Wherever the Dandelion Falls (9 page)

I fixed my gaze on Vance and started muttering about losing my train of thought as I put my hand to my cheek, hoping to conceal the flush Faye had caused. He just smiled and told me that I'd been talking about neurons and alcohol and that he thought I looked cute when I talked nerdy.

I was relieved that I had a reason to blush as I said, "If there's one thing I can do, it's talk nerdy."

"I like it," he said, leaning toward me and lowering his voice. "I like smart girls."

I blushed deeper into my wine glass.

Then there was a delicate hand on my shoulder.

"Hey, Riley," Faye said.

I forced myself to make eye contact, feet squirming under the table.

"Oh,
hey
!" I said, forcing cheer into my voice. "How was your trip to Sacramento?"

She tilted her head, amused and possibly offended by how fake I was being.

"Fine. Are we still on for tomorrow?" she asked, glancing up at Vance.

"Yeah," I stammered. "Definitely."

"Great." Her expression was victorious and disconcertingly sly. Then she looked directly at Vance and gave him a smile I was pretty sure was fake. "I'm Faye, by the way," she said, extending her hand, tennis bracelet flashing as she overrode my lack of introduction.

"Vance," Vance said, standing and accepting her handshake. "Pleasure to meet you."

She maintained her exaggerated smile, then folded her arm back into her body.

"I better get back to my drink," she said, twisting her torso toward the bar but still looking at us. Then she looked directly at me, giving me a pat on the arm as she said, "Enjoy your
work
thing." Then she walked away without further comment.

I didn't know which was more humiliating: Faye catching me in my lie, or the way she had treated Vance, appearing polite and friendly while mocking him.

I took a big sip of wine.

"Friend?" Vance asked.

I nodded, not wanting to say any more or have to explain why Faye had referenced my date as a "work thing." I knew I deserved to feel bad about lying, but that nagging disappointment of having a great date ruined made me a little angry.

I put all my effort into my conversation with Vance, desperately avoiding looking at Faye. Her presence loomed huge in my peripheral vision, but I didn't turn to look at her once, focusing on Vance and how beautiful he was. I probably asked too many questions, but he didn't seem to mind.

After our meal, I allowed myself a single glance at the bar where Faye was seated. I noticed that she was sitting with another woman. The woman was tall and had long, wavy blonde hair and sparkly silver earrings. In the moment I stole that glance, Faye reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind the woman's ear, leaning into her as though she wanted to fall into the woman's cleavage.

And without knowing why, I burned. I was so angry at Faye. With sudden energy and determination, I turned to Vance.

"Want to grab another glass of wine somewhere?" I asked, sounding too forceful.

"Sure," he smiled. Then, cautiously, he suggested, "My hotel has a nice lounge, if you like."

And because going back to his hotel with him felt like the surest way to escape my anger at Faye, I agreed.

We walked down Columbus at least a mile. We talked about books we'd recently read. He seemed remarkably well-read, and that was just one more thing on the long list of boyfriend-material traits he possessed.

When we came to the intersection of Broadway and Columbus — where all the strip clubs are — he kept his gaze directly ahead and asked what it was like to move out to California from the Midwest. Uncomfortable under the glare of the neon signs, I babbled about the different shops and the linguistic differences
—
cart instead of buggy, soda instead of pop
—
until we had safely passed the clubs. He pointed out his hotel, and I felt like we were heading towards a beacon of relief. We'd have another drink and relax some more, and we'd stand an almost nonexistent chance of Faye ruining our date any further.

And I hoped that I'd at least get a kiss from him before the night was over. I wanted to be close to him however I could. Touching his arm, holding his hand, kissing his lips.

We had another drink and all my anger and guilt and awkwardness melted away. Keeping my attention on him was effortless. We discovered we had both taken a film class in undergrad, and we had many of the same favorite directors and genres. As our conversation went on, I found it harder and harder to focus on what he was saying as my attention zeroed in on his lips. I scooted closer to him on the couch of the hotel lounge. I had to kiss him.

So, with bravery I didn't realize I had in me, I did. And he kissed me back. Over and over and over, and my whole body melted into his torso.

And then we were kissing in his room and I was folding his jacket off his shoulders, tugging his tie off as I stepped out of my shoes, pushing him toward the bed. We didn't stop kissing until our clothes were strewn over the floor and we were sweaty and panting and dazed with the satisfaction of our orgasms and the relief of releasing the sexual tension between us.

I woke up feeling my stomach twist with hunger and the excitement of possible morning sex. Morning sex is my favorite. I still felt sticky and a little sore from the night before, but I was definitely up for it. I rolled over to see if he was propositionable, remembering what had worked on Damon back in the day, but I found an empty pillow.

Hoping he was in the bathroom, I listened for noises behind the papered wall. When I didn't hear anything, I sat up.

His clothes were gone from the floor.

So were his shoes.

So was his suitcase.

There was no note on the dresser or bedside table.

I checked my phone.

No messages.

I deflated into the bed, feeling stupider than I had in my entire life.

Something interesting started happening to me once Dr. Turner and I started our formal arrangement: I started feeling as though I had two bodies. Riley and Violet were fundamentally different. One was purely a sexual object and existed for the pleasure and critique of others, and one that needed food and comfort and rest. I became aware that Dr. Turner was uncomfortable with my body having the same needs as his. So, to keep my customer happy, I never ate in his presence, only drank water, and only used his bathroom when it was unavoidable.

And above all, after our first negotiation, I never broke character.

I went back on birth control. I figured it would be prudent, even if I was adamant about using condoms. So far Dr. Turner had been cooperative, reaching for one without needing to be reminded.

Watching the balance of my student loans tick down faster than I thought they would was satisfying. I hadn't called my mom or dad — or god forbid, Kimi
—
to ask for help paying them. I was an adult making a living, and how I did that was my business.

I came to realize that Dr. Turner was turned on when he believed he was turning
me
on. The more convincing I could be that I was aroused and enjoying our interaction, the more I got paid. A quick jaunt through internet boards gave me a few ideas. I tucked bottle of lube in my purse and used it to create the illusion I was wetter than I was for him. I learned to simulate my usual movements of pleasure; the way I arched my back and curled my feet. I learned choreography in order to earn a bigger payout. And though some people would have shaken their heads, ashamed of me, I couldn't help but think that I was resourceful. Who else could get paid for something she had originally agreed to do for free?

I had, after all, agreed to go home with Dr. Turner that first time, knowing we would probably sleep together, without knowing he would pay me. I wasn't revolted by his appearance. He was an attractive man. The fact that he wasn't someone I'd picked up on the street made a big difference to me. I couldn't imagine sleeping with various strangers for money. I didn't have the acting ability to convince unattractive people they were turning me on.

But knowing him in the way I did, knowing the price he was willing to pay to feel as though he was turning a woman on made him less attractive. Not so unattractive that I couldn't stand his presence, especially when I knew that I had a planned exit time. He paid me by the hour, and I was firm about enforcing the time limits. A few times he had lagged and I'd offered to extend his time by half an hour, and once by a full hour, which he took me up on. But our interactions were finite and generally predictable.

I began to wonder what it was inside Dr. Turner that was so afraid of connecting with a real woman that he was willing to pay me thousands of dollars a month to stand in her place. When I was feeling particularly sorry for him, I'd even have imaginary conversations in my head with a future girlfriend of his, telling her things to watch out for and where the tender spots on his heart might be. Mostly, I wished her luck.

My biggest problem was coming up with activities to fill the hundred and sixty-seven hours a week I wasn't with Dr. Turner. I felt like all the days watercolor-bled together, and I sometimes found myself asking Justine what day it was.

I'd told Justine that I'd gotten a job modeling for classes at the Academy of Art University. She hadn't asked many questions, other than if it was nude. Testing the waters, I told her it was. She'd given me a playful lift of her eyebrows and told me to have fun and see if there were any cute artists who wanted to chat afterwards. I rolled my eyes and didn't bring up my fake work again. She was working so many hours a week at the nonprofit and so many hours a week as a nanny, she didn't know that I was home
all
the time. I was home more hours than I knew what to do with. I cleaned every crevice of our apartment, save Justine's room.

It became apparent I needed more to do with my time.

While I'd been on the message boards looking up tricks of the prostitution trade, I'd seen plenty of posts written by strippers, many of whom worked in San Francisco. I began to wonder how many of these girls I'd run into without knowing it. Was the girl in line in front of me at the grocery co-op also the busty brunette who advised new strippers to regularly wipe their asses with antibacterial wipes so they didn't get "dirty stripper butt"? Was the girl at the laundromat the same girl who swore on her life that strippers made more money when they wore white shoes? I started imagining that everyone around me had a secret double life. Maybe I needed to do that to feel better about my own.

I knew I was going to have to find something to do with my time. I didn't want to go back to academia, and I certainly didn't want to work in a stuffy lab. I wanted as little to do with neuroscience as possible. When scouring Craigslist for possible new career endeavors and being subsequently depressed by the pitiful number of jobs I was qualified for, my mind flickered back to the message boards. The girls who posted there had raved about being able to set their own schedules, feel empowered while making good money, and work in any city in the country.

I knew I had to try it or spend years wondering why I hadn't.

After a quick scan of the message boards, I decided I wanted to try my hand at a traditional hustle club, where dancers do stage performances and then work the crowd selling lap dances. I was comfortable being naked. It would be fairly dark, the music would be loud, and I'd be in a costume with tons of makeup on. Those things would be mask enough for me.

I wasn't sure how hard it would be to get a job at one of the dozens of clubs in the city. I decided to pick the area most dense with clubs and try my luck at each one. In the middle of the day on a Tuesday, the bus emerged from the Broadway tunnel and the stripping Mecca unrolled before me. The flashing signs were mesmerizing. The proximity to the Financial District meant these clubs probably had wealthy patrons and would be geared to a more upscale crowd. Hopefully that meant they were less seedy and complied with strip club laws. I knew that clubs that served alcohol were required to have the dancers wearing some semblance of panties, and I knew that prostitution was illegal. But I also knew, from message boards where strippers complained about customers asking for "extras," that laws didn't always translate to practice.

It occurred to me when I walked into the first club that I probably should have scoped out clubs at night when it was more active. As it was, the first club I walked into had about five dancers milling around, and no more than three customers. That made it seem quaint.