Fucking Daphne (9 page)

On slow nights, Daph and I had good times together, eating fancy takeout food from Waiters on Wheels. We talked Rilke and
Foucault. We talked sex and death and poetry. She talked to me about writing. I talked to her about film. She seemed so hard at first. When I first met her, I assumed she was made out of metal. Impenetrable. But then I got to know her. And I read her writing. She was all girl. She wasn't even particularly well insulated. Everything was right there on the surface. It's why she was a good hooker.

We used to make out when there were no customers. She's a poet. I crushed on her once I saw her read. All that height, that voice. The tattoos. The hair. A pretty monster with a big brain. Skinny legs. Tall. Crazy tall. Taller than I. She's not Nat's type. Nat just hasn't figured it out yet.

Daphne was good with the johns, too. You'd think a girl like that would want her boots licked. Would cut your clothes off with a knife, call you names, and hit you. But she actually did pretty well with talking sweetly and saying “baby” and “honey.” She just needed to make some money. “I hate that I have to do this fucking job,” she told me once. “I hate that I know writers who live off what they write. But most of them whore in some form. What can writers do for work? Not a lot. Mostly shit jobs that don't pay anything. I'd rather suck cock. It's easier.”

She made a lot of money. Guys thought she was exotic. Like they were getting their very own taste of alternative before they went home to normal.

Daphne showed up four hours late to her shift almost every day. I assumed she was high, mainly because we all were. She'd stomp through the door in boots, growling about the train being late, and then she'd transform into a girl right there in front of me. Boots off, slippers on. Hair tied back in a knot. Lip gloss. Lingerie. From Kali to Venus. Just like magic.

Most of those girls made pretty good cash. I'd have done it, too, but I have a problem with jism. Well, that and the fact that half the time, the johns called me “sir” anyway. Plus, you really had to give the creeps a massage. I don't want to work that hard for my money. So I just answered the phones for a straight-up $15 an hour.

Guys would call and say things like, “So, what kinds of masseuses are in today?” and I'd describe the girls in a sexy way, like, “We have Brandy. She's a redhead and very buxom; I'm sure you'll like her.” Sometimes they'd ask for girls by name, but usually they would just show up and all the girls would put down their Diet Cokes and pretend to be super horny—like rubbing down a goofy businessman is gonna make them cream all over the place. The guys were almost thankful, just regular guys who wanted a hand job before they got home. They worked in banks and insurance firms and whatever. Just like guys do. I never talked to any of them, but sometimes I'd overhear the girls talking with them. They all looked like my dad. Well, they all looked like dads of some kind.

It was like prostitution lite. Most of the johns were looking for what they liked to think was “class.” They didn't realize they could get a hand job for five bucks on Capp Street. This place was a nice penthouse apartment on the Embarcadero, where they could easily stop off after work. For $125 they could get a full-body massage from one of the lingerie-clad girls, and then they could turn over for a yank. The girls got to keep $80, plus whatever tips the johns gave them for extras, like taking off their tops and stuff.

I always liked Daphne. And now that I think about it, she never wanted any of the bag of coke I kept in my desk drawer for long shifts. She said she preferred pot, and that coke would make her vibrate on a totally different frequency.

I walk up to where she's standing, talking to Nat, and say hi. Nat looks a little mad, like maybe she thinks I'm moving in. I see her straighten up, kind of flex her muscles. She's a tall girl, too. Handsome, well built. She keeps her hair long, though. It's about shoulder length, which cracks me up. “Why don't you cut that shit off?” I asked her once. “You trying to pass for a girl?” But she brushed me off.

“The ladies love this hair,” she said.

Soon as she realizes I'm just making conversation, she drops the flexing bit. Nat gets uptight sometimes and can be a bully when she drinks. She'll yell at you if she thinks you aren't being respectful, but I've never seen her punch anyone. I'm pretty good at calming her down. Isn't that the thing about us guys, though? We push and shove and puff up and there's a lot of dancing around, but no one really wants to get hit. Chicks are the ones that you've gotta look out for.

“Hey, Diana,” says Daphne. “You're looking good.”

“Thanks. So are you.”

“Diana and I used to work together,” Daphne says to Nat by way of explanation. Nat doesn't ask where, just nods, so I figure she has put it together and doesn't care. I haven't had that many jobs, so she probably knows which one Daphne's talking about.

I don't feel like annoying Nat and I'm not the most sparkling conversationalist anyway, so I say goodbye and walk off. The pool party is banging. There are a million people there, most of them naked. Jay throws great parties. She likes to have lots of people around. She's got a big backyard, bigger than any other I've seen in the city. She's got money. I heard she worked at Yahoo! in the very beginning and got out after they had an IPO. She's my age, somewhere around thirty,
but she doesn't work now. Every time I come to one of her parties, I think,
It'd sure be nice to have cash.
She must know everyone within two hundred miles of San Francisco. There are a lot of people here I don't recognize. My normal crowd all tend to look like me. It's a uniform: baggy jeans, studded belts, baseball caps. But there's chicks here all decked out. Lots of girls. Pretty ones, too.

The sun is really warm, but I don't want to swim and fuck up my high. Lita Ford is playing on the sound system. I've eaten a couple of brownies, smoked some pot. I look around for a place to settle and spot a couple of girls I know through Nat. They're lying around on plastic chaise longues next to the pool. They're screaming. Laughing. I can hear individual peals of girlie laughter on top of high-pitched squealing. It sounds like a henhouse, but inviting. When I get closer, I see they have a bunch of pink marshmallow Peeps, the kind you get at Easter.

“What the hell are you doing with those Peeps?” I ask the pretty brown-haired girl. She's got one of them in her mouth and has sucked off all the pink sugar. It looks naked.

“We're playing spin the Peeps. Wanna play?” She takes two Peeps and throws them on the table. “Okay, so, whoever the beaks are pointing at has to kiss. That's you guys,” she says to two of the girls sitting next to me. And then, like I'm watching the motherfucking Spice Channel, these two bikini-clad Amazons get up and start full-on making out. There's a girl in a red striped bathing suit with long, fire engine-red hair, and another one who's a little shorter with short bleached hair. I have no idea where they've come from. I never see girls like this around. Where do they live besides pool parties? It's like being at gay supermodel camp or something. When they part lips, I grab the Peeps and throw them on the table and tell a couple
of pretty girls to get up and kiss each other. I'm some kind of pervert Svengali. At some point, instead of throwing two Peeps, I throw three, and then four. No one seems to notice or mind; they just get up and kiss in multiples. This entertains me for a very long time.

When everyone is tired and chapped-lipped, I finally extricate myself to go get another beer. Daphne is standing by the cooler alone. Nat is nowhere to be seen.

“Daphne girl, lemme get you a beer,” I say suavely.

“I'm gonna stick to Diet Coke, but thanks.”
Whatever,
I think, and gulp down some of my beer. “So, what are you doing now?” I look at Daphne and smile. Who cares what she's doing? I don't know if I should talk to her. I want her to like me again, though.

“Not too much. Hanging around. You look fucked up. I guess it's nice to see you.”

“You dating anyone?”

“Arnie.”

“Who's Arnie?” I say, but then I realize I know who Arnie is. Arnie is the guy who ran the massage place.

“Jesus,” I say, and shrug.

What a weirdo. Arnie was kind of twitchy and made me nervous. He had a handlebar mustache and a shaved head. Tats. Scrawny. Kind of ugly. I didn't interact with him too much, except over the phone. He used to call in all the time, ask about the balance in the cash drawer, ask which girls had showed up for their shifts.

He always called me “Stud,” which I liked. He liked me, I think. Arnie said to me one night, “Hey, Stud, how 'bout you and your lady
friend join me for a night out? We can hit a few strip joints, get some drinks. Whaddaya say?” He motioned at Daphne. I don't know how he knew I wanted her.

I looked over at Daphne and willed her to agree. “Sure, why not,” she said. So we packed up our shit and headed out. Arnie had a Hummer. Who has a Hummer? You couldn't even laugh. It was too perfect. We picked up his girlfriend, Alexandra. She had big hair, lots of rings, huge tits. She was light-haired and small. The opposite of Daphne. She asked for a bump immediately.

Arnie whipped out a big bag of cocaine and passed it around. “You girls help yourselves,” he said. Even Daphne took some. I guess everyone likes free coke. Alexandra was practically shoveling it up her nose. Of course, so was I. But later, when I noticed Arnie giving Daphne a few long looks, I straightened up. If there's gonna be trouble, it's better to be sober.

We had a good time that night. Daphne and I got along. The coke made her affectionate and kitteny. We went to the Phoenix and Arnie bought us all private dances. Even Daphne got one. She got into it and put on a real good show for the rest of us. In fact, she was so hot, she kept trying to get her hands in my pants all night. A real change from her usual self. And later that night, we had some of the best sex I've ever had. That is, until I asked her if she wanted to fuck Arnie.

“I saw Arnie looking at you. He likes you.” I whispered this into her neck as my fingers worked her clit.

She was dreamy and slow. We'd been fucking for hours. She whispered back to me, “I felt him looking at my tits. He was trying to see down my shirt.”

“You were flirting with him. You were shoving your tits in his face.” As I said this, I bit her neck for effect.

She was close, I could tell. She whispered to me, “Yeah, baby, he wants me. I was flirting with him. Making him want me.”

“You want to fuck him, don't you?”

“Yeah, oh god, yeah,” she breathed.

And then I just lost it. I had a hand in her hair and I nearly knocked her head into the wall.

“Slut!” I hissed. “I knew you wanted to fuck him. I saw you. You were practically humping his leg.”

She screeched and put her hand on the back of her head where I had yanked her hair. As she sat up, tears started rolling down her face. “Diana, what the fuck are you talking about? I thought we were playing a game. I thought it was hot for you. I don't want to fuck him. I don't want to fuck him. I don't want to fuck anyone.” She curled up and got angry. “You are a fucking psychopath,” she said. And then she added, “Get the fuck out of my house.”

When I didn't move right away, she grabbed the empty wine bottle off the nightstand and threw it at me. She missed, of course, and it hit the dresser, making a huge crashing sound and knocking all sorts of makeup and shit across the room.

I left her house and stalked home. She called me early the next morning.

“It was a game, Diana. I don't really want Arnie to fuck me any more than I want you to be a sadistic prison guard and me a desperate inmate.”