The Escort Next Door Page 5

  “What?” she shouted, her shock sounding no less than my own had been.

  I was past the point of crying, all of my tears had dried out long before. So, it was with a sort of detached, emotionless voice that I recounted what I'd discovered over the previous few hours.

  “You've got to be kidding me?” she muttered quietly. I could tell she was talking to herself and didn't actually think it was my idea of a practical joke. “Who does that bastard think he is?”

  “Rico Suave, apparently,” I murmured bitterly.

  “Jesus Christ,” she sighed, clearly having a hard time taking the news in. “What an ass!” she suddenly shouted. “Where the fuck does he get off? You're stuck at home raising his children and he goes around sticking his dick into everything with a pair of breast.”

  I was grateful that she was so angry on my behalf, but her rant brought back images that caused my throat to tighten.

  “I'd chop his cock off!” she added vehemently.

  That brought a reluctant laugh to my lips, but it tapered off far too quickly to provide any real relief.

  “Oh, Jules,” she breathed. “Honey, what are you going to do?”

  “I really don't know,” I admitted with a whisper. “I just...” I sighed wearily. “I don't know.”

  “But you are going to leave him, right?” she asked, leaving no doubt that she felt the answer should be a resounding 'yes'.

  “I want to,” I replied weakly. “I mean, our marriage is over. If it had just been once, I might have been able to forgive him, but after this, I'll never be able to trust him again.”

  “But?” Grace coaxed, noting that there was one coming.

  “But what can I do?” I said, shaking my head dispiritedly. “I haven't got a penny to my name. I can't even afford to rent a tiny one bedroom apartment, let alone a place big enough for three kids.”

  “Okay,” she conceded, her practical tone coming to the fore. “So, you get a job and save some money.”

  It was a viable suggestion, but there were problems. “I won't be able to work without Paul finding out,” I sighed. “He'd want to know why, and I can't come up with a convincing reason other than the truth.”

  “Tell him you're bored at home and need some adult company once in a while,” Grace offered helpfully.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “But if he knows I'm working, he'll wonder why the money isn't going into our joint bills account,” I countered, hating the fact that every solution simply posed another problem. “Not to mention the fact that it would take me forever to save enough, I'm not qualified for anything that would pay well.”

  “Then don't worry about money,” she dismissed quickly. “You and the children can come and live with me, until you've got yourself settled financially. You could stay as long as it takes you know that.”

  I'd been wrong. My tears had apparently an endless supply, because Grace's generous offer brought a fresh wave. “You're too good to me,” I replied shakily.

  “Hey,” she cooed. “That's what friends are for, right? So what do you say?”

  “I'd love to,” I told her earnestly. “But I can't. No matter what, when I leave him, Paul's going to fight me for principal custody of the kids. If I take them out of the state without his permission, his lawyers will make sure I never see them again.”

  Grace was silent for several seconds. “Surely, he wouldn't do that,” she mumbled. “The children love you, you're a good mom. Why would he want to do that to them or to you?”

  Sighing, my eyes wandered to the ceiling. “He can be very vindictive,” I explained. “And he's ruthless in getting what he wants. He's, umm...” I hesitated. “He’s joked about what would happen if we ever split up. At least, he framed them as jokes, but I knew that he wasn't just messing around. If I give him any reason to, he'll take them from me.”

  Exhaling heavily, the whir of Grace's brain almost came through the phone. “All right,” she began. “So, the situation is you need to make some money, preferably a lot of it in a fairly short space of time. And you need to keep it on the down low,” she stated, summing up my impossible situation.

  “That's about it,” I agreed, leaning forward and dropping my head into my open left palm. “No big deal, right?” I joked darkly.

  “Well,” she said, drawing the word out. “I'm thinking there is something you could do?”

  “What?” I asked, not holding out much hope for a completely full proof solution.

  “Don't dismiss it right off the bat, okay?” she prefaced. “How about working as an exotic dancer?”

  “Stripping?” I blurted. “I don't think so.”

  “I said, don't dismiss it,” she insisted. “Think about it. You could work a couple of nights a week during the time Paul's away. You'd hire a sitter to watch the kids, or have them stay overnight with friends.”

  “All that sounds fine,” I conceded. “But what about the part where I take off my clothes?”

  “You've got an amazing body,” she instantly replied, seeming to misunderstand my main objection. “It may have been a long time since you danced in high school, but I bet you've still got the moves.”

  “Grace,” I muttered. “I can't.”

  “Why not?” she countered.

  “I just...” I weakly protested. “I can't go around all the clubs in town, gyrating in nothing more than a thong.”

  “You could,” she retorted. “Do you know how quickly you could make enough money for a deposit on an apartment?”

  “That's not the point,” I replied quietly.

  “Well, sweetie,” she sighed. “I don't know that you have many other options. I'm not suggesting that it's perfect, and I'm not suggesting you take it up as a career. But I do think it's worth considering. Otherwise, what choice do you have?” We both knew it was a rhetorical question, but Grace left it hanging there, no doubt wanting to ensure that I really thought about my predicament and lack of ways out. “Do you really think that you could just bury all of this and go on with Paul as though nothing's happened?” she eventually added.

  That was another question that didn't require an answer. She knew me well enough to know that I couldn't bear to play 'happy families' with a man who not only had been unfaithful, but also a man who would doubtless continue to cheat on me.

  “Are you still there?” she said after my silence had become uncomfortably long.

  “Yeah,” I assured her quietly. “Yeah, I'm still here. I'm just wondering how I got myself into this mess.”

  “None of this is your fault,” she replied softly. “You could never have known that this is what was going to happen. I mean,” she added, “it's not as though Paul was a player when he was younger. He's changed, and you couldn't have foreseen that.”

  “Maybe,” I reluctantly mumbled. “But he still changed right in front of me, and I was either too busy or too blind to notice.”

  “Jules,” she said in her no nonsense manner. It was the kind of tone that all parents use with their children from time to time. “You have to stop beating yourself up. Paul is the one who did something wrong. You're not to blame for any of it, understand?”

  “I guess,” I replied halfheartedly.

  “Listen, I'm really sorry, but I've got to go,” she added apologetically. I could hear Mason, her baby boy, in the background. He was crying softly; the sound of a hungry, growing child. “Think about what I said, and call me again if you need to talk. Any time, day or night.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a grateful half smile that she would never see, but I hope she heard. “I really appreciate that.”

  “No problem,” she responded. “You take care, honey.”

  “Bye,” I sadly whispered, before slipping the phone back into its base. My gaze stayed fixed there for some time, not because I was drawn to the phone in particular. No, my focus remained there, because I was trying to resist the call of something else. If I ignored it, perhaps the feeling would pass.

  However, it didn't. Eventually,
I peered over my shoulder at the computer. After all that time, the screen had gone blank and a small amber light blinking slowly in the right hand corner. It was insane, I told myself. There was no way I would dance for ten dollar bills to be tucked into my panties. So, it was pointless even looking. And yet, my curiosity remained. In fact, it began to grow.

  Muttering, “This is ridiculous,” I picked myself off the bed and settled back in the chair by the desk. Quickly grabbing the mouse, I swept it across the pad, enlivening the screen once more. Not wishing to be reminded of the content of Paul's emails, I quickly signed out and closed that window. Then, I opened a fresh page and began a search.

  After just a few minutes, I'd discovered that the pay of strippers varied dramatically depending on the clubs and how many private dances they were willing to offer. Nevertheless, it was apparently very possible for women to make between $2,000 and $3,000 per week. When I compared that with all of the entry level positions I would be qualified for, which paid minimum wage or just above, the choice seemed like a no-brainer. Grace was right, within just a few weeks, I could make enough money to put down a deposit and have a nice nest egg saved up.

  Suddenly becoming aware of what I was doing, I pushed away from the desk and leaned back in the chair. “Am I actually considering this?” I whispered. I had shocked myself by how quickly I'd warmed to the idea and how attractive it was suddenly seeming.

  Yes, it still seemed seedy. But I was beginning to realize I could live with that. After all, it would be for a finite, very short period of time. The alternative would mean staying with Paul, essentially prostituting myself (when he felt like having sex with me and not someone else), and trawling through a loveless, miserable existence. Being leered at by a few lonely men was a small price to pay to be free.

  A silly smile began to spread across my face. There was another bonus to this plan, it would feel really good to get my own pay back on Paul. Although he'd never find out what I was doing, I could guess what his reaction would be if he did know. And that was enough; at least some vengeance would be had.

  However, with that thought came an abrupt dampener to my heightening spirits. Paul could never know what I was doing. If he learned I was dancing in those places, despite the expression on his face being priceless, he would use it to argue that I was an unfit mother. If I danced in public, especially in the classier clubs that would be my preference, there was a possibility I'd be seen by someone Paul knows. That was a risk I could simply not afford to take.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WORK

  Over the next couple of days, I continued to think very seriously about the possibility of stripping. Every time I stepped out of the shower, I carefully examined my body. For a woman who’d had three children, I wasn’t in bad shape. Regular exercise and being usually careful to avoid any kind of junk food, had helped me stay trim. There were a few silvery stretch marks around my hips, but they were barely noticeable. After prodding my butt, I discovered a little wobble, but it was still pretty firm. Most of my skin was healthily bronzed by the summer sun, and the problem of paler patches could be easily solved with a little spray tan.

  With the help of more make-up than I’d usually wear and the right outfit, I didn’t think I’d look out of place in one of the more upmarket clubs. The more I thought, the more I became convinced not only that I could do it, but that it also offered me the escape route I needed.

  As my interest refused to wane, I went back onto the internet and began scouting for clubs in various cities around the state. I was surprised by the large number of so-called gentleman’s clubs. Most of their websites offered a section for ‘career opportunities’ and stressed that they were always looking for new talent. One page provided potential customers with a gallery of their dancers. Out of curiosity, I browsed the girls noting that many of them linked to their own websites.

  Clicking on a blonde named, ‘Snow’, I was intrigued as to why a stripper would need a website. It turned out, Snow was a savvy business woman. She worked in a number of clubs and also offered private services in both dancing and escorting. Not only was she gaining some job security by diversifying, but also making a lot more money. With one night of escorting, she was earning what the average stripper gets in a week.

  Closing the browser, I thought no more about it. At least, I wasn’t aware of thinking about it. But as I lay in bed that night, my eyes wide open and focused on shadows that played across the ceiling, I continued to think about Snow and what she chose to do for a living. Sure, it was prostitution, and yet it was a very different world to the streetwalking variety.

  Two things quickly occurred to me. One, if I stayed with Paul, I was going to be prostituting myself anyway. And two, men who hire escorts are much more likely to be discreet than men who go to strip joints.

  Shaking my head, I couldn’t quite believe the conclusions I was reaching. But one after another, I kept producing reasons why a brief career as an escort would be a good idea. I’d only have to work one night per week; I wouldn’t have to take my clothes off in front of a room full of people; I could be selective over my clients and where I met them, ensuring I was always out of town.

  But, I quickly slammed on the breaks of my runaway train of thought, there was the one huge sacrifice I would need to make. I would need to be prepared to allow complete strangers to use my body for their sexual pleasure. Was that something I could do? Was it something I would be able to live with afterward? The truth was, I didn’t know.

  However, there were only two alternatives; continue with the sham that was my marriage or leave Paul and accept that he would fight to take primary custody of our kids. I knew without any equivocation that I could live with neither of those things. The possible fallout may have been a complete unknown, but the fear of what might happen was far less than the dread of playing the dutiful wife to a man I no longer respected, trusted or loved.

  Unable to close my eyes, I pushed the covers off the bed and sat up. “I can try,” I mumbled beneath my breath. “Just once.”

  Slipping off the bed, I tiptoed in the darkness to the computer and once more turned it on. If I’d made up my mind, I told myself, then I might as well get the ball rolling.

  I wouldn’t be able to set up my own site, at least not one in which I used a photograph, as there was too much chance of Paul, his parents, our friends and God knew who else seeing it. Instead, I’d need to use classified ads. There were several sites that would allow me to post free ones and there were a couple of message boards that offered a forum for escorts and potential clients to communicate.

  After having read several other ads, I began to get a gist for the basic format and the kind of things that were important to customers. It took me almost an hour to write my own pitch, it was only 100 words long, but I struggled with the tone, wanting to get the right balance between classy and alluring. It’s difficult enough to sell yourself for a regular job, when you’re quite literally selling yourself, a personal statement (even a very short one) becomes incredibly hard.

  However, by the time dawn broke, I had advertised myself on a total of five websites and had set up a new email account for the purpose.

  Given the sheer number of young women who seemed to be trying to get work in exactly the same way, I didn’t hold out much hope of hearing from anyone in the near future. In fact, regardless of the large amounts of money that could be made, I was beginning to wonder whether I would be able to make anything at all. There seemed to be a disproportionately large supply compared with demand.

  Deciding that I would give the ads a couple of weeks, I determined to worry about a ‘Plan B’ only after that time had elapsed.

  In the meantime, I had to go back to being a mom; there were children that needed to be woken, fed and shipped off to school.

  ***

  As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait two weeks. Just three days passed before I received my first email inquiry. I’d almost dismissed it as spam, feeling sure that I ha
d no chance of generating interest so quickly. However, the subject line, ‘Looking for some company on Saturday night’, caused me to stop dead in my tracks.

  I was about to open the message, but a voice from the doorway caused me to jolt in surprise.

  “Mom,” Dylan said brightly. “Can I have some ice cream?”

  My head snapped around, as I shut the browser window. It was a nonsensical reaction, there was nothing revealing on the screen, my son couldn’t see it anyway and even if he could, he certainly wasn’t close enough to read. “How many times have I told you about knocking on that door before you come in,” I grumbled, pushing myself off the chair and moving toward him.

  “I did,” he replied.

  “Well, I didn’t say ‘come in’,” I said, coaxing him around with a light touch at his shoulder.

  He followed my silent guiding without hesitation or argument. “I’m sorry,” he continued. “Can I have some ice cream, though?” he quickly added, returning to his primary concern.

  “Not right now,” I responded, walking down the hall with him.

  “Ahhh, Mom,” he moaned loudly. “Please!” he begged, turning to me and pressing his hands together in front of his chest. “Please, please, please,” he rapidly added, his eyes taking on that dolefully expression he was so very good at.

  Shaking my head apologetically, I hustled him ahead of me and we descended the stairs. “Maybe,” I softly suggested, but before I could get the rest of the sentence out, my young son was already punching the air furiously.

  “Yes!” he yelled delightedly.

  “Maybe,” I repeated, stressing the word this time. “If you eat all your dinner and promise to go to bed on time, I’ll see what I can do about the ice cream.”

  “I love you, Mom,” he said, turning his big brown eyes to me and grinning broadly. It was his standard way of trying to keep me sweet. His father used to do something similar when we were younger.