She said, "Yes!"
Oh my God! She agreed to move in with me.
I cannot believe it. Nothing good has come from this Coronavirus lock down; nothing good until this very moment. Her text said, "Pick me up at 4:00 in the 4800 block of N. Morgan Street."
I have re-read that text at least 20 times. I still can't believe it. I will be there even though there is a good chance she won't show. Or even worse, she will make fun of me. "Move in with you? Ha! In your dreams."
Yes, in my dreams there is a world in which a woman like her allows a guy like me to be of valued service to her. In my dreams I am more than simply another client. In my dreams...
But who am I kidding? I will always be just another slob, paying for her time and attention. Attention she would otherwise never offer someone like me. I know my place. I understand the boundaries of this relationship.
But she said, "Yes!"
I follow her twitter feed daily. Since the lockdown, like other sexworkers, her main source of income disappeared.
The unrestrained spread of the novel coronavirus forced non-essential businesses to close down. The Governor's announcement meant her dungeon had to close. They tried to reopen, but then had to shut down again. They gave up their lease and closed, for good.
In at least one tweet a day she asks for financial support. Each month I make a contribution by sending a gift card for $100. It is not much, but I am out of work too. I have savings and resources for the foreseeable future, but not a lot to share. She always says thank you; I know it is not enough.
I used to budget for a two or three hour session in a dungeon she rents. It felt right to kneel, waiting for her to come into the room. I knew my place before her. I tried to have an appointment with her twice each month. That's what I could afford; it made me happy. Now I send only a small gift; one I can afford. Still, it made me happy.
I had the feeling she was becoming desperate. Early on in the lockdown, she lost her apartment. The two young women with whom she shared gave up and went home to their parents. The lease was broken; it was in another's name. She had to move out.
After a couple of months couch surfing, through the worst of the pandemic, with no family support, she had nowhere to go. Without consistent high speed internet access, she wasn't successful at online pay sites. She couldn't upload enough content. Twitter her only visibility, a few former clients, like me, provided a dwindling income.
She took me up on my offer of the second bedroom in my condo, no strings attached. We texted several times about it. She was hesitant and I didn't blain her. I didn't think she would accept my offer among the many I assumed she would receive. But then, unexpectedly, on a Monday morning, there was a text asking if the offer of a room still stood.
I read that message several times. I answered, "Yes." And "I have a hatchback. Do you need held moving things in?"
That is when she responded with "Pick me up at 4:00 in the 4800 block of N. Morgan Street."
I had no idea what to expect. Rain was predicted off and on all day with thunderstorms into the evening. Perhaps she had not read the forecast. At first I didn't see her, or I didn't recognize her. She was in a cloth mask and dark hoodie soaking wet, holding a box covered in a garbage bag with two suitcases by her side. She looked small, powerless, undone; nothing like the dominating presence I knew.
I put on my mask. I put her bags and box in the back of my car. She said nothing. She was cold and wet and very quiet. Her eyes, eyes that incapacitated me in the dungeon, now looked empty over her mask. I had no idea what to say and she said nothing at all. In the silence, I pulled out and drove her to my home.
My building has a garage. My spot is only three cars from the elevator entrance. I carried her box and towed one suitcase. She pulled the smaller one. My first words to her were, "Sixth floor." She pushed the button.
I led her down the hall to my condo. It is a 1350 square foot corner unit. I have always liked the view to the south and west. The second bedroom looks to the west and fills with light in the evening. There is a short hall to the second bath, visible to the main room, and a laundry area beyond that.
She followed me into the bedroom. I explained the layout, showed her the laundry, and left her to move in. She did not speak a word the entire time. Her eyes remained dark, her hair wet and tangled. I was surprised to find I am almost a head taller than she. Somehow I always pictured her taller.
"I'll leave you to it. Fresh towels are in the bath, clean sheets on the bed. Let me know if there is anything you need." With that I walked out. I didn't know what else to do. I felt like she needed a hug, but I knew it wasn't right.
After a while I heard the door to the bath and the shower. I always leave some of those little hotel samples of shampoo, conditioner and body wash in a basket for a guest who might not have them; a guest who never came. I decided to make a dinner she might enjoy.
I'm not a vegetarian; I thought she might be. I opened a can of tomatoes, cut an onion into quarters and added a half cup of the best olive oil I have. I heard the door to the bath and looked up. I caught a momentary glimpse of her wrapped in a towel, heading back into her room.
An hour later I had pasta with red sauce and black olives, roasted broccoli and an Italian salad ready. I knocked on her door and asked if she would like dinner. The door opened and her first words to me were, "Yes, I'm famished. I haven't eaten all day."
She was wearing her mask. I asked, "Would you like a chianti with dinner?"
"Oh yes, thank you. But I have been with people who may have the virus. I should stay away from you for a while."
Dressed in a jacket, jeans and mask, hair pulled back, with no makeup; this was nothing like I anticipated. I felt an overwhelming need to protect and care for this vulnerable person who came into my home.
Then again, what did I expect? I made the offer on impulse, impelled by my attraction to my fantasy of her. But now she is here. I brought dinner to her on a tray. She said, "Thank you."
I gave her the password to my Wi-Fi and left her alone. She kept the laundry working all evening. Her suitcase must have been filled with dirty clothes.
I what did I think would happen? I have no idea. My offer of a place to stay was fueled by anticipation, but of what? I have paid handsomely to spend a hour in her presence. I never imagined she might live with me. What do I do now?
So far she hasn't done anything but laundry and eat. Oh yeah, there was the shower; naked in my bath, well, the guest bath. I've never showered there. Someday I will have to, just to be where she had been, naked.
This untouchable, dominant woman, who often appears in my dreams, is on the other side of the wall I am looking at. She is always on a pedestal to me. But, if there was a window in the wall she would be there right now. Oh my God, how is she dressed?
I didn't know what to do. We didn't talk about how long she would stay. I have to believe this is the last place she would like to be. Something drove her to accept my offer. She must be desperate. Why else?
My fantasy and her reality have collided. Should I let her be alone? Should I invite her to watch TV with me? What would she like to watch? A movie? I have absolutely no idea. Would she even sit in the same room with me? Is it safe for her to even be here?
I have two TVs, one in the main room, one in my bedroom. There isn't one in her room. Should I offer her this one and retreat to my room? What should I do?
I decided to knock on her door and ask. "Would you like to watch a little TV? I like watching Rachel Maddow, it is almost time for her to be on."
There was no answer for the longest time. "Are you OK Mistress?"
"Yes, I am alright. Thank you for dinner. Now leave me alone. Please."
The please came as an afterthought, after a pause, as if she had a hard time saying it. I knew she had the internet. I thought about going on twitter to see if she was tweeting about me. I decided to watch Rachel instead. Then I went to my room.
I struggled with sleep. It occurred to me I should worry about her being in my space, about what could happen. Then I began to think about her in her familiar role as a dominatrix. I pictured her in that leather corset. I masturbated and went to sleep.
I slept through the night, but woke early. As usual, I got up and made coffee. Suddenly I remembered my house guest and hurried to get dressed. I needn't have rushed. She didn't wake for two hours. When she appeared, she was wearing shorts, a tee and her mask. I stood up when she entered and quickly put on my mask. "Good morning." I offered to make a fresh pot of coffee for her.
