Wherever the Dandelion Falls (15 page)

In a way, society is set up so men are the pursuers and women are the ones being chased. But as a prostitute and stripper, it was reversed. The customers at the peep show were not people I'd give a second glance to on the street, but I had to create the illusion of chasing them. That's what I was being paid for: to pretend to be aroused by the idea of men in tiny closets with their pants around their ankles, jerking off to the sight of me wavering above them, oh-so-turned-on by the tops of the their pasty, hairy thighs as they stroked themselves. I even had to pretend to be aroused by the customers I couldn't see.

Men, I had discovered, were turned on by the idea that they were turning
me
on. The better I could play the part of the wanton girl driven to a state of sexual frenzy by the thought of a man jerking off, the more money they paid to watch me writhe and sway and strut.

Justine and I were lying head to toe on our oversized couch watching
Golden Girls
one night when Justine's eyes flashed wide.

"I figured it out," she said. "I figured out why people think stripping is dirty."

I raised an eyebrow.

"It's because you're an active participant. Guys are allowed to whistle at us on the street, and we're supposed to take it as a compliment. Which is to say, girls are supposed to be passive sex objects."

I nodded. I had no misgivings about the fact that it felt good to be desired. That was the high I felt in the Box, particularly when one of my regulars visited me. They preferred me over the other dancers, who were all beautiful in their own right. Being desired as something special felt good. Getting paid for it felt
great
.

"But the problem is that men don't want us to be
active
sex objects. If a girl seeks out sex or does anything provocative, then she's a slut."

I sighed and nodded, reaching for my wine glass as Justine proceeded to rant about unfair double standards society had about human sexuality.

But I knew Justine was right. The reason I hadn't told my sister or my other friends about my job was because I knew they would all be horrified by my whorified self. They would label me as broken, defective, or irreparably tarnished. They would disapprove of my job solely because I had become an active, public sex object rather than a passive one. And that realization made me feel like it might be worth telling them, just to start the sexual revolution I thought the world needed.

But that was probably just the wine talking. Riley, the girl who tried so hard to make people proud, would never start a hometown revolution like that. So even though I buried the idea deep into the back of my mind, I knew, without the assistance of false eyelashes or Ellies, that Violet would be exactly the kind of girl who would start such a revolution.

Justine turned to me a minute later and said, "Hey, I keep meaning to ask you: would you be willing to let my coworker's girlfriend interview you as Violet? She needs a controversial topic for her school newspaper."

My first instinct was to say no. Aside from Justine, Dr. Turner, and the girls at Jez, no one knew about my double life. The threat of my family or grad school friends finding out loomed heavy all around me.

But then I thought about what a difference it made to me to read message boards about how other sex workers felt about their jobs. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I pictured a young woman who felt isolated like me reading about my life and feeling better about herself. Even if I wasn't ready to out myself to everyone I knew, I wanted to let women know it was okay to be sexual however they felt best: for themselves, for others, in public, in private, for free, or for profit. And furthermore, that it wasn't an indicator of their moral character or worth as a person.

So I turned to Justine with a confident smile and said, “Sure."

Justine and I had just settled into the couch with a bottle of Pinot and a spread of Tim Burton movies when the there was a knock at the door. Justine lifted her eyebrows, asking if I was expecting someone. I shrugged and got up, feet chilly on the bare floor. When I opened the door, I was stunned to see Faye in the hall with a sheepish look on her face.

"Hi," she said, eyes darting somewhere around my knees. "I, um, I wanted to bring you these," she said, looking down to where she had a plate of chocolate cookies pressed into her stomach. "Sorry for being all stressed out the other night."

Bewildered but pleasantly surprised by her apology, I tilted my head and smiled. "That's okay. Thanks."

Faye held the cookies up to me, still avoiding eye contact. I looked at her embarrassed expression and how hard she was trying to do the right thing and felt bad for her.

Wanting to encourage her, I opened the door wider. “Want to come in? We just started
Edward Scissorhands
."

Faye peered into the apartment. Justine leaned over the sofa and gave a little wave. "C'mon in," Justine said. "I'm Justine."

"Hi," Faye said. "Um, thanks, but I think I better..." She took a step back, not finishing her sentence as she gestured toward the stairs. Then she seemed to change her mind. “Sure.”

She walked forward and held her hand out to Justine, who rose halfway out of her seat to take the handshake and the plate of cookies.

"Make yourself at home," Justine said, scooting over.

I sat down next to Faye, feeling the thrill of her side pressed against mine as we watched. I wanted to touch more of her, to thank her for coming over and for being so courteous.

She and Justine were commenting on how hot young Winona Ryder was and how bad they felt for Edward as the movie went on, but Faye didn't talk to me. I would have felt invisible, had it not been for the fleeting looks Faye gave me from time to time, little smiles interspersed with rubbing my knee under the blanket or scratching my arm affectionately. All her nonverbal cues were reassuring. By the end of the night, I wanted her in my bed so bad.

But when the movie ended, she stood and said goodnight, offering to recycle the empty wine bottle on her way out. I didn't want to object, since it was normal to enjoy a night on the couch with a pretty girl and not have sex. But I was mystified as to what was going on in her head.

I watched her walk down the stairs and disappear before closing the door and turning back to the couch.

"That your booty call?" Justine said, wiggling her eyebrows.

I clucked in disapproval. "She's not a booty call. We talk."

"Before or after?"

"Before."

Justine gave me a skeptical look and turned back to the TV. "Sounds like a booty call to me."

She picked up another cookie and took a bite. "You should keep her around though. Especially if she keeps bringing us cookies."

I gave Justine a playful smack on the arm. "She's not a booty call," I grumbled.

"If you say so."

I decided to return Faye's kind and flirtatious gesture the following day. Around lunchtime, I baked a batch of cookies and put them on a Faye's plate to take back to her. I knew she'd see right through it, but it was all part of the little dance we were doing.

When I got to Faye's apartment building, another tenant was leaving and he held the front door and gate for me so I wouldn't have to ring up for Faye to let me in. I fluttered up the stairs, excited. Conveniently, I'd left a few hours before my shift so if she wanted to hang out and chat or, I dunno, maybe have sex, we could.

When I knocked on the door, I heard scrambling inside. I pictured her messy little studio with its piles of laundry and stacks of dishes. Maybe she did her little clean-up dance every time someone knocked.

"Who is it?" she called.

"It's Riley," I replied, cheerful.

I heard more scrambling and tripping and the whispering of fabric against fabric. Then the door rattled and she jerked it open a few inches.

Her hair was messy and she had a sweatshirt thrown on, neckline uneven around her collarbone. "Hi," she said in a stage whisper. "What's up?"

Beaming, I said with a guilty smile, "I made too many cookies."

I held the plate out to her and she startled, taking in my gift.

"Oh," she said. "That's
—
that's really sweet. Thanks."

Hesitantly, she reached for the plate and was forced to open the door a little wider to slide it inside before returning it to its previous position of being just ajar enough for her to peer out.

"What are you up to?" I asked, hinting that I wanted to hang out.

Faye grew flustered. "I'm, uh- I'm- Now's not a good time," she muttered, face disappearing for a moment as she looked over her shoulder.

And just then, I heard her toilet flush and the sink turn on. When it shut off, I heard a girl's voice, high and nasal as it emerged from the bathroom, saying, "Faye, can I borrow a clean pair of panties? You got mine all-"

The girl stopped abruptly as Faye's face reappeared, avoiding eye contact.

I was so stunned, I couldn't filter myself as my thoughts raced.

"Are you — are you fucking someone else?" I gaped. "
Really
, Faye?"

Faye looked lower towards the floor, brushing her hair out of her face. "It's not like you and I are
dating
," she hissed, trying not to let the other girl hear. "I'll call you later, okay?"

Incredulous, I just stared at her. What was she planning to do, shower off and then see if I'd be up for her second — or was it third? — round of the day? No way. I was no one's sloppy second.

No matter how offended and curious I was about the other girl, I was glad Faye had the door in a death grip so I couldn't attach a face to the voice that had pierced through the fun new thing I thought Faye and I had. Apparently Justine had been right. I was just a booty call. Possibly one of many Faye had.

I swallowed, preparing to say
Don't bother
when my filter fell back into place.

I gave a stiff shrug and said, "If you can fit me into your busy schedule."

Then I turned and left, knowing Faye wouldn't try to follow me.

Faye arrived at my apartment right on time. We'd planned to hang out, but I had no idea if we were going on a date or not, which made me anxious. My anxiety tripled when she rang the doorbell and I opened the door to see her standing in the hall. She was so beautiful and happy and calm.

"Do you like trampolining?" she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

"I've never been."

"Okay. Do you have yoga pants or something?"

"Uh huh."

After inviting her inside, I grabbed my yoga pants and a t shirt and put them in a bag. It felt odd, gathering workout gear for a maybe-date, but then again, I wasn't sure what lesbians did on dates. In college, my dates with Maggie had mostly been in our dorm rooms or somewhere on campus.

After winding down a road that felt like it was in the middle of the forest but was actually just near Crissy Field, we parked and Faye kept a respectful distance from me as we walked to the front of the old airplane hangar. Faye paid, not looking at me while she did, as if she didn't want to remind me that we were on the cusp of some kind of romantic interaction.

Loud music was playing from speakers tucked high in the metal rafters. It felt like a school dance, speakers playing candy pop songs from the last thirty years. The people around us were mostly our age, with a few teenagers and two or three kids that could have been ten or eleven. A few fatigued parents waited on couches on the floor level.

Faye led me to the changing room, where we changed into our workout gear. When I emerged, Faye was waiting for me outside, hands busy behind her head as she secured her long, sleek hair into a braid. She grinned and offered to do my hair for me.

Her offer made me nervous, but I let her sit me on a bench and run her fingers through my hair, a few strands catching in the crevices of her knuckles as she put in a tight french braid. My scalp tingled and I felt alarmingly calm. When she tied it off, I was certain it was the most perfect braid my hair had ever been in.

As we ascended the stairs to the trampoline pit, Faye grew more excited.

"This is one of my favorite places. I come here sometimes with my colleagues to blow off steam after work."

It felt nice, to be included into something Faye did to reduce stress, even if this was maybe a date and the point of a date was not to reduce stress. The maybe-date was creating enough stress to warrant reducing, so I appreciated it.

As we reached the entrance to the trampoline pit, the music changed to a song that I didn't know but clearly excited Faye. "I love this song!" she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the pit.

The pit was actually an expanse of trampolines linked together by bright blue connector mats. A dozen other jumpers were bouncing around, trying to do cool tricks, with a few people succeeding and earning enthusiastic clapping from their friends. As I stepped onto the stretchy black material, I felt something exhale within me. We were doing something ridiculous and fun that would make us sweaty and relaxed. I thought maybe Faye had planned this to help me be less nervous. Wouldn't that have been sweet of her?

But as I looked at her face as she bounded over the black rectangles, urging me to join her with her hand, I realized that she had no other reason to come here than the fact that she loved this place. While at first I had been self-conscious, knowing I was just a poor foot placement away from looking clumsy and awkward, when I saw her face and heard her giggle as she hopped across the squares, my nervousness left me and I was pulled into her joy.

We jumped until our legs and abs hurt and our lungs were burning from exertion. I was damp with a light sheen of sweat, as was she. We stumbled off the trampoline court, and she offered me some water from her water bottle. After a brief pause, noting the smudge of her lipstick around the rim of the bottle, I took it.

We changed out of our workout gear, and she suggested we go get some food. Ravenous, I agreed, and we drove back into the city and found a nice pizza parlor on Chestnut Street. We inhaled a pie together and washed it down with wine she chose for us.

When the check came and Faye took it before I had time to pull out my credit card, some of my uneasiness crept back in. If we were hanging out as friends, why was she paying for everything? Why had she sent me flowers? I felt young and inexperienced for not understanding basic unspoken social language.

So I repeated a question I'd asked her before. I glanced at the spot where the bill had just been whisked off the table and said, "Are we on a date?"

Faye blinked and looked to the side. Suddenly she looked as young and uncomfortable as I felt. It was weird to see her go from looking thirty to looking fifteen in the space of five words.

Then she opened her mouth and said, small and hurt, "I'm not a predator, you know. I can hang out with girls as friends."

I felt guilty. I tried to explain my reasoning.

"Oh I know. I just thought, with the flowers and stuff..."