When we met it was at the beach and, as it was a nude beach, I was attracted to her and she was naked and beautiful. Five five, long blond hair, blue eyes, with a smile out of a Michelle Williams movie, and a body that could start a dead man's heart. I didn't know what she did for a living, but it really was not a big factor in my decision to be friendly and try for more than a wave of the hand, a hi there on-the-beach sort of relationship.
She responded fairy well to my clumsy attempt at congeniality and smiled back, what I would describe as 'seductively' (even though any lovely naked woman looking in my direction would be seductive to me), and my heart skipped a few beats before I asked her what her name was after telling her mine. She seemed actually interested and I could barely speak, stuttering and stammering around like a birthday clown at an elegant restaurant.
When she asked me to put my towel down next to her I figured she was talking to someone else. She wasn't and I quickly, before she could change her mind, put my stuff down next to hers. She said her name was Claire and I told her mine, which in the excitement I came close to forgetting.
We chatted but I am not sure what I said, I hope it was halfway intelligent. I found she lived in Isla Vista and she said she did social work. I wasn't sure what that was, but I was smart enough not to ask. I learned later that by social work she meant 'working the street, which meant literally 'walking the streets' (as in street walker), which certainly wasn't a deal breaker for a guy who washed pots and pans for a living. At least she was off her feet when she earned her roll of bills. I got a small check Friday night in an envelope handed to me in front of my locker in the cafeteria employees locker room. Who was I to judge?
I asked where she went to school and she named the local high school. I figured her for a college girl, but dropped the inquiry at that. We talked about the beach, the economy, and some inane comments about the weather. She was easy to talk to and it was apparent that I was falling in lust with a call girl on a nude beach in Santa Barbara.
We took a swim together and if her body wasn't irresistible under the umbrella, wet it was it was absolutely out of this world. She gave an actually stunning performance drying off that glistening body at her umbrella, giving my heart another jolt of electricity.
The way I finally found out what she did to earn a living was when I asked what hours she worked, trying to work a possible time for a reunion of sorts and she dismissively said she works nights, late. I asked where, not knowing enough to let it go. When I asked where she said all over town. I should have realized what that actually meant, but then I asked who she worked for and she said Manny. Manny?
Finally I dropped it but she gave in and said she was an escort, which is street vernacular for call girl, prostitute, working girl, whore. Actually, I was thrilled. I had never met a call girl before. Only once when I backed out of a call to a "service." Maybe I could help her out with a 'job' or two, help contribute to her retirement.
I told her I was a student at the Community College and she acted impressed at my being a college man. I finally got up the nerve to ask if she wanted to catch an early dinner before she 'went to work' that night. To my surprise she accepted and we made arrangements to meet at the local Habit hamburger cafe, not actually the Ritz but as good as I could afford.
By the end of the day, sitting with her, I was as horny as a sailor on shore leave, and my eyes had not left her sweet breasts or lovely naked legs all day. It seemed she didn't seem to notice or it was an occupational hazard she had gotten used to over the years of 'night work' in her chosen profession.
