.” Part of me is already picturing my funeral with a glitter curtain. She crosses her legs slowly, with the air of someone who’s watched thrones topple and doesn’t care anymore. And she hits me with:
“I’ll pay you six thousand euros for tonight.”
Everything in me goes loose. Six thousand, my brain echoes. For one night. I bite my lip and pretend to think—basic theater—even though the second she said six thousand I saw myself blowing it on dumb things and crying when I see the statement.
“Six thousand?” I echo, just to fill the silence and give a presentable face shot in case there’s a camera.
She nods, slow, with those Egyptian-sphinx eyes that leave you wondering if you’re about to be kissed or offered up to the gods.
“Six thousand. But remember what I said: nobody can find out.”
I nod, play with my purse zipper so I don’t clap. In my head I’m already opening Excel: debt, nails, rent, two indecent splurges, and a pack of paper towels to feel like an adult.
For six grand, I don’t care if I have to dress up like a bargain-bin superhero, squeeze into party-store tights, and belly-flop into a Jell-O pool with piranhas. Brave, brave? That’s not me. Later, at home, I’ll tell it like it was nothing, but right now I’m shaking. For real.
Not to be paranoid, but this lady’s got more of a ‘we play hardball here’ face than an ‘I’m a warm-and-fuzzy client’ one. And she keeps going with the little speech: my husband is dangerous... blah blah blah.
Look, I’m no saint. I start taking inventory of the species I’ve got for clients. Because if this gig has given me anything—besides enough stories to keep a whole bar buzzed—it’s a lineup of women that could fill a season of Celebrity Big Brother with people no one’s ever heard of.
First up is the bored rich girl, my least favorite Pokémon but the best tipper.
Get this: the wildest thing that turns these ladies on is me spending the night in the fanciest hotel suite, just to give them some cuddles and say, “You smell amazing, Nati.” Their idea of a rager is ordering two desserts from room service and discussing the elevator music.
And she won’t go to bed until she’s confirmed breakfast comes with croissants.
Then there’s the thirtysomething exec, showing up with her stress, her under-eye circles, and her digital planner, when all she really wants is a tight hug and someone to say everything’s going to be okay.
She sits down and gives me that face like she wants to cry and scream at the same time, but she can’t because there’s Botox in her tear ducts.
She orders double dinner, triple dessert…
and I start digesting what she’s about to tell me, because we’re definitely going to end up arguing about whether life has meaning or if we should just look for it on Tinder.
Heads up, here comes my favorite category: the Emotionally Intense.
She falls hard and never looks back. I haven’t even gotten my socks off and she’s already writing me poems on WhatsApp.
Three in the morning: "Are you thinking about me?" For God’s sake, I don’t even understand myself at that hour, babe!
But nope—these ones are on another level.
The artists also have their place in my collection.
They show up with their magic oils, their Tumblr poems, and their desire to dance naked under the full moon.
Sometimes the sex doesn’t even happen. They’re here to do a ritual to connect with their inner self.
Meanwhile I’m wondering if they’ll pay extra for me to play shaman.
And then the grab bag of Grade-A Weirdos, which I adore, because I never know if I’ll end up with a glass of champagne or in a crash-course knot-tying workshop they picked up at a retreat in Jordan.
That’s where today’s lady-from-across-the-way comes in—determined eyes, a purse that weighs a ton—and I hear Alaska, my Shouty Counselor, yelling, "Run, girl, run," and my other, practical self counting the rain of cash and going, "Do it—if you have to put on a submissive face, you put it on, and if you have to do a backbend, you try, and if something pulls, you call the PT who owes you a favor. "
I’m sitting there, going over my will in my head just in case. Debating whether to lay out the terms clearly: payment up front, no marks, no cameras. I don’t want to come off as naive or as a smartass out loud. If she gets mad, she’ll kick me to the curb—me and my freshly done lashes.
I’m in that existential limbo when the woman lets out a little laugh. She watches me with those shining eyes and says in a low voice:
"Relax. I’ll treat you well. I’ve always liked women, but in my country and in my situation, it’s impossible for me to have a relationship with one."
She runs her hand over my face, slow, and I deflate half an inch.
Okay, intense, yes; torturer, no—or at least she doesn’t seem like one at first glance.
My survival instinct is still on orange alert, but my doughy little heart whispers that maybe tonight she’ll just break my pattern. And it’ll be worth it.
She pulls out one of those phones that buzz for no reason and I think of a spy show, but I bite my tongue—I look good biting my tongue when there’s money in the air. I put my hair up, swipe on watermelon lip gloss, do a four-count breath.
"One thing," I say. "Is your husband an actual danger or just for show? Because if this gets ugly, I’m jumping out the window and you’ll never see me again. Fair warning."
"Well, manageable danger. I’m fed up, really. I want to be with someone without fear."
I get the stupid giggle I get when I sign important things.
And then an existential freak-out hits: the "who am I, where do I come from, why do I always end up selling my body?
" kind. Like, when was the last time I hooked up with a woman without a payment hitting my account? Spoiler: not since I got out of that group home that smelled like cheese and drama. Back there I’d sometimes make out with Lidia—the one with ice-cold hands and a nervous laugh.
Then I had to get a job and sex became that: work. Like learning to run the coffee machine or fill out spreadsheets without dying of boredom, I learned to fake moans and charge women whose self-esteem is on clearance. Pure survival economics, just with lube and clean sheets.
And the wildest part: most of the time… I have a good time. Yeah, you heard me. Not with all of them—I’ve had a few absolute monuments to apathy; there are clients who couldn’t lift my mood with a bottle of rum and a playlist of bangers—but a lot of them… honestly, they’re cool.
Sometimes it’s more therapeutic than kinky: I love being that kind of fairy godmother who gives a woman the superpower of feeling desired.
Even if her self-esteem’s in the basement.
I’m there in an invisible cape, condom instead of a magic wand, and—bam—I gift them the fantasy that, for five minutes, the world doesn’t suck as much.
That their money isn’t just for anti-wrinkle creams or crappy therapy, but for snagging a portable resurrection.
People say "you are what you give," so take this: the Robin Hood of orgasms, trashy deluxe edition. No green tights, no arrows. Meanwhile I’m thinking it could be worse—dragging myself out of bed at the crack of dawn for a boss who reeks of lice shampoo and says good morning with a face stuck on permanent Monday.
Weird gig, sure, but not half bad, dude.