"Princess, what to you know about Formula One?"
Sly loves 'gotcha' questions like this, where he damned well knows I don't know the answer. For him I'm an exemplar of the college-educated elite, and things like this let him feel superior. Unfortunately, he did get me on this one.
We were sitting in his apartment divvying up our profits after a client left. He always figures that that is the best time to spring something a little wonky on me. He knows I'm usually mellowed out after a good session, i.e., one that left the client happy and me pleased with my work (not to mention the money).
Oh yeah, my work. I'm what I like to call a part-time party girl. Okay, full disclosure, I sell sex. More precisely, Sly and I sell sex. He's my agent. I'm say part-time because I have a real job as a copy editor for a law firm in the city. That one pays my ordinary bills. The other is for fun and extra money (which is substantial). Sly's job is to find and vet clients for me. Just how and where he does this is a mystery to me, and frankly I like it that way. I don't mind dipping my toe into his world, but I feel safer keeping my distance from it. I don't know it, and frankly, it's a little scary to me.
I've been teamed up with Sly ever since (you're not going to believe this) he blackmailed me into servicing his "friends" for money to ransom some very incriminating material he had gotten from a one-off wild night in the Village. True story. Funny thing was, I discovered I had a hidden talent for the work, and the adventure appealed to me (so, to be honest, did the sex). Sly caught on to that, and after my 'debt' had been paid off, offered to continue the arrangement but on a more business-like basis. I agreed, and we've been doing quite well ever since.
What amazes me is how well we two get along. I'm a classic WASP, raised in an upper-class suburban family, and Sly is a tough product of the city streets. Somehow, we've found mutual respect, each for what we bring to the enterprise. He still calls me Princess though, but it is no longer a pejorative the way he says it now.
"Formula One?" I asked. "I dunno. I'd guess it's one of those things mothers feed their babies when they can't or don't want to breastfeed them."
"Hell, Princess, that's something
you'll
never have to worry about," he said while ogling my breasts, only lightly covered in my black nylon teddy (evening) working outfit.
"Ho, ho. So alright, smartass, what
is
Formula One and, more relevantly, what does it have to do with me? I assume you brought it up because you've got a job in mind."
"Formula One? Oh, it's nothing much. Just the biggest motor sport attraction in the world. Fastest cars, best drivers. They race all over the world, including Monaco. Worth billions. And you never heard of it?"
"Sly, you could take what I know about motor sports and shove it up a flea's ass and it would rattle around loose in there.
"So fine, you've made your point about how smart and worldly you are. But I'm still wondering what this has to do with me."
"Okay. There's a promotional display at the convention center of Formula One cars this week. I was contacted by a guy who's one of the sponsors of one of the teams. He's really big into cars and racing them. He remembers as a kid seeing these posters of gorgeous women spread out on racecars and motorcycles, looking very sexy. He wants to make that a reality."
"Why doesn't he just hire a model? Why contact you? Oh wait. Duh. He doesn't just want to look, does he."
"Jesus, Princess, nothing gets by you."
"Ha-ha. Okay. I get it. Sounds a little intriguing. So, what's it worth to us?"
"Well, Formula One is a
very
expensive sport. You don't sponsor a team unless you're worth big bucks. So this guy doesn't care about cost."
"Great. But we do. Like I said, what's it worth?"
Sly told me.
Wow.
Okay, the first thing to do for a role-playing job is research. That's what us professionals do. If I'm going to fulfil some guy's fantasy, I'd better know something about the fantasy. I checked into this Formula One stuff. Jesus, Sly was not kidding about it being expensive. The cars alone are each worth over a million dollars!! It sounded awfully elitist, but it turns out that there are over five hundred million fans, and it is currently the second most followed major sporting event on the planet. What rock have I been living under all this time??
Next, what to wear. I checked out Google for sexy girls and cars and wound up looking at a ton of pin-ups from the fifties of girls draped fetchingly over the hoods of a variety of cars. No surprise, the heavy emphasis was on long legs and ample bosoms and a lot of strategically exposed skin. Well, I could handle the anatomical aspect with no problem, but the draping part looked rather uncomfortable and often downright precarious.
The girls seemed to be of two main types: the barefoot country girl ingénue with blonde ponytail, dressed in very tight cutoffs and halter, or the sophisticated woman with heels and dark stockings and a loose short skirt casually pulled aside to show stocking tops and a glimpse of panties. I guessed that Formula One wasn't the sort of place for the simple country girl if they race mostly in Europe, including, for heaven's sake, on the streets of Monaco! I opted for a form-fitting black cocktail dress, very low cut, with a slightly loose short skirt, black stockings and three-inch heels.
I met the client around midnight at a service entrance to the exhibition center. He gave me a careful look over and then smiled.
"Vicki, you are truly gorgeous," he said. "Your agent doesn't do you justice." I smiled. He wasn't too bad himself. Maybe late fifties, casually but expensively dressed, well groomed. He looked rich. In my profession you learn to tell.
He took my hand. His grip was firm, which I liked. He was clearly used to being in charge. We walked down a corridor and out onto the display floor. The only lights were the security lights, so it was pretty dark and kind of spooky, with lots of shadows and echoing emptiness. I gripped the client's hand rather more tightly than I had intended and followed docilely, wishing the clicks of my heels wouldn't make so much noise.
What light there was was reflected off the highly polished finishes on the racing machines arrayed about the floor.
And what machines they were! As I told Sly, I don't know much (anything, really) about motor sports, but even I could tell those cars were expensive and meant to go
fast.
I mean, just sitting there they looked as if they were eager to fly down a track at two hundred miles an hour. Low-slung, almost touching the floor underneath, tires exposed, and cockpits that looked like only a contortionist could get into, a contortionist with no trace of claustrophobia. And yet I have to admit, they were beautiful machines.
He led me over to an area with two of the machines that had the same color scheme ("livery", I learned that they call that, just like for racehorses). He beamed with pride.
"This is my team," he said. He started to rattle off statistics, but I quickly tuned out. I was looking more carefully at the machines. I don't know if you've ever seen a Formula One racecar, but take my word for it, unlike the classic cars I had seen in the vintage pinup pics, they don't have a lot of horizontal surfaces on which to disport oneself in any kind of fetching pose. I was clearly going to have to be creative.
But I do love a challenge!
"Would you mind if I were to lean on one of your cars?" I asked demurely, as if I didn't know that that was the purpose of our visit. I like to let clients think they're in charge.
"Certainly. Be my guest. Do you mind if I take your picture? I promise I'll keep it private."
Well, I had to think about that one. It was, after all, pictures that got me into my current circumstances in the first place. But I figured that as long as I was careful in how I posed and what I revealed I could keep it innocent, should any pictures surface at a later date.
"I'd be flattered," I said.
I managed to find enough horizontal space on some side-bulging thing next to the cockpit. I perched my ass carefully onto it and leaned back against a kind of air scoop-looking thing. I crossed my right leg over my left and let my skirt rise up enough to clear my stocking tops. I raised my arms a bit to lift my breasts and emphasize my cleavage. It wasn't all that stable or comfortable a pose, but obviously, to judge from his expression, the client liked it. I smiled as alluringly as I could manage under the circumstances. He took a bunch of pictures from various angles with his cell phone.
Once he put the phone away, I got down to work. I raised my right leg to lift my skirt and 'coincidentally' gave him a good look at my panties. I extended my arms to him in an open invitation. My smile turned more serious.
