Sly had arranged to meet me at my local Starbucks. That was a little unusual, as we don't usually meet outside of his apartment since that's where I do most of my work and we usually discuss my next encounter.
Wow, that sounds really professional, doesn't it? "My work", "my next encounter". Good stuff. I like the sound of it. Sly gives me grief about it, but it's important to my self-image to consider myself a professional. He thinks it's silly, but he has enough respect for me to humor me. He's also wise enough to realize that it's good for business, because I bring that sense of professionalism to my work, meaning I care about doing a good job and leaving our clients well satisfied.
Here, I'll let you judge for yourself. We sell sex. More precisely, I provide the sex and Sly is my manager. I take a lot of pride in my work. I'm good at it. (Sorry if that sounds like boasting, but it's true.) I didn't always know that, though. Sly and I both discovered my latent abilities when he blackmailed me into 'servicing' some of his friends in order to redeem a set of very incriminating pictures and documents. This was all new to me. I'd always been a proper young woman from an upper-class family. "Princess", Sly called me, rather sarcastically. (He still calls me that, but the pejorative intent is gone.) Sly's a product of the streets, and pretty rough until you get to know him.
One of his enterprises in his rather dubious past involved running a few hookers (his term, not mine), so he recognized talent when he saw it. When my debt was paid off, he forced me reluctantly to admit to myself that I had secretly enjoyed the work (hey, if you're good at something, don't you enjoy doing it?) and then stunned me by proposing a partnership. To my own surprise, I agreed. Over the months that have followed, and despite our very disparate backgrounds, we've established a good relationship based on respect for each other and what we each bring to our common enterprise.
Nonetheless, I haven't given up my day job as a copy editor with a law firm in the city. A lot more security there.
So you see, by my standards I am a professional. Deal with it.
Anyway, as I was saying, I met Sly at my local Starbucks. When I came in, he was ogling the barista. To be fair, she was pretty much welcoming the ogle. If I haven't already said so, Sly can be quite good looking. He's a big guy, but he carries himself well.
He had already ordered for me, a venti white chocolate latte. He does take care of me. He knows me well (sometimes I think all
too
well). He was looking quite respectable in an open-necked dress shirt and slacks and sporting a recent haircut. He's come a long way. I like to think it's due to my carefully crafted nagging, but in truth it's more likely due to our financial success and more upscale clientele.
It had been a slow week. Usually, we have at least one client a week, and sometimes two. I like it that way; I do, after all, have to appear fresh and eager at the law firm in the morning. I assumed that the hiatus was why we were meeting here rather than at his apartment, where, as I said, we often discuss business, often after I've serviced a client. (I prefer working in his apartment with him in the wings, just in case.)
"You're late."
"I love you too. Now that we've established the vital fact of who got here first, I assume you had a reason for meeting here. You could have just called."
"Princess, maybe I just like your company."
"Sure. On the other hand, maybe you want to meet in public so I can't make a scene if you've committed me to something weird."
"Weird? Me? When have I ever...oh that."
"Exactly. So, what have you got for me? I hope it's interesting. I'm getting a little bored."
"Not a problem, Babe. I got a job that I think you'll like. It calls for a virgin."
There was a pause.
"Sly, luv, it might have escaped your close attention, but that particular ship set sail a quite a while ago."
He smiled. "You know that, and I know that, but I'm betting that you can remember what it was like. See, that's all you have to do for this job; act like a virgin. Here's the deal: there's this group of whack jobs that need a virgin for some kind of ritual."
"You mean like sacrificing me on the altar? I don't think so."
"Jesus Christ, Princess, no. No sacrifice. What the hell do you think I am? It's all pretend. They just need you to play the role of the virgin for a little while."
"Then why me? Why not hire an actress?"
"I said you need to play the role for a little while. Not for too long. Get it now?"
"Oh."
"That's my girl. A perfect match of beauty and brains."
"Ok. One thing: how many guys are involved here? I'm not an inexhaustible resource, you know."
"I'm told only the high priest needs to 'complete' the ritual. So, just one. You don't mind an audience, though, do you?"
"Never thought much about it. Oh, what the hell, it might be fun. Are we getting a good price for all this?"
"Oh yeah. For sure. Look."
He wrote a figure on a napkin. My eyes got a little wider. I tucked the napkin into my bra. It felt very good there.
Two nights later I took a cab to an address in the Village. I had tried to dress for the part as a virgin (yes, I do remember having been one). Hair done up conservatively, white blouse, skirt of demure length, plain nylons, low heels, very little makeup. Conservative underwear. I really had to hunt in my stuff to find an opaque bra and full-sized panties. It's been a while.
In the lobby I pressed the brass doorbell for the appropriate apartment and stepped back while the camera eyed me. I assume I passed muster because the entry door buzzed open. I took the elevator to the assigned floor, found the correct door, and knocked. The guy who opened the door was a pleasant surprise. Instead of the wizard's outfit I had been expecting, I saw a well-dressed middle-aged and very good-looking guy. He looked me over very carefully.
