Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Ivy
Which is crazier: spending two hundred dollars I don't have on a hotel room or inviting a sex worker to my apartment?
I opt for the latter.
Which is probably the more ridiculous choice. But Romeo—is that really his name?—isn't surprised. At least, his text doesn't hint at any surprise.
He says if I'm nervous, we can talk first. We can even meet for a drink, at a bar, a public place. No charge for the extra time. A new client special. For first timers.
We tend to need a little encouragement.
But this isn't New York City. This isn't even Los Angeles. There's no bar down the street. I have to drive wherever I go, and that means I won't be able to drink enough to ease my nerves.
Probably smart.
But, hey, I'm already inviting a sex worker to my house. Why start with smart now?
I send the man my address. I try to put our meeting out of mind.
But all day, all night, all the next day, I think about it.
Through my laps at the pool at the gym, my session editing the podcast with Meredith (I refuse to discuss the plan to turn myself into a trick in the name of content), my afternoon tea, my walk on the beach, my dinner with a friend from grad school.
Nothing distracts me. Not even the soothing sounds of Law and Order. There's something about the way the detectives solve the crime, every time. In only forty-four minutes, they figure out who did it, and why they did it.
If only life were that simple.
At an hour to our meeting time, I give up on distraction and pour my energy into preparing my place.
My apartment is small but nice. A one-bedroom that stretches the limits of my budget.
Really, if we lose the sponsor, that's it.
Even with the fancy letters after my name, I can barely afford to live in this place where I grew up. It's too damn expensive.
Maybe I can move back in with my parents.
Now, that's an idea.
No, I can get a job somewhere, in theory, eventually. There are well paying jobs out there. They're just not the ones I want. I hate working with couples. They bicker constantly. They remind me of my ex. It's… awful.
I’ve always been fascinated by relationships and sex. I’ve always been a good listener. So, I thought I’d love helping couples.
But I didn’t. At first, I only found it uncomfortable. And I still liked, no loved, my solo clients. Then things got worse with my ex, and I started to hate working with couples more and more.
As soon as I had the opportunity to limit my number of couple clients, I did. Then the show got big, and I didn’t need to see anyone anymore.
But, hey, I’m not here to save anyone’s relationship. I'm here to save my show.
No pressure.
What would make my apartment say, this is a fun, no pressure sex session, to me at least?
Even though I've lived in this space since I decided to divorce my ex (it’s been a year now), I haven't done a lot to decorate. The walls are bare. The couch only holds a slim blanket and a small pillow. At least the bookshelf is full, with a mix of mysteries and textbooks.
That makes me look smart, I suppose.
And the bedroom. Well, it's a normal enough bedroom, I guess.
I put out some of the candles I bought to spice up things with my ex. I try not to wonder what it means that I saved them all this time. Then I change into the sheer black bra and panty set I bought for the same purpose.
It doesn't make me feel sexy. It sends me straight to nights I spent crying over the state of my marriage.
Why do we believe lingerie will revive dormant passion? It's not as if sheer lace can convince someone they want something they don't.
You can't change the way someone feels. Or make them care. Or convince them your needs are worth prioritizing.
In the end, there's so little we can do if our partners aren't on board. I wish I could explain that better, on my podcast.
Sometimes, I want to grab a caller and yell, get out now honey, if he isn't trying, he won't. It's hard to give women advice to be patient, to communicate gently, to work harder. But women are the ones who call.
Women like me.
No. Women like who I was.
After all, I'm no longer Mrs. Ivy Vaughn, unhappily married woman.
No, tonight I’m stepping into my role as Doctor fucking O. And Doctor O always puts her desires first.
Always.
I do away with the bra and panties.
My eyes go to my reflection. I don't criticize my body, the way I did during the worst of it. Instead, I study myself without judgment. My body is on the slim side of average, but it's far from the Southern California ideal. That's not something that bothers me. Just an observation.
My shoulders are too broad. My stomach isn't defined. My breasts are too small. My hips are too wide. My stretch marks and cellulite are visible, even in the soft lighting.
At one point, these things bothered me. On bad days, they still do.
Right now, I can look at myself in the mirror and appreciate everything my body does. Even the way it feels pleasure.
Maybe I can tap into that with this Romeo fellow too.
Maybe I can let go an enjoy. Why not?
I slip into something between Ivy and Doctor O, some other part I can play, another person I can become. Cotton panties with less trim. Sexy yet practical wedges. Just enough makeup to make my features pop. A simple black dress.
Easy going glam.
Sexy yet carefree.
Does that describe me?
Maybe some parts, some way. Maybe some version of the person I want to be.
I take a deep breath and let out a deep breath. Simple. Easy. Calm.
He knocks.
I nearly jump out of my skin.
Okay, maybe calm is setting the bar high. Calmer.
I step into the living room casually. The person I want to be. A confident, in control woman who is totally casual about a night of sex with a pro. "It's open."
He turns the knob and steps inside. He's wearing a black suit and a crimson tie. And he's gorgeous.
Seriously. Meredith’s friend wasn't kidding. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Olive skin. Leading man frame and leading man looks. Classically handsome, but not too tall or too broad or too symmetrical, not in a way that makes him look untouchably perfect.
Even in the suit he looks very touchable.
He smiles, and his dark eyes light up. Somehow, he exudes just the right amount of attention. Enough to flatter. Not enough to scare.
He's good at this. Really good at this.
"You must be Ivy. Or do you prefer Doctor?" he asks.
"Oh god, am I one of those tedious people who always mentions I'm a doctor?" I don't remember saying that in my message, but maybe I'm on my way. I certainly know colleagues who can't let anyone address them as Mister or Ms.
"No. I suppose, I liked the image of it." He moves through the entrance, into the living room. His eyes move around the room. Looking for a diploma. Or just looking.
I can't tell. I have no idea how he really feels, what he really wants.
I almost believe he really wants me. Maybe I should believe it.
Why not? I'm paying him to pretend, after all.
"It's nice to meet you, Romeo." There's no way I'm calling him Mr. Bonito.
That can't be his real name. No parents would be cruel enough to name their kid Romeo Bonito.
I offer my hand.
He opens his arms for a hug.
I fall into the motion. Into his warm, hard body.
He wraps his arms around me in a full embrace. He pulls me closer, just enough I feel wanted and safe, then he releases me.
It's a quick thing, a moment, but it overwhelms me. It's been a long time since someone has held me. Since I've felt this sort of visceral desire. I like the way he smells. The way he smiles. The way he stands.
It's not that he's handsome, though he is. It's his presence.
"Can I get you a drink?" I fall into my manners as I release him.
He looks at me gently. "A drink sounds great. Whatever you're having."
"Really? Anything?"
"Try me."
"What if I drink pepper vodka?"
"I love it spicy." He lets just enough of a flirty tone fall into a voice.
An act. Or the truth. Why question it?
"But I'm guessing that's not your drink."
"Oh?" I ask. "Based on what?"
"Your apartment." He picks up on something. Changes tactics. "But I'd rather you tell me what you like. I love a woman who speaks her mind."
"That's a rare trait in a man."
He chuckles. "That's what my mom says too."
A sex worker who's a mama's boy. That's different. Or maybe not. Now isn't the time to get Freudian with the fella. "No. Go ahead. Guess. What’s my drink?"
"It doesn't bother you?"
"I'm curious."
I move into the kitchen.
He goes through his reasoning piece by piece. "Your place is more minimalist than maximalist. Cool tones. But it's not cold. You have blankets. And candles. They're the good kind. Wax and essential oil. Not the shit that smells like the state fair."
That makes me smile.
"You're educated. The sort of woman more likely to drink wine. I could see wine. It's elegant, like your dress. Or something else simple. A martini maybe."
He's close. I add the lime to our gin and tonics and meet him at the couch.
"Vodka soda," he guesses.
"Gin and tonic.”
He shakes his head. "Better guess. Smarter. You're witty."
Can he tell that already or does he think I’ll swoon for an empty compliment? "Witty people like gin and tonics?"
"They're British. Dry humor."
The logic tracks, but I’m not sure I believe the observations. We’ve only spoken for two minutes. He can’t know I have a dry sense of humor. "Is this your usual foreplay?" I say.
That makes him smiler wider. "No. I prefer more conventional methods. We can move to that. If you're ready." His eyes move to my chest. My stomach. The hem of my dress. "But I'm happy to talk first."
"One drink," I say. That's our agreement. One drink. Then one hour. This time. I can afford three, overall, but I’ve got to save some for later. So I have more material. He’s in charge of time. Apparently, he's flexible with first timers. "Do you usually have a drink first?"
"With some people."
"Whatever a client prefers," I say.
He takes a long sip, closes his eyes, lets out a soft sigh. "Ivy. You're using the good stuff. I had a feeling."
I want to find the false intimacy annoying, but I don’t. It’s nice to be noticed. My ex wasn’t paying any attention to me by the end. He certainly didn’t stop to appreciate the premium tonic water I bought. "If you're going to do something, do it right."
"True." His eyes go to mine. "Yes. That's the job. I'm happy either way."
"Whatever the drink?"
"Honestly?" he asks.
I nod.
"I don't like beer."
Is he saying that to win points? No. How would he know I don't like beer? That my ex drank too much beer. Well, he does know my name, and he could stalk my ex-husband's social media, but that's a lot of work, isn't it?
"It's funny. I love bitter. I love strong. I should love IPAs. But I don't."
"Why not?"
"Hops," he says. "Hate them."
I take a long sip. "But you'll drink that, if it's what a client wants?"
He raises his glass and motions to the couch shall we sit. "It hasn't come up."
No, I suppose it wouldn’t. The smell of beer isn’t exactly sexy.
I take my seat.
He sits next to me.
It's strange, to have a man in my space, a man so close. No one has been here except for Meredith and my parents.
I want him. Badly. I want to do away with his designer suit and feel his strong biceps. I want to see if he has tattoos or birthmarks or scars.
The depth of my want scares me. It's been a long time since I've felt this. Too long.
Better to ease into that.
"You're agreeable with drinks," I say. "But what if you don't find someone attractive?"
His eyes pass over me slowly. "I find you attractive."
"Would you say that, even if you didn't?"
"No. I'd say something else."
I'm not sure I believe that, but I do believe he wants me. Or maybe I just want to believe it. Why am I arguing with him anyway? I’m paying him to pretend to like me. I should let myself fall into the lie. I just… can’t.
"I have a thing for smart women," he says. "Always have."
"You're winding me up."
"No. You'd see through it," he says. "That's your job, isn't it? Sniffing out bullshit?"
That's one way to put it. "I typically say, helping people find sexual satisfaction."
"I guess we have that in common."
I guess we do. What a strange way to look at it. "Your way is probably more fun."
He lets out a low, deep laugh. It fills the space. It warms my stomach. It crinkles his eyes.
He's handsome and charming and good at his job.
And I really want to touch him. Maybe we don't need to keep talking so much. Maybe we can… get to that part.
He takes another sip. He gives me a moment to fill the space.
"What are you thinking, Ivy?"
"It's been a long time since I've been drawn to someone," I say. “How lucky that I'm drawn to you. Considering. How awkward would it be if someone hired you and then said, no, no, you don't smell good to me."
"It's happened," he says.
"Did you take it personally?" I swallow another sip.
He shakes his head. "If they still want to talk, we talk. Otherwise, I take my money and go."
"No refunds?" I ask.
"Only for poor performance on my part."
I suppose sex workers experience performance anxiety too. "You'd really admit to that?"
He shrugs coyly. Maybe. Maybe not. "I'm my own worst critic."
"Me too."
He takes a long sip and finishes his drink.
I look down at my glass. It's empty too.
Right. One drink. And then I have sex with him. That’s what I want. That’s what I’m paying him to do.
He offers his hand. "If you're ready, I can take it from here. Show you how it feels to embrace only what you want."