I, in turn, smiled pleasantly, as I always do, and made my obligatory comment about birth control. “And,” I chirped, “I’ll have you know I’m much cleaner than a whistle.”
Abandoning the chirp, switching to sultry insistence: “I want you to wear this. So I can get you inside of me. It’s been too long since I felt your cock.”
This routine has been going on for so long it qualifies as a tradition. I don’t trust Chip around the New Girls—I mean, real newbies who might not have professional manners. They’re liable to give in because he’s good-looking (if they’re softies), or lecture him about STDs until he can barely get it up (if they’re sanctimonious college girls).
As I rode on his cock, I closed my eyes and played with my breasts. My nipples were getting hard. He reached up to touch. I bit my lip, made some hot little sounds, and moved his hand away, allowing it to rest on the side of my ass. I tried to keep my hands busy so he wouldn’t be able to get at my nipples. There’s something about his hand. He’s too forceful—not a brute, just intrusive.
Sometimes it makes me think, “If this were a boyfriend.” But why should I come with this jerk? All his banter about money, condoms, cleanliness—I think the only reason I see him is his father. I miss those visits.
But the involuntary connection between nipple and clitoris was making itself felt. I reached down to finger myself as he pushed his cock into me.
I won’t be able to have this kind of sex for much longer. And he won’t be the first customer I want to see after I—
Omigod.
How exactly do you deal with the evidence of a c-section in situations like this? The alternative is, um. Suddenly, my hips stopped moving. Vaginal delivery? Yikes.
Chip, feeling teased and slightly frustrated, began seeking his own kind of delivery. There is just no way, I thought, forcing myself to concentrate on his cock. I must sort this out. And is that why Trish has such kinky dates? So she never has to get completely undressed?
Later, as I tidied him up with a hot washcloth, I was tempted to quiz him about his children. He’s got two from his first marriage, and rumor has it he’s re-married, because he no longer sees girls at his apartment. The apartment, just off Park, where we’ve all cooed over the crayon art on Chip’s bathroom wall.
If I didn’t know any better, I would assume he’s too waspy to send his daughter to a school like Sacred Heart, but I know more than I should. His Episcopalian dad knew me as Suzy and saw me twice a month. He sometimes talked, with a hint of exasperation, about an ex-wife who wanted their marriage retroactively annulled, so she could re-marry. That “temperamental Catholic” was Chip Junior’s mother. But, if I ask Chip where his kids go to school, he’ll probably think I’m trying to blackmail him.
After seeing him to the door, I retrieved five hundreds from the top of my dresser and put them in my money drawer.
It’s really too bad. I can’t ask any of my regulars to help me get our forthcoming child into one of the top Catholic schools! It might be what everyone else does, but asking the people you know isn’t an option for me. The downside of being in this business is having to rely on my husband’s connections.
Relying on Matt is safe, sane, consensual—but rather unsatisfying. I probably know more guys who are plugged into the private schools than he does, but I know them too well, in the wrong way. To Chip, I’m Sabrina: a little bit classy, a little bit slutty, perpetually twenty-five (twenty-seven, tops). If “Sabrina” were to broach the delicate matter of getting her child into a Jesuit prep school, Chip would be dumbfounded. Doesn’t he come here to escape those conversations?
Friday, June 14
This morning, as I was leaving Thirty-fourth Street, already running late for my blow-out with Lorenzo, I was ambushed. I rushed back upstairs, thankful to be wearing black jeans, and opened a fresh box of tampons. So much for that!
As I sat in the pneumatic chair, staring at my non-pregnant self in the full-length mirror, Lorenzo tousled my damp hair with his fingertips.
“What’s wrong?” His thumbs were caressing my scalp. “You look … almost haunted.”
“I’m totally haunted. I’ve spent the last ten days looking at strollers! Ordering Dr. Seuss books. Arguing with my husband about pre-schools. And worrying about how my body will look after a cesarian!”
Of course, I don’t want Lorenzo to know what I was up to when the c-section dilemma introduced itself.
“Relax,” he told me. “You’ll ask your doctor to make the incision very low. If you start wearing a more natural look down there, your hair covers the scar. Unless—you haven’t had laser, have you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Good.” His lips went into an opinionated pout. “Laser in the back, never in front. It’s called keeping your options open. There’s a time and place for everything.”
Today, there’s a soft layer of dark fuzz on my outer lips because I wax every three weeks. I remember how abundant my pubic hair was, during my teens. I was trying, then, to look more womanly. Is it now time to grow it back?
“How do you know so much about … all that?” I asked.
“It’s my job.” He rolled his eyes. “Hair is hair. And hair is everywhere. And wherever there is some hair—” he adjusted the chair “—I am right there. Don’t haunt yourself. I’m excited for you, darling. You get to be a total diva for the next—”
“But I don’t!” I said. “I just found out I’m not pregnant!”
“Not?” He pulled a hairbrush out of a drawer. “Did you—? Are you okay?”
“Oh, I don’t think—you can’t call it a miscarriage when you’re only ten days late, can you?”
Lorenzo faced the mirror, a brush in one hand, a blow-dryer in the other.
“If you want to be dramatic,” he said, “you can call anything a miscarriage.”
New York: The Loyal Opposition
Friday evening Manhattan
This afternoon, when I got to Seventy-ninth Street, I called Jasmine to announce my news. Actually, my lack of news.
“Hallelujah,” she replied.
“Oh?”
“Now we can move on! You were in the seventh circle of limbo! ‘A little bit pregnant’ is not a good look for you. Or anyone!”
“I see.”
“Either
