Rick was startled by his working cell's ringtone, lost in his own thoughts as he was. He thought that he had switched it off earlier, but apparently not, because there was Mozart, 'A Little Night Music,' ringing from somewhere in his apartment. It was a new ringtone, new enough that he still smiled inwardly at its innuendo.
Of course, he always had the option of letting it ring unanswered, but that was some tricky business. After all, the call might be just a confirmation, maybe one of his regulars who'd set something up beforehand. He wouldn't want to miss that kind of call, being professional about it and all that. After all, no woman became a regular unless he felt something about her, maybe something like a connection, or a buzz with her, or maybe because he just liked the way she fucked and no more. Oh, and there was always their...generousity.
Sometimes the calls were from more impulsive regulars, women who just picked up the phone and wanted him on the spot. Those could be fun, too, if he was in the mood. It was its own kind of rush, fast, fast, fast, starting with a quick Viagra, getting over to her hotel as fast as he could, getting himself hard in the elevator and having her sucking his cock almost before the door to her room clicked shut behind him. Wow.
Then there were the new clients, maybe experienced with this or maybe not. On the whole he enjoyed being with experienced women for the first time. You never knew, she might turn into a regular. Only very rarely did he run into a woman who made him feel like a piece of meat, just a flesh and bone vibrator, a "here's the money, now leave" kind of woman.
The best, the absolute best, were the terrified newbies, women who had never paid for sex before. There was something about them, maybe their palpable vulnerability, that pushed a button in him. He enjoyed connecting to the woman's overwhelming confusion of conflicting thoughts and feelings and helping her to clear all of that away into a kind of simple, uncomplicated clarity, abandonment to her own arousal. His whole life he had helped people in one way or another, as a camp counselor, a youth mentor, a coach and even training to become a teacher. With a frightened, totally wound up woman how was what he did any different from all of that, any different from being a nurse?
Rick's cell continued to ring. By the time he'd found the phone in the other room the ringtone was just starting to repeat. He pick it up, pressed 'Talk' and said, "Hello. I'm Rick. What's your name?"
On the other end he heard some rustling, maybe a vocalization cut short, and then a shuddered breath and a click.
Whoever she was, she had lost her nerve.
~
An hour later it's his working cell again. He wondered if it was the same woman calling a second time.
"Hello. I'm Rick. What's your name?"
There's nothing right away, near silence at the other end. It happens sometimes so he just waits it out for a moment.
Sometimes he'll hear a faint shudder in her breathing, nervousness. Sometimes there's nothing at all, nothing for many seconds. He feels for her, understands how difficult it can be, especially if it's her first time. But he also knows that it's part of the rush for her, the exhilaration of hearing her insides screaming
No!
, but the excitement, the electric exhilaration of her fantasy compelling her forward.
When he was met with silence the first few times he felt awkward too, feeling the same palpable nervousness as if it were an infectious disease passed from her across the phone line. He learned that if he waited too long for her, the crazy adventure of picking up her phone, trembling fingers dialing the number, recklessly going through with it – all of it could turn to panic for her, slapping her back to her real world. She would hang up. At this he always felt that he would have let her down somehow. He felt sad, but for her.
He wondered what it must be like for her after hanging up on him. She had gotten so close to it, so close to the exhilaration of it, only to have the moment shatter, all the wayward courage for nothing. Would she be relieved, embarrassed? No, he thought, almost right away she would feel disappointed, disappointed in herself, wound up so tightly but suddenly sad and lonely. He could see her at the other end feeling tired, so tired.
When he first started, in the silence he'd do what anyone would do, say hello again. Sometimes it was enough to get her started, but he wondered if it was putting pressure on her to talk before she was ready, underlining her indecision in the moment, her mind racing even faster now, wanting to go on but still hearing her guts screaming before she had control of herself.
Late one night a few months ago, when his working cell rang and there was silence again, he decided to try to help her. Why be conventional, why use normal manners when they were strangers to each other? Nothing crazy, nothing shocking, just a little different from what anyone would expect. After the hello, after those long seconds of her nervousness, he simply said "I'm Rick. What's your name?"
He found that most times it would help her. It would give her a comfortable nudge forward, an achievable way to start the conversation, just her name. It would give her a little more about him, at least the sound and tone of his voice instead of the anonymity of telephone protocol, more than the words on his card or in his ad. It would strip away any pretense and acknowledge that the two of them know what her call is about.
For You, Rick.
For her, the stark phone number would have been a surreal gateway into a mystery world, a completely different universe from the one where her real life is. Previously a concept – romantic, dangerous, tempting – now with the phone number, here in this city, it would work its way into her, closer to her reality. Would it have become real enough for her to let it into her mind?
The sound of his voice would be a tipping point for her. A real man at the other end of the line, not a character in a movie or a novel, a real man who has sex for money. She would be visualizing him after hearing his words, the calming tone. She would be holding the phone at her end, in her world, the world she knows.
When he has picked up, spoken to her, there would be nothing else in the world but the two of them. Suddenly she would be out of her element, entering into an unknown secret, crossing over from the world she knows, not sure if she really can go through with it.
But with this second call tonight, before he can say anything more there's a click as the line goes dead again and she is gone. He looks out the window through the glare of the Strip, planes taking off at McCarren beyond that.
~
The idea of it ricochets inside Sally dangerously. She's frantic, obsessed with it, can't get rid of it.
She'd woken up this morning after a restless sleep, her first bleary sense being,
there's something wrong.
Suddenly, the idea had snapped her fully awake like the shock of cold water. Her imagined scenario, now imprinted in her mind. A far-off, dreamy romantic scene brought to life. The faceless man, muscled, sleek, naked. He is lowering her gently but purposefully to the bed, taking her, mystically knowing her, knowing her body, her willingness, her desires, hot abandonment to illicit lust. It had come to a crashing stop in her mind.
Stop! You're crazy! What's gotten into you?
But she hadn't been able to stop. She'd been unable to concentrate all day, the conference sessions a blur to her now. At times through the day, she had thought she might have talked herself back into some sense, placing the person that she was, her job, her family, in front of her as a defense. Putting the life she knows at risk. But the thought wouldn't go away, frightening her with how fragile was her concept of her life, the allure of the fantasy sweeping it all away so easily. Had she completely lost herself for the possibility of its actually happening?
Tonight the fantasy dominates her thoughts even more strongly.
It either happens tonight or it doesn't happen at all. Tonight. Now.
It is an urgent animal drive she has never experienced before. Like it
has
to happen. Inevitable.
This
is the time,
this
is the place. Vegas. The place isn't real. How can anything be real here? A different universe. Here you're
allowed
to be crazy because it isn't real anyway.
Tonight. Now.
Toronto is tomorrow. The possibility, the opportunity ends tonight. When she opens her eyes tomorrow morning it all will be over, finished, squandered. The taxi to McCarran, that's when the normal will return to her. That's when she'll be on familiar ground again.
But the idea of returning to normal, tomorrow, the thought of it goes straight to her stomach. She feels a letdown, disappointment. She doesn't want to go home without this adventure. She will feel like she's left a part of herself behind – the boldness part of her, the fun, wicked part. These feelings surprise her and immediately a sense of guilt rises in her. But then, she realizes,
how I feel is how I feel. I have to do this.
There are a million reasons why not. She feels lost.
No! Who are you? Who
are
you? What are you becoming? Is that what you want?
Immediately she answers
Yes
.
Calm down. Don't start. You can't. This isn't you.
She's an elementary school principal, goes to church, loves her children, loves Wayne. He's always been good to her. They've built their lives together, a happy home, good jobs. There is love, but... it has become... comfortable, predictable, assumed, a life that seems to be unfolding according to a fixed script. They don't share their dreams anymore. Maybe there are none, preoccupied with the kids and the jobs. Maybe when they retire there will be more spark. Some spark. There isn't much time for just the two of them these days at this stage of their lives.
They're ships passing in the night sometimes, and then when the lights go out she's too tired, or he is. Once a month if that, not even that much, it's pretty much sexless now. She can't remember the last time she felt the spontaneous urgent desire. And yet she feels that this is wrong, maybe that there's something wrong between them, something wrong with her. She feels depressed that she's lost that part of her, seemingly forever.
She looks in the mirror to try to recover herself. Memories underline what she sees. How she had looked had never really defined her in her own mind. Small, petite, but not a waif, she had had girl-next-door prettiness, an athlete's fresh attractiveness. The other girls, the girls who spent an hour in front of the mirror every day, they were the ones with boyfriends. With her, the boys had been friends. People had liked her, had thought of her as a good person, a fun, energetic person. That was good, it had pleased her all by itself, but she had wanted more, deeper relationships, more intimate. There were times when she had felt she'd been overlooked, the girl next door and nothing more.
She's still fairly trim, but her skin isn't as smooth or tight as it once was, and her having nursed two babies shows. Now she feels like she's fading, that whatever attractiveness she had now has been drummed out of her by the routine of her life. At forty-six she feels like she's closer to the end than the beginning, that time is running out.
Where did I go?
she wonders. A sadness fills her as she sees that she is ordinary, unremarkable. Fading away as a person too.
How did this happen to me?
She realizes that the fantasy has grabbed her exactly because of this, filling a void that she hadn't acknowledged.
How did this happen to me? Well it happens to everyone. Getting on with a life, building it, moving through phases and stages.
For a moment this is a rational thought, an explanation. She feels comforted that she can still see things clearly, rationally.
But then the illicit thought slams into her again. She hears her inner voice. It feels like a wave of profound honesty.
That's the problem. That's it exactly. Getting on with life? You're only
