13
I'm standing in front of the mirror, in panties, with a no-padding bra that's emotionally flattening me and a red lipstick in my hand.
I have ONE FUCKING HOUR to stop being the tear-hungover mess I was last night (or five minutes ago—who's keeping track?) and morph into a sex goddess.
Today's client isn't just anyone—she's my VIP, the lawyer who barrels through life and pays me more than a night at the casino.
The kind who dumps all her emotional garbage while I rub her down and tells me her ex is a psychopath and her boss is a walking liver in a tie, and then I throw in the upgrade: a happy ending and custom strokes.
Basically, I'm her sex oasis and, when required, her deep-talk lounge.
She's into me—my streetwise vibe, like I know what I want, or at least fake it really well. Every time she lands in Madrid, she hits me up. I'm her must-stop, her exotic indulgence, her "I'm gonna drop a chunk of change so someone makes me feel alive and kicking" moment.
"I don't want to go," I huff like an eight-year-old staring down spinach.
My fantasy: faint dead away. Or call her and say, Look, I swear I have narcolepsy today, I'm going to drop, I caught chronic sadness and my pussy called in sick. Then I remember my checking account and the fantasy swirls down the toilet.
Vega pokes her head in the doorway at the peak of my self-pity. She gives me the once-over.
"And what's got you stuck now, goddess of melodrama?"
"Oh, shut up a sec," I shoot back while I try to do my eyeliner. If I end up looking like a raccoon, it's on her. In my head I hurl the pencil like a ninja dart—thwack. Vega neutralized. Bliss.
"Says the one who last night wanted an orgy under the stars, with paper lanterns and sushi," she needles, because she lives for the tea.
"Well, I'm not in the mood today. I'm spiraling. And everything hurts."
"And because of that lady again, obviously." She puts on her no-nonsense mom voice. "What'd the blonde domme do now? Give you sub homework or put you on dessert restriction?"
"Nothing, girl. She turned out intense. The bitch wants exclusivity now, you know? And if I want to keep living in the enchanted sex castle, I have to hang up the leopard-print thong. As in, quit the job," I say, all flailing hands and full-on tantrum.
"But who the hell does she think she is? The lesbian Pope of Rome?" Vega crosses her arms, offended. "And what did you say to her?"
In my fantasy I caused a scene straight out of Jerry Springer—screaming, crying, and a "you don't get to tell me what to do with my life, you clown!"
"Well… no. I mean, yes but no. But… maybe yes, but barely. But deep down… I kind of get it. A tiny bit, okay? The kind of tiny that disappears if you blink."
"Enlighten me, Lasky, because I'm not getting there. Are you serious? A woman who still files under 'bureaucratic mystery' already wants to tell you how to pay your electric bill. Do they give us a dumbass test at the door or were we born with it?"
"It's not that simple, Vega, for fuck's sake!" I shout, tossing the lipstick into the sink. "It's not like it was some decree—she didn't yell or demand anything. She just made it clear: that's her boundary, she doesn't like it. Like you with cold feet in bed, but times a thousand."
"Uh-huh, crystal clear. Now you have to build your life around her terms to keep her happy. Come on, Alaska, wake up—lately even the fridge has more personality than you!"
"Girl, chill!" I raise my voice because heat is crawling up my neck. "I mean, it's not that weird that if she cares about me, she wouldn't want me sharing sheets with half the city. Could you? Would you be cool with your boo having a full calendar and charging by the hour? Not a chance, right?"
"No. But what I also wouldn't do is wade into a mess with someone whose noble trade is getting people off for money and then get mad because my boo has more appointments than a primary-care doctor."
"She didn't know she was gonna catch feelings—because she's gone, Vega, I'm telling you, and I'm not tripping.
I think she never saw it coming. The girl probably thought she'd bang me a couple times and disappear, and now she's spiraling.
You can totally tell, poor thing. And I won't lie, I kind of like seeing her jealous…
it makes her seem like a normal person." Doubt creeps in. "Or am I the toxic one here?"
"Oh please, that's the last thing I needed to hear," Vega says, looking like I'm giving her existential dry heaves. "But you? What the hell do you want?" And she pins me with those eyes just like mine, only set to "tell the truth or I'll break your face."
I look at myself in the hallway mirror. Red lips, so-so base, under-eye circles with a backstory. Stomach clenched.
"No idea, dude. I want the blonde. I’m crazy about her. And I don’t want to quit work cold turkey. What am I supposed to do, sign up to scrub apartment hallways between fucks and pray I can make rent?"
"Then you’d better figure it out, Alaska, because you’re one quickie away from turning into that woman’s shadow."
"Jesus, don’t mess with my head like that," I protest, half defensive, half about to burst into tears. "You don’t even know her, you don’t know what she’s like.
She’s not your typical manipulator—around here the only one who gets in my head is me.
She actually takes care of me, Vega, she treats me… "
I stop dead. Because I don’t know what comes after that either. Treats me how? Like “I love you but could you not breathe so loud”? Like “I’ll make you feel special until the Uber pulls up”?
"What? How does she treat you? Like a kid who does whatever she tells you?"
I nod, obviously. How could I not? What’s churning inside me doesn’t have a neat explanation. She’s got me, fuck.
"I’m in love, Vega. It’s never happened to me before. I get nervous, my hands sweat, I end up listening to ballads on Spotify, and that’s already a red flag."
Vega sighs—one of those sighs where it feels like her soul might slip out through her mouth. She takes a little step back, hunting for the distance she needs to assess the wreck in front of her. Meaning me.
"Well, Alaska, it is what it is," she finishes, with that mom-patience that’s out of gas. "Do me a real favor: don’t mistake an orgasm for someone loving you. Pleasure is one thing, loving you is another. Tomorrow you call the therapist and you tell her this mess, girl."
She leaves. I’m left planted in the middle of the living room with my lipstick a disaster. I try not to touch my face so I don’t make the picture worse. From far away I look presentable; I get closer and my liner’s smudged. Inside, there’s a traffic jam of thoughts and none of them have directions.
I grab my jacket and my purse, quick-exit plan, autopilot on, short steps, steady breathing. Don’t open Nat’s WhatsApp, head for the door.
And then the doorbell rings and it scares me so bad my hair stands on end, my gut thuds, my mouth goes dry, I can feel my pulse in my temples.
I open up and there’s Nat, in a black coat, hair slicked back, eyes clear but sharp, no smiles, lips at rest, posture straight.
She slides inside and shuts the door with a flick of her hip that cancels any dumb escape route, drops her bag on the chair by the entryway, looks me over from head to toe, and fixes my lipstick with her thumb—slow, sure, without a word, the finger warm, just enough pressure.
My mouth is about to open so I can lick her fingertip and take my lipstick back with me, but I hold it together so I don’t put on a show three seconds after seeing her.
"Are you about to head out?" Her tone throws down the gauntlet: choose wisely.
I put on my escort mindset—the one who knows her stuff, bills right, and doesn’t hand out cancellations, not even on Christmas.
"I’ve got a date with a client," I rattle off. "Booked days ago, she’s already paid, she’s got the outfit picked out and the car on the way."
Nat plants herself in the doorway with her arms crossed; she looks like the bouncer at a velvet-rope club on Serrano with the list in her hand.
Even my cartilage piercing seems to shrivel.
She doesn’t raise her voice, but the room drops a few degrees, my skin feels it, the air gets heavy, and I feel trapped. And yeah, it turns me on a little.
"It’s one night, that’s all," I add, and I can hear myself begging in Dolby Surround.
"I do it, I wrap it, and I come back. And if you want we set terms, sign stuff, rules—you can put alarms in my phone, whatever you want. I’m just asking you not to leave a lady hanging on WhatsApp with a sad emoji. "
"I haven’t asked you for anything. You don’t need my permission."
"Excuse me? What do you mean, I don’t?"
"What do I have to ask you for, Alaska? Do whatever you want. I’m not your owner or your boss or your girlfriend. If you want to go, go."
My tongue’s on strike and itching for a fight at the same time.
In my head there’s already a slammed door with a music-festival soundtrack, me with a stiletto planted and a wind machine giving me great hair.
In parallel, I see myself kissing her forehead and saying, "Okay, you drive. Tell me where to stand, I’ll sign.
" Yeah, pathetic. I know. She’s still there, a statue.
She dresses it up as cold, but her jaw trembles just a little—tiny detail I’m not about to miss.
"I'm telling you this is a 'see you later, alligator.' I wrap it up, I come back, we laugh, you frisk me if you're in the mood, and we keep going."
"You told me yourself your body is your empire." She lifts a finger. "No one gets to fence it in. Not even me. Perfect. Decide."
"It's not a whim, for fuck's sake, it's professional responsibility. I don't leave a lady hanging on Telegram with a kitten sticker and a 'sorry, I'm only human.'"
"Then"—finger up again, DMV clerk from hell—"there's nothing else to discuss. Go. If that's the call, go."