cubicle, I changed into high heels and stockings. Despite the luxury of my own sink and a good mirror, I felt a little too naked.
Jasmine’s commentary—a happily married six, a frazzled size four—echoed in my head. Marriage has caused a few pounds to visit my hips, but it’s nothing I can’t reconfigure, damn it. I can get away with some fluctuation without alienating my regulars, but I might be approaching the limit.
As I hooked a smooth black garter belt around my waist, I felt like a superhero sprouting magical powers. In my high-heeled slingbacks and push-up bra, I was suddenly sleek yet curvy and my suit had not wrinkled: the finishing touch. I loosened my ponytail and played with my hair, stuffed my clothes into the tote, and hid my wedding ring in a change purse. Nobody would guess that the pastel-hued slacker in sneakers and sunglasses had just morphed into a womanly vision in crisp black-and-white houndstooth, hair falling around her shoulders, wearing just enough eye makeup. It occurred to me that lipstick would change my appearance even more. But lip color at three in the afternoon? Too…professional.
I took out my Zagat—essential camouflage when posing as an out-of-town guest—and checked the clock on my cell phone. Transformation accomplished. In less than ten minutes. I’m definitely getting better at this!
Then, spotting a run in my left stocking, I felt a pang of remorse. I forgot to bring spares! Suddenly I felt less like a superhero and more like a refugee, yearning bitterly for the lost comforts of home. Not to mention my supply of stockings. It is maddening to have all the right stuff when it’s totally out of reach.
I’ve been turning tricks since my teens. Never, until I married an investment banker in my thirties, was I reduced to changing my underwear and brushing my teeth in a public bathroom.
Is this what “going straight” is really about?
In the lobby, a tall man with a walkie-talkie was dangerously close to the elevators. Adopting a matronly scowl, I walked right by, hoping the ladder in my stocking was not reaching my knee. On the twenty-fifth floor, I glanced around quickly to make sure I wasn’t being followed. Not until I was in the room, with the door securely bolted, did I feel truly safe.
Trisha’s weekend regular was put out by my solo arrival but did his best to couch things in submissive terms.
“Thank you for coming, Mistress.” He paused and looked around. “Mistress Thalia was planning to arrive at two-thirty. Would you like me to wait for her?”
Colin was wearing gold-rimmed glasses, silk boxer shorts, and nothing else. Despite a round, childlike face, he looked rather virile. It was that salt-and-pepper chest hair, much thicker than the hair on his head. I could feel steam from the shower seeping out of the bathroom.
“Of course,” I said sharply. “Thalia is definitely on her way.”
“May I offer you a drink, Mistress…?”
“Sabrina,” I reminded him. “You may.”
I nodded at a row of bottles on the dresser. Five bottles of mineral water! This guy is more than prepared.
“Some coffee or soda perhaps?”
“Just the water,” I replied.
I could hear my cell phone chiming in my pocket. “Mistress Thalia” stuck in traffic, no doubt.
“It’s me! I’ve been trying to get some privacy so I can call. What a disaster! You’re gonna kill me! Let me talk to him, then I’ll talk to you.”
What? Why didn’t she talk to me first? I was doing my best to look imperious while feeling somewhat unnerved when I summoned Colin to the phone.
“Yes. Yes, I will,” I heard him saying in that flat monotone that slaves like to use. “Yes, Mistress. Of course, Mistress. No, I promise. One moment, Mistress. Right away.”
Slinking off to the bathroom, he looked both dejected and turned on.
Trisha was apologetic and panicky. “I told him to wait in the bathroom. My daughter’s playdate was canceled! At the very last minute! Do you have a ball gag?”
“Um, No.”
“You’ll have to improvise. Put some of your underwear in his mouth. Okay? Later on. Don’t do it right away.”
“What time can you get here? He’s in the bathroom.”
“I CAN’T. I have simply got to stay and deal. I told him this was my secret plan to test his loyalty. He doesn’t come out until you tell him.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Trisha was recovering some of her composure. “If he can please you, he’s allowed to see us together next time. But he has to follow all my instructions—and yours—in my absence. You report back to me and give him, like, a grade. Then I decide if he deserves—”
“I get the idea.” But I was also getting irritated. I’ve never been good at domination—and what about the ball gag? Colin’s used to all this fancy equipment, and I brought only a few props to supplement Trisha’s arsenal. “Do you think it’s safe to stuff my underpants in his mouth?”
“Oh, please. It’s fine. Just use your common sense. If he starts choking, you pull them out. But he won’t.”
“Are you sure you can’t just come later? Take over when I leave?”
“No! You don’t understand! I can’t find a babysitter.”
“But I can’t do it all myself! You promised.”
“What do you mean?” She paused. “Oh. Just drink a lot of water! What’s the big deal?”
This was hardly the moment to be discussing why a golden shower’s a big deal to me and not to her. How do you explain your spic-and-span prohibitions without making it sound like you’re judging the other girl as unsavory? It’s a conversation no sensible hooker gets into. I took a deep breath and gazed at the bottled water on the dresser. People with kids seem to be a lot less squeamish about some things.
“Look, I told you upfront!” I said, moving toward the window.
I didn’t want Colin to overhear. Our lack of cohesion must be finessed. Like two parents dealing with a wayward child, Mistresses Thalia and Sabrina must present a united front.
“I’m sorry! My day’s been a disaster! I’ll work something out on the cut if you want. I have to go but—call if you have to. I’m alone this weekend.”
How can the mother of a five-year-old sans babysitter say she’s “alone”? I guess she means her husband’s out of town so the coast is clear for phone calls. I’ve never asked Trisha what he does but he travels a lot more than Matt—and she, in turn, is never inquisitive about my husband.
Standing in front of the bathroom door, I wondered if my normal instinct—a quiet knock—would be too submissive a gesture. What should I say? I had really been expecting to play second fiddle to Mistress Thalia. You can come out now sounds kind of lame! More like a sidekick than a sole proprietress.
In a cold dignified voice, I advised
