Ebb and Flow

Ebb and Flow. I have to keep reminding myself. I had a quick call yesterday morning. It was a half hour call which pays 2/3 what an hour call pays, but the agency collects the same fees regardless. So you don’t make as much. I often turn my nose up at the half hour calls because I view them as not being worth my time, especially when hour calls are done in half an hour anyway. The same job gets done, only I get the shaft. Ange laughs and says, “Oh, how quickly we forget!” She’s right. There were times in the past, many many times, where an extra hundred bucks would have made the world of difference. Now I can’t be bothered. Even in the ebb times (or is it the flow?). I’ve decided to change my mentality. It’s quick and easy, and really, what’s wrong with having that extra bank in your pocket. That, however is not the point of my story at all. Quite the opposite.

Last night I was called to work a city just over an hour outside of town. When there’s travel like that the rates go way up. The girl at the agency told me to quote the gentleman twice the hourly rate. Sounds good to me. Yes, it would be over three hours in total of my time, but chances are I wouldn’t be getting another call on a Wednesday night. The girl also told me that our boss was up there working, and she suspected that there might be an event, cause there seemed to be a lot of action for us up there. Perhaps I’d be able to get in two calls at the out of town rate. She did warn me that these guys were partiers, and she and another girl were having a lot of problems with more than one person in the room (we don’t put on shows) and getting full payment up front. Since we would be in the same hotel, I was to call her as soon as I got there. I was summoned to the penthouse of a hotel which could easily be considered one of the nicest hotels this side of the country. I use to work in the hospitality industry, so it was a little tough for me to focus on why I was there, being surrounded by such beauty. The gentleman was drunk when I got there, but not messy or rude or anything. As soon as I had taken off my coat he handed me a crisp stack of bills. “Count it!” he insists. It’s more than enough money for two hours. I call the agency to let them know I’d made it safe and they ask how long I’m staying for. I look at him and say, “One hour?” He looks unsure. “Lets say one hour and go from there.” I tell the girl. I hang up the phone, and put the money in my purse. He pours me a tall flute of Don Perignon (I googled it, it retails at $140/bottle). This man liked to show off his money, and I had nooo problem oooing and ahhhing for his ego. An hour goes by and I get my time call. I look at him to see if I’m staying and he hands me another mitt full of cash. I wasn’t expecting this. He didn’t have to pay me anything, really. I say thank you and put in my purse. “No, count it!” He insists! So I count it, and consciously keep my eyebrows from raising. The amount that I’d made in those two hours equalled what I would make in a month working my old desk job. This would be the flow that keeps me through the ebbs. It would have been awesome to get a third hour out of him, but by then we were both very tired. It was midnight when I’d left, and I clocked off. I was exhausted. The good thing was with the money I’d earned, I had no qualms with checking into a hotel rather than making the long drive home.

Rarwlll!!!

I made a bit of a faux pas yesterday. Whilst undoing a gentleman’s pants I accidentally got his belly hair tangled with the button and pulled on it pretty hard. Later he growled at me, like from the throat. Beastly.

Worst Call of Life

I’d had a horrible night. Like horrible. I’m going to blame it on the fact that I was pmsing really bad, and as a result highly emotional. I spent most of the night by myself crying over things that in hindsight would be considered irrational. The next day Ange was going to take me out for lunch. She showed up around 1 and when I opened the door, she greeted me with “Oh my God, you look like shit! What happened to you?” I still felt like shit. By then I had realised that it was just a mood swing, but I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. It was still hard to physically pull it together, and more tears were shed as I told her of my foolishness. Over lunch I received a call to see a client for the afternoon. He wanted me to spend several hours with him. This could equate to minimum $1,200 for a days work. We chatted a bit on the phone, and he asked me if I drank, and if I would mind if he partied. So vague. I asked him how he defined party, “Well you know, just smoke a bit.” I assumed he meant pot. “No, I don’t mind at all,” I told him. I usually don’t party with clients, largely because I have to drive after wards, and seriously, it’s best to keep my wits about me. I agreed to meet him at a hotel in an hour and finished my lunch with Ange. The very idea of going and playing nice and being friendly and laughing at stupid jokes for hours on end was exhausting. I just felt gutted from the night before. On the drive over I did an old trick my mom taught me. Your body doesn’t know the difference between fake laughter and real laughter, and releases endorphins anyway. So I pull it together as much as I could and start laughing in the car. I’m sure I looked as ridiculous as I felt, but I had to do something, or I knew I would find myself crying in his hotel room. By the time I get there I have a smile on my face. I go to his room, and he doesn’t answer the door. As annoyed as I should be, I am just relieved. Off the hook. I call the agency to let them know. The suggest I hang around and wait, so I sit in my car for a half hour, relaxing, meditating, finding my zen. Still no dude. So I head home. It’s not 10 minutes before the agency calls back, and the client wants to know why I’m not at the hotel. Fuck. Whatever. So I go back and he’s there. He’s this middle aged, over weight East Indian dude. Awesome. And the really awesome part; he’s not smoking weed, he’s smoking crack. He’s such a big talker too. He’s explaining to me that he doesn’t often smoke crack, just once a month he goes on a bender and hires a girl to relax. He use to have a regular girl that would party with him, but she moved to Vancouver. Blah blah blah, I don’t care. I’ve quit caring for the day. So this is what he wants. Well, he wants me to do crack with him. This is what I’ve agreed to do. (Keep in mind the amount of money to be made, and keep in mind I have no experience with crack) I am to light and hold his beer can bong while he smokes it and fucks me, then I am to rub his nipples while he did this disgusting slurpy sucky thing with his lips and tongue. It was awful. It was disgusting. But you know, it’s my job. Not all handsome young men who want to steal me away. This goes on for a bit, and I feel myself getting carried away. I was getting really turned on. And I hated it. I don’t like loosing control of my sensations like that. When I cum involuntarily I feel like they stole my orgasm from me. It feels really degrading. And I did cum with him. I came hard. He got into the shower shortly after, and I took that opportunity to, on wobbly legs, open the tiny little window. When that icy air hit my face, it was like I’d never felt air before. I couldn’t take breaths deep enough. And that’s when I realised; I’m high. I’m fucking high on crack. I’m fucking high. What the fuck am I still doing here? This is your time to get the fuck out. So I did. I got dressed as quick as I good and got out of there. He had left the bathroom door and shower curtain open, and caught me as I was leaving, but I wasn’t stopping. “You didn’t steal anything, did you?” He shouted at me as the door closed behind me.

Of course this isn’t a story I forgot, but I’d forgotten the phone conversation I’d had with him in the café. Fast forward a month, and countless clients. The other night I get a call from a guy. Albert (and yes, that is his real name) Albert calls, and he wants too book me for the evening. He asks if I party. I know, you'd think this should have been a red flag, but lots of guys ask if I party, so unfortunately it wasn’t. I’m seeing $$’s again. I told him, he can party if he likes, but, no I don’t. However, I will not hang around if he’s doing crack. “Oh, ok, well I won’t then.” “Ok, perfect” So he books a time, but wants me to call back just before to confirm. I’m booked in then, therefore not getting calls to conflict with this one, and when the time rolls around I call and he cancels. Asshole. Wasting my time like that costs me money. When he cancels he tells me he wants to re-schedule for the next day. Normally, I wouldn’t, but like I say, things have been slow. And he cancels again. A few days later he calls again to book me. I book him, but I don’t take any stock in it, and I tell the girls in the agency to send me any other calls that come my way, and he can wait if he needs to. Believe it or not, this date finally comes to fruition and I go to his house in one of the nicer neighbourhoods. He opens the door, “Hey, it’s you! From whatever hotel.” I say. I’m instantly weary, but if there’s crack, I’ll just leave. “Uh, who?” He asks, “I’ve never seen you before” Have I just made the most awkward mistake of life (aside from all the other retarded comments I usually make) I didn’t mix up my clients, did I? But the more he talks, the more I’m sure it’s him. “So when you say you want to smoke, do mean weed or crack?” And then he starts talking and it’s like he doesn’t stop. “Well I tried to get weed, I’d rather do weed, or rails, but I couldn’t, and I got busy with work and…” and he just goes on and on and on. My God! “Albert,” I interrupt, “I’d asked you on the phone if you were going to do crack tonight, and you said no. I told you that if you were doing crack, I wasn’t going to hang around” I’m using my mom voice at this point. “Well, it’s not that I want to do crack but…” and off he goes again. “Albert. Are you going to do crack tonight” … talk talk talk… “Albert. Lets make this easy. It’s a yes or a no” … talk talk talk… Seriously, 15 minutes goes by. “Albert, the agency is waiting for me to call them. If I don’t call them, they will get worried. You need to make a decision now Albert.” It was almost half an hour before he admitted, that yes, he did want to do crack. Sooo aggravating. Fuck. I told him that he needed to compensate me for wasting my time like that, and thankfully getting cash out of him wasn’t as painful as the rest of the ordeal. He paid me 2/3 of my hourly rate, and considering the agency takes a little less than 25%, I didn’t make out too bad. There was no way I was going to give them a cut of this though. Seriously worst call of life. Albert is now in the Bad Book which means he’s blacklisted from our agency. 

p.s. don’t ask me how many times I’ve thought about texting Richard Gere, cause I’m bored.

My Best Offer

Business has been slow. Very slow. I’m used to it now. Sort of. I know enough not to freak out when I go a while without any work, but it still stresses me a bit. Today is Friday, and before today, I’d only had two jobs this week. So yes, already, I’m making almost twice as much as my desk job, but it seems since I make more, I’ve been spending more. But not frivolously, I have to say! Shortly after I started this career, my car died. I bought a rather inexpensive replacement, borrowing the money from a friend. Because of my perceived income, I have a rather ambitious payment schedule on it. I also had to take a couple weeks off at the end of January. So, although I’m making way more, money is still a little tight.

I got a call to work around lunch time. It was a repeat. The address was familiar, but the name was not. Granted, I’m bad with names at the best of times, but I was pretty sure that this was my Richard Gere. It was confirmed when I arrived at his upscale penthouse near downtown. “Why did you use a different name?!” I’d asked him when I took off my coat. He laughed and scratched the back of his neck, “I don’t know! I just said it.” We had a really nice time together.  He told me that he has a date this evening. He doesn’t even remember what this girl looks like. They met last week, and have been texting. “She seems really desperate” He tells me. I feel bad for her. “You don’t know. She may be wonderful. You may discover you love the way she sips her drink and you can’t resist her!” I’m trying to be encouraging. “I don’t think so!” He says, rolling over and wrapping his arms tight around me, “You should just stay here, I’ll order pizza…” “Chinese,” I correct. “I’ll order Chinese, and we’ll watch movies on my tv right there, and we’ll lie in bed allllll day” And he nuzzles into me some more. “We’ll get some duck. Have you tested out my couch? It’s sooo comfortable.”  Not going to lie, it was seriously the best offer I’ve had in months. And this guy, frick, he’s cute, and he’s young, and he makes serious cash (in a respectable profession), and frankly, his cock is perfect. Perfect. The catch is, there’s just enough straight in me to enjoy my job, but the rest. Gay. Gaygaygaygay. Yes, I know the term for that is bisexual, but there are perceptions on bisexuality that just don’t apply to me. So I prefer the term, ‘Mostly Gay’. Of course I telling him this would be bad for business, so I tell him the agency has rules; I can’t date  clients. It’s my life saver line “I can’t, it’s against the agency rules” I can say with such regret, and sadness, like I really want to. It’s gotten me out of a million different sticky situation Ha ha. And every time it’s followed up with “they don’t have to know” It’s like a dance. I stayed too long at Richards house. Like an hour and a half extra. I shouldn’t have done that. It was just nice, spooning with him, and playing in bed. Bad Alison. He kept asking me to come over after his date tonight. And I kept telling him no. “Not even Maybe? Just say maybe.” And I’d smile, and say, “Do you want me to say ‘Maybe’?” “No! I want you to tell me the truth, don’t lie” he laughed. “See, I’m not that girl, I don’t lie” Total lie.

My phone rang as I was walking out the door. It was an other repeat client. I call him Six Fingers. Well not to his face of course, but you shall know him as Six Fingers. This would be my third time visiting him. To say he has six fingers is a lie. He has eight, like the rest of us, and three thumbs. But the two thumbs are not opposable. So does that mean they’re not thumbs? I don’t know. Really there are so many jokes that can be made about this. He was one of my first clients, back in December or early January. He was out of the norm. Not the young rig-pig types. I think he might be in his 50’s. Alex wrinkled his brow when I told him about Six Fingers. “Old and weird, I don’t think I could do it.” Mmm, yeah, I see that. But I respect him. He’s a sweetheart, with a really gentle spirit. There are young hot guys who fuck the shit out of me with no regard for my well being. That’s work for me. There’s no respect there. I’ll take Six Fingers over them any day of the week. He really just likes to chat, and hug. And by hug, I don’t mean cuddle, I mean hug. Intense, deliberate, long lasting hugs. I say whatever, I’m down. No big deal. My first visit I swear it was at least 30 minutes before I realised his extra thumb. Then it was like I was fixated on it. “Six fingers… the dude has Six Fingers!” It was all I could think about. Over and over again in my head like a broken record. “The dude has six fingers!” It then became my primary goal not to look at it. Later on, he gave me a massage, and I swear, I could feel all eleven of them. 

Day in the Lives

It’s been a while since I’ve written. A lot has happened though. I’ve never told you about the double life I lead. After all, I do have parents and siblings and square friends. I have never been a good liar, so the idea of taking on a double life was daunting, but I had to do it. It’s the same old story, working a dead-end job, punching the clock and shuffling paper. Working for the man. Well I guess I’m still working for the man, but at least now I’m screwing him, instead of the other way around. I had to get out. I had to. This may sound weird, but while working at this job, I thought it would be really awesome to open my own concierge type business. Not the type where I get you concert tickets, but the type where my company will do your random jobs that you don’t have time to do, like grocery shopping for instance, and other such chores. I decided this would be my cover story. I went on to research it, and sure enough there was a company that had almost exactly the same business structure that I had come up with. It was a small business, and I decided that they would be my new employers. They do not know this of course. My biggest mistake was picking a job that was so interesting. Everyday my mom wants to know what I did! “Well Mom, today I helped a woman move and unpack her stuff.” “Oh, where did she move to? Where did she move from? Oh she’s divorced, Why’d she get divorced…?” Oh my God the questions never end. We don’t even live together.  Everyday I have to make up new stories. I grocery shop, I make gift baskets, I do endless deliveries, I babysit, I chauffer (although, apparently you need a licence to do that, so I quit telling people that one), I create photo albums, I help people de-junk their house. On and on and on. I tell my friends this too.

Ok so there is a code in relationships. I think it is unspoken, but everyone knows. Your best friend has a +1 (spouse, boyfriend/girlfriend, intimate partner, whatever). It’s kind of assumed that when you tell your best friend a secret they tell their +1, and the +1 pretends to know nothing. That’s just how it works. I always assume that’s what happens. I would say most of my friends know what I do for a living, but some of my friends are part of a community that I’m involved in, so I’ve tried to limit how many of them know, to try to prevent everyone from finding out. But I’ve been hanging out with Alex a lot, and I’ve hated lying to him, because the questions can get quite involved, and ugh, it’s hard. So I told him, and I told him that he could tell his +1, because I assumed he would follow the code. I was wrong. A week or so later I saw Alex, as soon as he had a chance he told me that his plus one told so-and-so who then told her plus one, and well, now the cats out of the bag. I was furious. I was just so angry. How dare he! Doesn’t he know the friggen code? Fuck! Oh man, yup, I was mad. I told Alex that I never wanted to see his +1 again. If I ever invited him over, he is to come alone. His +1 was not welcome in my house. And I had no idea how my friends would respond. I knew that they wouldn’t care in the judgmental sort of way, but I was worried how discrete they would be, or if they’d be mad about the lies. I knew that I had to meet with them and have ‘The Talk’.  When I picked her up to go for coffee I felt like I was in the Mob. You know when they say they want to go for a drive. You don’t know if you’re going to get wacked, promoted, or just go for a friggen drive. After my initial discussion with Alex I realised I needed to play it cool though. There’s no need for drama. I hate drama. I met the girls for coffee, and it went really well. A little awkward at first, but then not at all. One of them told me that she did feel really hurt by the lies, and I really appreciated how honest she was with me. We were able to fix all of the wrongs. And as for Alex’s +1. I’ve let go of my anger and hate. I’m the one carrying it, while he goes along with is life, and not giving me another thought. I’m not mad any more. There’s just no point.