Faking It (4 page)

"It'll be a year on August first," I answered. "I grew up in Northport, though."

"No kidding! I should've known you were a North Shore Girl. I'm from Massapequa."

"I should've known you were a South Shore Guy."

"I'll bet we went to the same dance clubs in Hempstead back in the early nineties."

God, I hoped not.

"What made you move back here?" he asked. "Certainly it wasn't a better cost of living."

"No, but it was a better job offer. I got my PhD and needed full-time, and my good friend Maggie--"

"--the one you were hanging out with at the Club and the Heartland Brewery..." he interjected.

Freakish memory.

"--yeah, well, she's the director of the first-year writing program at Brooklyn U and needed an assistant, and managed to convince the dean to appoint me without doing a search, being that it was a non-tenure-track position."

"Do you like your job?" he asked.

"A lot."

"Are you good at what you do?"

He asked the question in a way that made me think he already knew the answer, and agreed with me.

"I think so." I paused for a beat and answered more affirmatively, "Yes, I am." On the inside, I smiled; this admission anchored me in a way I hadn't expected.

I mustered up the courage to ask him about his line of work, taking a sip of water from his glass instead of my own by mistake. He was polite enough not to point it out to me, although he looked at the glass and I noticed quickly enough as I felt my face go hot.

"So, how'd you get into the escort business?" I asked, ignoring my blunder.

"Like you, I wanted to do something I was both good at and enjoyed. I enjoy being with women, pleasing women, and I'm good at it. Besides, the money is great."

"What do you do with them?"

"Same thing other couples do. We go to parties, plays--I've seen just about every fucking musical on Broadway--the opera, gallery openings, even a movie once in awhile. Then, sometimes I'll give them massages or shampoo their hair..."

"--you
shampoo their hair
?" I asked in disbelief.

"Have you ever had your hair shampooed?"

"Of course."

"At eleven o'clock at night in a bubble bath with candles?"

I paused to let my imagination soak in the visual, and felt a sensation not unlike a striking match run up my spine.

"Are you in the bathtub with them?" I asked.

"Not usually. It's more about indulging their pleasure."

"I think they'd be pleased to have you in the tub with them."

Devin shook his head. "Most women just want to be attended to, without worrying about having to give something back. They feel like they're constantly giving so much of themselves, trying to please everyone under the sun." He then leaned in toward me. "What's
your
pleasure, Andi?"

I stiffened and went on the defense. "Are you trying to come on to me?"

He leaned back against the cushioned backrest of the booth seat.

"Man, you are the most uptight person I've ever met, and I barely know you. I've never seen anyone so guarded. Were you raised in a religious household or something?"

"Yes."

"No kidding. What else happened to you?"

I averted my eyes just as the waiter returned with our order.

"Like you said, you barely know me," I said. "And by the way, I think I'm entitled to a little reservation."

I took a bite of cheesecake and chewed very slowly.
Sweet mother of...

"You're avoiding the question," he said.

"Which question?"

"What's your pleasure?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"It's not something I plan to use against you, if that's what you're worried about. It's a valid question, right up there with what are your dreams in life and where do you see yourself living in five years."

"It may be a valid question, but it's also a personal question. Why should I share my sexual pleasures with you?"

"Who said they had to be sexual? Reading a book can be pleasurable. Riding in a convertible with the top down, every bite of that cheesecake--and I can tell you're enjoying that cheesecake; that cheesecake is absolutely sensual to you, isn't it."

I hate this guy.

"So?" he said. "What're your pleasures?"

I stared at him for a moment, the fork lingering in my mouth.

"Okay. You're right about the cheesecake. As far as my other pleasures go, well, I like chocolate, the sound of a really good acoustic guitar, a brisk walk on a warm, breezy day like today, and foot massages. How's that?"

He finished chewing his rugelach. "It's a start. Now, imagine someone feeding you that chocolate, playing your favorite song on that guitar, taking that walk with you--although the walk is a bit cliche, isn't it?--and giving you that foot massage."

Once again I let the image soak in, and once again I felt the striking match. But I kept my guard up.

"I can get that in a serious relationship--why should I have to pay for it?"

"For some women, it's worth paying for. For some women, it's the only way they'll get it. And when was the last time you got it? When was the last time you were in a serious relationship?"

I thought of Andrew and realized that I was the one who gave him the massages, dragged him out for walks, and coaxed him to play me a song.

"So, you're their savior. How nice of you. And all for a price."

"I'm providing a service using my talents; same as you."

"Yeah, but my service is legal."

"My service is completely legal. I'm a companion for the night. The contract states explicitly that I don't--how shall I say this?--go beyond certain boundaries."

"That's not what I heard. I heard you're pretty fucking amazing. And I've seen the looks on these women's faces. Don't tell me that's all from a kiss on the cheek at the end of the night."

"I provide other sorts of pleasure, but you're assuming the rest."

I sat and stared at him for a moment. He both annoyed and intrigued the hell out of me. I didn't know what to say next.

Devin resumed the conversation. "So. Andi. You wanted to consult with me. Now that you've done that, what do you think?"

"I'm not interested."

I lied. The fact is, I was
really
interested, but how could I tell him what I really wanted? How could I face my colleagues and friends--hell, face myself? And how could I afford it?

"You sure?"

My back stiffened. Does he know?

"Yeah. Sorry to waste your time."

"Not at all. I already knew you weren't going to be a client. But you are a very interesting person to talk to."

Didn't he say that the last time we met?

"What makes you say that?" I asked.

"You're not the type."

"What type is that?" I asked, defensive yet again.

"You care too much about what other people think. You're too self-conscious."

"No--I mean, what makes you say I'm an interesting person to talk to?"

"I don't know--there's something about you, Andi. I noticed you the minute I entered the room, and I just knew I had to talk to you."

He noticed me. By God, he noticed me from the moment he saw me.

My stomach fluttered, and I looked at my watch.

"I should go before traffic gets bad," I said. He looked at me for a moment, as if he were studying me. We stood up, and when we got outside, Devin thanked me and shook my hand yet again, his hand warm. As we parted and walked in opposite directions, something inside tugged at me.
Don't let him leave
, I heard myself say.
What makes you think you've got it so good
?
For God's sake,
do something different!

I turned and quickly walked, almost breaking into a jog, until I caught up with him and called out his name, somewhat startling him. We stopped in the middle of the sidewalk in front of a Laundromat.

"Suppose I wanted you to teach me a few things."

His eyes widened as he smiled slyly. "Like what?"

My insides churned and my heart pounded and I opened my mouth and nothing came out. And yet, somehow I knew he already knew what I was going to say.

"I'm kind of inexperienced," I blurted.

"Huh?"

"I mean...I'd like to learn how to please a man, and how to be more relaxed, I guess, and I was wondering if you'd be willing to teach me."

Oh God, I wanted to die, disappear, just completely fade into oblivion. He stared at me for a moment; the look was one of delight rather than disbelief.

"You wanna be a better lover, is that it?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"What makes you think you can't or don't please men already?"

I didn't answer him, because, quite frankly, I didn't know where to begin.

Devin scratched his head. "Hmm." I waited for his reply. He was still smiling. "No one's ever made this kind of request to me before. You want me to teach you some things, is that it?"

"Yeah, whatever there is to teach. The problem is, I can't afford to pay you. I was thinking that maybe we could do some kind of barter system, and I don't mean sex."

"I didn't think you meant that. So, what have you got to trade?"

I looked down at the cracks in the pavement, at the shade of royal purple polish that was chipping off my toenails, at the ant dragging a crumb to his condo in the concrete.

"Not much." I then looked at the used bookshop across the street, and it came to me: "I can teach you about writing. I'm very good at that."

Devin scratched his head again and let out another "Hmm."

"Why would I wanna learn how to write? It's not something I use in my career."

"Look, I can stand here all day and lecture you on the benefits of being well-versed. And it's not just writing I can teach. I know all about rhetoric, theories of writing and reading, non-fiction prose... by the time we finish, I'll be a better lover and you'll be fucking Aristotle--well, not literally, of course. Look at it this way: you'll impress all your clients in academia. In fact, I'm surprised you don't know this stuff already."

"My clients don't really talk shop with me."

"Maybe they'll want to after I get through with you."

"I'm not so sure that's a selling point. The last thing my clients want to do is talk or think about work."

I was getting frustrated.

"Look, Devin. That's all I can offer you. If you're not interested, then we'll forget the whole thing. But if this is something you want to do, then this is all I know, all I'm good at."

He bent his knees slightly to meet my eye level as he leaned in, peered into my eyes, and winked. "I find that hard to believe." His tone was so sincere that I actually took a step back, as if it swung at me. His eyes brightened. "Okay, you got a deal."

I was surprised. "Good," I said coolly, "and thanks."

"I'll call you next week and we'll iron out the details of the deal. But I'm going to tell you the one stipulation that I have with all my clients:
You absolutely cannot fall in love with me
."

"Don't flatter yourself."

With that, we parted ways once again. In my car on the way home, I compulsively tapped my ring on the steering wheel, inching along, wondering what I'd just gotten myself into with this guy who, as far as I knew, had all the morals of a tomato.

The

Belt Parkway

was backed up for five miles, followed by bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Expressway. When I finally got home, dinnertime was nearly over. I picked from leftovers in the fridge, watched summer reruns on TV, and went to bed.

The ceiling stared back at me nearly the entire night.

Chapter Five

July

Week One of the Arrangement

W
E BEGAN OUR ARRANGEMENT TWO WEEKS AFTER Independence Day, agreeing to have all of our meetings at Devin's apartment in the city because he had a less flexible schedule than I did. The arrangement was as follows: We meet once a week for seven weeks. Each meeting lasts for approximately two hours. The first hour would consist of me giving him a survey course in writing and reading nonfiction prose, much like the freshman composition course I taught at Brooklyn U; he would have weekly assignments to complete and would submit both a journal and portfolio at the final meeting. The second hour would be Devin's turn to teach me lessons in foreplay, sexual positions, methods, and orgasms. (The very words lay on the contract page like exhibitionists, flaunting prudishness at my face.) I too was going to have homework and complete a sort of test on our final meeting (or "a climax," as Devin cleverly dubbed it). The contract stipulated that if either of us developed "inappropriate" feelings for the other (infatuation, falling in love, or obsession), or engaged in behavior characterized as harassment, blackmail, or stalking, the contract would not only be nullified, but also a fine would be issued equivalent to the sum of total services rendered in either profession for that time period. One more thing: we were prohibited from personally socializing with each other.

We each signed our names and Devin gave it to Christian, his partner, for notarizing and safekeeping.

The weeks leading up to the arrangement had passed in a blur. I arrived early to our first meeting filled with anticipation at the prospect of seeing Devin again, mixed with a hint of sheer terror. Devin's apartment was in WestVillage, a sweeping loft space with hardwood floors and a looming ceiling and soft, neutral painted walls displaying an eclectic art collection not unlike the many galleries that lined the streets of Soho. I circled the room as if I were in one of those galleries, pausing for a few moments to look at each picture. He handed me a cold bottle of Dasani water with one hand, a bottle of beer in his other. The day was hot, although the loft was air-conditioned without feeling like a freezer.

"This is quite an apartment," I remarked.

He looked around. "I like it. I got a good deal on it, right before the market went through the roof."

"You
own
this place?"

"Yeah."

"Do you get benefits with this job, too?"