The phone rings. Before I answer, I know it's him.
I pick up, "Hello?"
Silence. I knew it was him.
Finally, "Today," and he hangs up.
No time, but I know when.
No instructions, but I will guess what he wants.
No place, but I know where to go.
I know I am not to prepare. I have to leave the house as I am when he called.
Oops, almost forgot. I tie a long black scarf on my left wrist.
I am wearing a white knit pullover sweater with long sleeves. I have a black bra underneath, which shows through the weave. I've noticed women react one way to this, men another. I think it's 'obvious' to women, mysterious to men.
I'm wearing some jean shorts, quite short. Lots of bare thigh. I would never go out this way, except to a close friend's house or to the beach, maybe, with a bikini in a bag, but...At least my nails were done today.
All the details, it's him.
His rules.
I am permitted to step into some shoes. They're black patent heels, quite accidently completing the look of a street girl (minus the makeup). The shoes are expensive and almost new. They're really not sturdy enough for a working girl and they're the kind of thing that will get you mugged by a jealous competitor, but they are the first thing I see after the call. Another rule.
Hopefully, I won't be out long.
More realistically, I don't know.
Oh, some perfume. No makeup, but perfume is permitted.
A delicate scent. 'Innocence'.
I know, it's sarcastic in this context, but I have to have something to keep my sense of self. He won't know, or care, but I'll have this one thing.
I call a taxi and have the driver take me to the stroll.
The girls there know me, they know I'm not some new bunny trying to horn in their territory.
They know I won't respond to their possible customers.
That's not why I'm there.
He has paid the right people so that the pimps leave me alone.
Once, one tried to give me a hard time, waving a knife in my face.
He showed up, took the knife away, broke one of the pimp's fingers. The pimp ran away crying.
"That'll cost me," he said. "It's not supposed to happen, but it'll cost me."
He looked at me and suddenly his eyes became tender, soft, "I'm sorry. I've made this safe for you and this ugly scene was an accident." I was still shaking.
I started to talk but he touched his lips with a finger. Quiet. He held me until I stopped shaking and helped me into his car.
That night, after stopping at two stores, he took me home, poured me a glass of wine and helped me sit down on the couch. He left the room.
In a minute, he helped me up, lead me to the bath, which, lit by candles, full of bubbles, was covered in rose petals. A bottle of champagne was iced nearby, with two glasses.
He undressed me, tenderly and slowly, his hands gentle but clinically going over each bit of skin as it was bared.
"I'm checking that you weren't harmed, physically."
I tried to thank him, but, again, he stopped me with a sweet touch of his finger to my lips.
He washed me as softly and carefully as I've ever been treated, every square inch of me. His manner was warm, concerned. I've never felt so cherished, so loved. The wine and the warm water, the bubbles and rose petals, the soft, insistent touch of his fingers are one of my most powerful memories. The anger and fear slipped away.
He helped me out of the tub, dried me carefully, and slipped me into a comfortable nightgown. He tucked me into my bed, kissed my lips, and left without saying goodbye. It was a time for me to rest.
I would have given him anything at that moment and certainly wanted it, expected it, but his message was that I was loved, desired, precious to him, but he felt he would be taking advantage of an artificially created vulnerability if he made love to me then. That is not his way.
When he takes me, it'll be because I've given myself to him.
His requirement is 'utterly, without any reservation.'
His rules.
