Tammy Jones
I was grounded, confined to my room, not allowed to see any of my friends and it sucked. The last time this happened to me I was sixteen and my mom found condoms in my purse, you'd think she'd be glad I was taking precautions but no, I got a lecture on 'responsibility' and a month in solitary. But I'm not sixteen anymore, this was COVID and we were all in lockdown, stick your nose out the door and some goon in a Hazmat would want to know who you were and where you thought you were going before sending you home.
Frustratingly I was between boyfriends when the shutters came down which meant I was on my own in the apartment; this had the advantage of being able to slob around in my PJ's, not bother with make-up or shaving my legs and could give my metabolism a rest from the pill.
I used to think sitting on the couch all day, eating chips and watching TV would be heaven, it isn't. It took less than a week to get bored, after a month I was stir-crazy and desperate so I looked around for something other than Netflix to occupy my time. Community College was offering on-line courses but all that was left was Painting with Acrylics or Creative Writing, have you seen the price of art supplies? I signed up for Creative Writing. I used to enjoy English at school and fancied myself as another Janet Evanovich, I mean, what's so hard about fiction? I've been writing resumés all my life.
The first assignment was a three thousand word essay on the subject of my choice, apparently it should be something I was familiar with, like my hobbies or interests. Yeah, well, if I'd had a hobby I wouldn't have signed up to that stupid writing course. As for my interests, boys and sex just about covers it although I do know something about selling bedsheets, towels, pillowcases etc. which is what I do for a living. But being locked up on my own for a couple of months I'd had a lot of time to think about sex so that seemed like a good place to start.
Okay, three thousand words on sex and straightaway you run into a problem, you can't just carry on repeating the word 'sex', there is another four letter word but you can't use that in an essay your mom might read. 'Intercourse' always sounds like one of those funny little dishes they serve in posh restaurants between the starter and the entrée, and shouldn't you begin with an 'entrée'? Or 'coitus', which I always thought was one of those furry critters that dig holes in river banks, but apparently not.
So, here goes, my essay on sex. I think there are three levels to 'sex'. Level One, the most basic, is usually with someone you hardly know or even a complete stranger and tends to be brief and physical (this is where that short, four-letter word really would come in handy).
It's the kind of thing that happens when you've just heard that your ex-boyfriend (the one you
really
liked) is getting married. You go to a bar, have a few drinks and wait for some guy to hit on you. Then, assuming he looks okay and doesn't come across like a total loser, you go home with him and get laid. If you're lucky he's well-hung with plenty of stamina otherwise you may find yourself back at the bar. The only advantage it has over drinking cocktails until you pass out is the lack of a hangover next day, although you do feel kinda grubby.
Next comes Level Two, 'having sex'. This tends to be with someone you know and like but there isn't much emotional involvement as you both know it isn't going anywhere, I guess wife-swapping is like that? 'Sympathy sex' also fits the description; I'd known Joe Garret for years (he was best-man at my brother's wedding). When Joe was dumped by his long term girlfriend, Dora, the cow sent him a text, didn't even bother telling him face-to-face and he was in pieces. I saw him at a party looking utterly miserable so I took him upstairs to one of the bedrooms to comfort him.
It turned out to be harder than I expected, he just wanted to sit there in the dark and talk endlessly about his ex, or he did until I put his hand inside my blouse, that shut him up long enough for me to kiss him and then hormones took over. Actually, it was pretty good (even if he did call me 'Dora' when he got to the short strokes) and I was wondering if we might take things further but he joined the army and marched away. Do they still march in the army? Every time I see them on TV they're all riding around in Hummers.
Level Three, 'making love', this is as good as it gets. You're with someone you really, really like and, although you want to enjoy the sex, it's even more important that he does so you give him everything, physically and emotionally, holding nothing back. What makes the sex special is the belief that you have a future together.
You find yourself doodling his name on your notepad in sales meetings, you buy books on 'How To Cook Italian', you clean the apartment before he comes over and you catch yourself wondering if the children will have dark curly hair like him or freckles like you...
But then you start asking awkward questions like, why does he need to spend so much time away? or, how come he never invites his friends round? and how you'd really like to meet his parents. That was the deal-breaker, the one question he couldn't avoid, me wanting to meet his parents. Next thing you know he tells me he's married, it's me he really loves but can't leave his wife because of the kids. So, after the shouting, recriminations, tears and heartbreak it's back to picking up guys at the bar. Which is why these days I make a point of never going beyond Level 2 in my relationships.
572 words, which was as far as I'd got with my assignment before the 'wise men' decided it was okay to come out of the bomb shelters and get back to work... and then I didn't have time for anything else, we hit the ground running. During lockdown all the hotels, guesthouses and restaurants had been empty (the hospitals not so much) and, with the stimmie cheques burning a hole in their pockets, they all decided that this was the perfect time to redecorate, refurbish and replace all the bedding. Suddenly I wasn't calling clients, they were calling me and they all wanted linen, the full suite, bedsheets, pillows, towels, everything and all by next Friday, sooner if I could manage it.
But to go back a bit; I became a sales rep for German & Co (suppliers of fine linen to the hospitality sector) for the same reason as everyone else, I needed money and they were hiring, It was either that or sell my body on 34
th
and Main, it was only later that I realised it pretty much came down to the same thing.
Mary-Lou, a motherly lady in her sixties, was the office-manager and gave me the 'welcome aboard' speech and tour of the building before sending me out on my maiden voyage. She had been a rep herself and gave me the low-down on what to expect
"You need an edge" she was saying "something that makes the clients want to put their business with you" we had stopped in front of the 'Employee Hall of Fame' display. "Take fatso here" she said pointing to a photo of Sam Nordstern who, I read from the plaque, had grossed $150,000 in 2017. "Sam's brother is on the City Council, when the Tropicana changed suppliers they suddenly found Health Inspectors in the kitchen, Immigration checking all the staff visas and the IRS making noises about an audit. They switched back in a hurry". We moved along the wall, "Brian Jones, he made $275,000 last year, must work hard you'd think? No way. Brian has only one client, his father, who has the franchise on a state-wide chain of motels". The last photo was of a young, blonde girl in a tight sweater, the cheer-leader type. "Charlene" said Mary-Ann in an amused voice "doesn't have an edge, she has a peak, more precisely two of them" she looked at my more modest endowment. "They do say size doesn't matter, it's what you do with it that counts. You might want to think about that".
Then I was given an ID card on a lanyard:
Name: Tammy Jones
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Grey
Height: 5' 6"
DOB 26/03/1996
Which makes me 26 to save you working it out. They're not allowed to put down your gender anymore (seriously?) but I identify as a 100%, female. I also got a box of business-cards inscribed with my name and the Company's logo along with a case of samples. Best of all I got a car, maybe it wasn't a Tesla but it was transport that someone else was paying for (except dents and dinks come out of my salary).
I also got a 'territory' with a list of hotels, guesthouse, restaurants and hospitals, anyone who might be in the market for what I was selling.
I soon found out what Mary-Lou meant when she said '
it's what you do with it that counts
', I've heard it put a dozen different ways but it always came down the same thing: '
I'll put a big order your way if you'll play ball with me'
, emphasis on the word 'ball'. But it didn't happen that often, most guys are too scared of their wives, or at least their wife's lawyers, to do more than flirt.
My mom used to accuse me of having 'loose knicker elastic' but I was keeping my knickers on at work, well, mostly. Oh I was tempted, there were a few good-looking guys who I wouldn't have minded fooling around with but you think women gossip? I knew that if said 'yes' to any one of them word would have been around town before the bars closed and then everyone would expect a piece of the action.
There were a few guys who were persistent but most took my refusal in good part and I resigned myself to never appearing on the 'Wall of Fame'. But I didn't do badly, a pretty woman with a good figure who is happy to flirt with the guys will always be welcome - and it turns out that a little flattery gets you a surprisingly long way.
One of the hotels on my patch was the Audubon, a small, boutique hotel near the park that caters almost exclusively for women in town on business. My visits there did not begin well, on the first day I parked in front of the hotel and was halfway across the foyer with my case of samples before a tall, thin woman wearing a severe black dress and a unfriendly expression intercepted me. "Can I help you?" she asked in a tone of voice that implied she very much doubted that she could. I explained who I was and why I was there, my outstretched hand was ignored and the Sour Faced Bitch's facial expression went from 'bad smell' to 'there's a slug in the salad'.
"You'll find the service entrance round the back and in future do not park in front of the hotel". I debated telling her to go have sex with herself but decided I needed the job more than the temporary satisfaction of seeing the effect that would have on her expression so I did an about turn and went looking for the back door.
I'm glad I did because then I met Teddy who is the guy who actually runs the hotel. He's about my age which makes him young to be a manager but his aunt (the SFB) owns the place. Teddy's assignments include doing the accounts, helping out in the kitchen, making beds, fixing dripping taps and, on occasion, parking cars. As I said, it's a small hotel.
One of his jobs is 'purchasing manager' and, as I sell bedsheets, towels and tablecloths, this is how we met. The Audubon is not a big customer, most hotels gets through an incredible amount of stuff; stained, torn or just plain stolen.
Maybe the guests at his aunt's hotel are a better class of people or just plain terrified of the old cow but, per bedroom, the Audubon never seemed to need as much linen as anybody else.
But I still looked forward to calling there, Teddy is one of those shy guys who has a hard time looking you in the eye and stammers a bit when he gets excited, or at least he does until he gets to know you. That's the downside, the upside is that he's very attractive in an untidy, big puppy sort of way but he's also smart, he has a couple of framed diplomas on the wall with titles I didn't recognise but even I know where Harvard is... Oh, and he's honest and by 'honest' I man he didn't try to hit on me, not once, which was bloody annoying since he was the one guy I might have broken my 'no sex with clients' rule for.
