he’s nice but never forget where the line is. Would you expect a personal trainer to follow a client home from the gym, or get together on weekends just to hang out? No. Out of the question.
S is for Sexy
Sexiness is not a square-yards-of-cloth to exposed-skin ratio. Sexy is not the inevitable result of being blonde, tan, and thin (though it seems to work for television hosts). Sexy is the result of being pulled together and comfortable in your skin. Holding your stomach in when your clothes are off is not fuckable. Slapping your ample behind and inviting him to ride the wobble is.
SHARK
Etymology: probably modified of German Schurke, “scoundrel.”
Function: noun, intransitive verb
1: any of numerous marine elasmobranch fishes that have a fusiform body and lateral gill clefts and are rapacious predators
2: a crafty person who preys upon others through usury, extortion, or trickery
3: one who excels greatly in a particular field
4: the act of entrapment of a person, usually younger or less experienced
I’ve been eyeing up someone at the gym for the last few months.
This is not a habit, really. Gyms are for exercising, perhaps a bit of socializing, but the widespread idea of workouts as meat markets is gruesome by any standard. On the upside, if you do meet someone in an atmosphere of lycra-clad, endorphin-soaked madness, you can rest easy that he has seen you at your worst, covered in sweat and hair undone, and found you attractive.
On the other hand, I wouldn’t want to date anyone who regularly saw me at my worst.
At the start of the year, though, one man in particular caught my eye. Shy smile, soft-looking hair, impressively muscled build. I made inquiries. Gleaned his name.
“Gay,” barked N, who is not gay himself but claims to have the most finely attuned straight-man gaydar in the south of England. It’s rubbish, but I dare not say. “Without doubt.”
“I don’t think so,” I sighed, trying not to stare as the object of our conversation worked his way around the free weights.
“Ten-pence bet says he is.”
Them’s, as they say, fightin’ words. “You’re on.”
“It would indeed be a pleasure,” N said, rubbing his hands, “to see the master shark lose this one.” vendredi, le 2 avril
Conversations with clients are not exactly what one might call “normal,” but still have their rigid conventions. It’s nice to know where someone is from, a general outline of what he does. Most of the men are business travelers and not frequent consumers of sex services. A little idle chatter puts both parties at ease.
There’s a fine line between curiosity and nosiness, though, and while meeting a working girl is a bit like going on a first date, some lines of interrogation are simply off limits. These include questions about one’s parents, location of one’s house (as I only do outcalls), vehicle registration number…
On the other hand, the fact that you are unlikely to meet again means a customer can ask the sort of questions that would get anyone else a rapid introduction to the pavement. Context is everything.
Example 1: “Do you think you’ll marry and have children?”
I like children well enough. I especially like when they go back to their parents.
Sometimes-sometimes-I am struck by the charm of a precocious bebe and think rearing young’uns a good idea. And if someone could take charge of children between the ages of eleven and sixteen, it would sweeten the deal immensely.
Clients are perhaps the only people I can answer this question honestly to. The ambivalence toward a future family, the uncertainty whether this world is a suitable place to chain oneself to another being or beings, frankly, troubles me. As many of them are married and have children, they appreciate this. Sometimes they offer advice.
Some adore their children and family life. Some are… well, they’re out paying for sex, aren’t they?
My parents are sometimes fool enough to ask after my future plans for babymaking and receive the stock answer of “I simply haven’t met the right man.” Any paramour who dares let this query pass his lips is on a one- way trip to speed dating and singleton hell.
Example 2: Questions about taste in films, books, and music.
Potential mates receive an honest answer. My taste in cultural minutiae might be dodgy, but it is my own, and anyone hoping to merge his material possessions with mine in a happy reenactment of Homo erectus setting up housekeeping in the Olduvai Gorge, will have to live with a collection of music that could best be described by the term “selective appeal.”
In a client situation, I try to discern what his taste might be and stray not too far off the beaten mainstream. Trying to cover the finer points of free jazz whilst administering a soapy titwank is possibly straining the privileges of my position.
Example 3: “How many people have you been to bed with?”
No client has ever asked. Sometimes they ask how long I have been working, but whether they attempt to deduce the number of my past lovers based on the answer is unknown. Given that my working practices have been sometimes sporadic, it’s unlikely they would reach an accurate total.
Non-clients always ask. If I think the man has a good sense of humor, I tell him a number that is roughly accurate. Or at least within the same order of magnitude. I don’t know the real answer myself. For geeky men with extremely good senses of humor, I offer the total in scientific notation or hexadecimal.
If I think he does not have a good sense of humor, I try to change the subject or turn the question back on him.
Why does it matter? Quantity is no guarantee of quality. Frequency definitely isn’t. But a low total is not indicative of personality either. A high number of ex-lovers could just as easily say “I’m good at hostessing, and the lack of stalkers implies my selective powers are decent” as it does the more common interpretation of “I’m a big wet girlslut with a drinking problem.” Men-and women-who have been shocked by my answer were often heard to mumble, “But you look like such a nice girl!”
I am nice. Very nice indeed.
At the age of seventeen someone split with me because he was my third partner and this was an unacceptably high number to him. The next man, number 4, claimed the number of my previous lovers was unacceptably low. There’s no pleasing some people.
The last time I had a lover with more former partners than me (that I knew of) was at the age of nineteen.
Example 4: “We only have a quarter of an hour. May I come in your mouth?”
In a normal situation, this might meet with a grimace at best and a restraint order at worst. At work, though, typical responses range from “Go on then!” to “Okay, but I would rather you came on my face.” dimanche, le 4 avril
A year or two ago it became apparent how neatly I’ve left the first flush of youth behind. The Maginot Line was, of all things, music. Watching videos after a prolonged absence from popular culture, I noticed to my horror that those who are not old enough to remember Lionel Richie the first time around consider him some sort of Grand Pooh-Bah of soft rock. Lionel was everywhere, sporting mini-dreads, bling, and cred. Wrong, wrong, wrong! Did no one else have their early memories of music television inexorably scarred by the sight of Mr. Richie crooning earnestly to his own clay head? Sometimes I fear for the younger generation, truly.
Which reminds me that my mother’s birthday is looming and I really must remember to make her that Neil Sedaka Tzedakah box I’m always promising-or is it threatening? — to craft.
WAX
Etymology: Middle English, from Old English weax; akin to Old High German wahs, Lithuanian vaskas
Function: transitive verb, intransitive verb, noun
1: a substance secreted by bees and used for constructing the honeycomb, composed of a mixture of esters, cerotic acid, and hydrocarbons
