Made For Sex (28 page)

Fran took a deep breath. This beautiful, statuesque woman was a hooker. It was almost too much to take in. “How? Why?”

“How? I'll show you at my place. Why? Why not? I love making love, in all ways, shapes and forms, so why shouldn't I get paid for it? I please men in ways they've not been pleased before, so no one gets hurt.”

“Their wives. They get hurt.”

“I always counsel my ‘friends' to discuss their desires with their wives, but so many men are in humdrum relationships and don't think there's any chance of communicating with their wives about anything. So if it weren't me, it would be someone else. And I know that with me they will have a good time, get their money's worth and it won't get serious.”

“But what about AIDS? In my stories, the men who fool around wear condoms, and in
The Love Flower
sexually transmitted diseases didn't exist.”

“Or they were just ignored. But my friends always wear condoms and I'm very careful about new people for lots of reasons.”

“Isn't what you do illegal? Don't you worry about the police?”

“Occasionally I think about it, but I don't worry. The contributions the men make are voluntary. I don't ‘charge for services,' but I request a token of affection. So, in my mind at least, I don't solicit.”

“But what if they don't pay?”

“If they don't pay, they don't get to come back. And all my friends want to come back, so it's very seldom that I'm not paid. And if they don't pay, oh well. I make enough that the occasional deadbeat isn't a problem.”

“Amazing.”

Carla nodded, then scraped the last bite of cake from the plate and sensuously sucked the final remnants from her fork. She sipped her coffee, then said, “Why don't we wander over to my brownstone and I'll tell you more when we get there?”

Efficiently, with only a token protest from Fran, Carla paid the check and the two women walked to the front of the restaurant. Carla got her coat and Fran retrieved her trench coat and suitcases. “I'll take the big one if you can manage your backpack and the small one,” Carla said, taking charge of Fran's larger piece. “My place is only two blocks away, and we can grab a cab if you want.”

Fran formed a mental picture of this impeccable woman hefting her Kmart suitcase. “I can get all this stuff. I managed to get to the airport.”

“Not a chance.” Carla lifted the suitcase while Fran shouldered her backpack and took the smaller one. “Do you always use a backpack instead of a purse?”

“No, but I thought it would be easier for traveling. You see I brought my laptop computer so I could write while I'm here.” The two women stepped out of the restaurant into a raw, cold, blustery March day, so, with necks withdrawn beneath collars, they walked the two blocks to Carla's place in a companionable silence.

Fran was a bit winded by the time they reached the brownstone on East 54th Street. The building was three stories tall, well kept, with a small patch of grass in front. Carla opened the front door and, still toting the suitcase, guided Fran into the living room.

“Wow, this is really gorgeous,” Fran said, looking around. The room was done in white, black and gray, with black and white geometric pillows everywhere. The walls were covered with something soft-looking and gray. Without a thought Fran set her suitcase down, walked over and ran her hand over the wall covering. Silk. This place must have cost a fortune, she thought.

To keep the room from looking sterile, there were plants on almost every horizontal surface. Ferns, ivies and several large ficuses, mixed with vases of freshly cut blooms in all colors. “This is really lovely,” she said.

“You look the way I must have the first time I saw this room. Actually I had nothing to do with it. A friend of mine had it all done before I ever visited.” Carla took Fran's coat and motioned toward the black leather sofa. “Sit and relax.” She quickly hung up the two coats and returned to the living room. “I'm sure you've got a million questions and I'll answer them all in due course.” As Fran kicked off her shoes, Carla asked, “How about a glass of white wine? I'm going to pour myself one.”

Wine? In the middle of the afternoon? Why not? “Sure. That would be fine.” Fran tucked her feet beneath her and realized that, for some reason, she felt at home here.

Carla reached into a small refrigerator almost hidden in the corner and brought out a green bottle. She quickly and efficiently used a corkscrew to remove the cork and poured two glasses. “This is a nice Chardonnay. Good for drinking alone, but a bit much, in my opinion, for having with food.” She handed Fran the glass. When Fran took it Carla said, “If you don't mind a suggestion, Nicki would know to hold the glass by the stem, not by the bowl.”

Fran shifted her grip. “Okay. I'll bite. Why?”

“A few reasons. Most important, a white wine is served chilled because the flavors are meant to be consumed cool. If you hold the glass by the bowl, you warm the wine and it doesn't taste as good. Also, wine is meant to be enjoyed using all the senses. If you get finger marks all over the glass, the wine won't look as good.”

“Sounds reasonable.” She sipped the wine and found she really liked the taste.

“You didn't come here for lessons in wine. Yet. That all comes later. Right now, you want to know who I am and what this is all about. Let me start from the beginning.

“About two and a half years ago I ran into my old college roommate. Actually ran into is the right expression. I smashed into the side of her car. But, to make a long story short, ultimately she explained that she was a very high-priced call girl. I was widowed, just above the poverty line and I did, and still do, enjoy sex a lot. So Ronnie, that's her name, convinced me to play. Gradually she introduced me to the world of sensuality and, as they say, the rest is history.”

Although she didn't, Fran wanted to seem to understand. “Where's Ronnie now?”

“She's on a large yacht, moored somewhere in the Mediterranean for a month with an Arab prince. She was married but it didn't work out.”

“Is she being paid for her visit on the yacht?”

Carla looked startled. “Of course.”

Fran took another sip of her wine. “Oh.”

“I know,” Carla said, grinning, “your mind is blown. Actually I don't blame you. It took me a lot of time and soul searching to decide to join her in this business. But I haven't been sorry for a moment. I make my own hours and set my own rules. I have lots of time and money to indulge my children and, of course, myself.”

“So you do it for the money,” Fran said, struggling to comprehend.

“I do it for the money and because I thoroughly enjoy it.”

“You enjoy having sex with strange men, doing kinky, perverted things.” The words were out before Fran could censor them.

Not looking as annoyed as Fran thought she should be after that thoughtless remark, Carla said, “Hey slow down. Let's understand a few things here. Kinky and perverted are in the mind of the beholder. One man's perversion is another's normal activity. I don't judge another's actions. My only rule is that I won't do anything that doesn't turn me on. But most things
do
turn me on. Okay, I can't get into toilet sports or pain.” Carla looked away for a moment. “Actually I can't even say that anymore either. But that's a story for another time.”

“That's a lot to digest,” Fran said, putting her wineglass on a black lacquer end table. “I guess my Omaha is showing.”

“Not at all. It was a lot for me to digest when I first learned about Ronnie. Now it seems so normal.”

“Does your family know?”

“My folks do. They finally asked a few blunt questions and I decided to stop dancing around the topic. They surprised me. They aren't big fans of my occupation, but they see that I'm happy and healthy and that the boys are great so they don't complain.”

“Didn't they ask you to stop?”

“Once very briefly. But now they treat me like a grown-up able to make my own decisions.”

A quick picture of her mother flashed through Fran's mind. Never. She couldn't even tell her about
The Love Flower
. “So how does this all work? I'm just so curious. Do men come here? Do you go to hotel rooms?”

“No one comes here until I know them and have spent at least one evening with them. I'm sure you can see why. I don't want anyone to know where I live until I'm sure about them.”

“I guess I understand.”

“You don't have to understand my ‘profession.' But what I do with men and the knowledge I have about everything from cigars and wine to how to dress and how to flirt will make Nicki what you want her to be.”

“Eileen told you everything?”

“She told me about you and Nichole St. Michelle and the Madison Prize and the weekend. Congratulations, by the way. She tells me that it's a great honor to be nominated. Eileen also said you want to be able to act like Nicki would. Right?”

“Right. Act like Nicki.” She swallowed. A small voice was whispering in her ear, telling her that that wasn't completely true. She had listened to Carla and the lifestyle excited her. God, she thought, wouldn't it be nice to
be
Nicki, free with men and sex. Her ex-husband had always told her she was a dud in bed, but maybe Carla could teach her. As quickly as that idea crept into her mind, Fran squashed it. It was one thing to write about hot sex, it was another to live it.

“Having second thoughts? We don't have to do this at all. I'm sure that Eileen can help you with a wardrobe and some makeup lessons.” Carla patted Fran's hand. “You don't have to deal with me or my life. Later, when Eileen arrives, you two can have dinner and she'll get you settled into her friend's apartment and that will be that.”

As Fran hesitated, Carla stood up. “Don't be embarrassed. The things I've told you about aren't everyone's taste.” Carla walked toward the windows. “It's really okay.”

Fran stood and walked up behind Carla. “If you must know, what scares me is that I'm too intrigued. This is so far out of my league, but I'll admit that it titillates me. I write about steamy sex, and I'm good at that, the writing that is. But most of it is soft, warm and completely heterosexual and vanilla. And even that's mostly from my imagination. I never thought I'd meet someone who lives in an atmosphere like this. It's exciting and scary and I don't know exactly how to react.

“I always thought of hookers wearing spandex and supporting a drug habit. Or maybe in an evening gown entertaining rock stars. I just never thought of a real person being a prostitute.”

Carla turned and smiled. “Thanks for being so honest. Actually, when Ronnie told me what she did for a living, I had pretty much the same feelings. And if you're anything like I was, you're curious as hell and that scares the daylights out of you.”

“I really am both intrigued and terrified. I feel like I'm visiting my first bakery and all I can do is look at all the pastry. I want to know how it all tastes, but I don't want to do the tasting, so I can learn from you.”

The two women crossed the room and resumed their seats on the sofa. “Okay, ask me questions and I'll answer them as honestly as I can.”

“How does it work? What exactly do the men want? Are they all into tit-fucking, anal sex and blow jobs.” To Carla's startled expression, Fran quickly added, “Sorry. Pardon the language but I do write about this stuff and I read lots of stories from the Internet. Words aren't the problem.”

“Obviously,” Carla said. “The men I entertain want all of that and lots more.”

“So how do you know what they want? Do they tell you?”

“Here. Let me show you what makes Ronnie and me so unusual.” Carla rose and opened a drawer in an antique rolltop desk that sat in the corner of the room. It should look out of place, Fran thought, in a black and white, leather and lacquer room, but it doesn't. Carla returned with a large photo album with a soft rose suede cover. “I've replaced the pictures and the whole album several times. I've given away a few of the old ones to really good customers who like to look at the photos between times.” She placed the album on Fran's lap. “Open it and have a look.”

Fran opened the cover and gazed at the first picture, an eight by ten of a woman in full Egyptian garb, diaphanous gown, thick black wig and stark black and red makeup. The gown was just transparent enough for Fran to be able to see the shadows of the woman's dark nipples and triangle of dark hair at the apex of her thighs.

She turned the page. The next photograph was of a woman in a shiny red bodysuit, which covered her from neck to wrists and ankles. It was so tight and sexy that it was as though she were naked. She brandished a pair of handcuffs and a small riding crop. In the background Fran could make out a set of wooden stocks. The woman smiled but it was a slightly malevolent smile.

Fran turned another page. It was, in its own way, a mirror image of the last. A naked woman was kneeling, imprisoned in the stocks Fran had noticed in the previous picture. Her wrists and neck were trapped by the wooden frame which was held closed with a large shiny padlock. Her legs were spread and held parted by a wide wooden bar which was locked to each ankle. Her face was turned toward the camera and her expression was a mixture of terror and excitement. Her eyes were closed and her tongue just extended between her lips.