My day really begins when she leaves her apartment across the street.
When I see her in the morning, it appears like she has so much positivity that she dances out of the front door to the small café nearby. That is how elegant she is in every way she moves.
She doesn’t look like a sex worker. Like a prostitute. To me she is not prostituting herself, she is not working, she is not doing this for something as vulgar and plain as money. Somebody so beautiful must have more profound motives than to merely sell her body to strangers.
So, I will call her the scarlet woman. It is a more poetic term. Her scarf is scarlet red, and it flutters behind her like a coat of arms displaying her powerful femininity. It symbolizes her devotion and passion. To me she seems like a witch: She is proud and mysterious, and she is aware of her powers.
The woman carries herself like an artist. Every one of her movements, even the tiniest, is deliberate.
She is a scarlet woman though, a whore, and I am longing for her services, although I could never gather enough courage to approach her. Still, I imagine her fingers on my body, on my breasts, between my legs. They would sculpture emotions, paint worlds of lust. I would like to be her clay, her canvas, so she can create whatever she deems appropriate with my body. I wonder what she sees in me and what she would do to me. Would she gently tease my nipples with a feather or spank my butt with her bare hands? Would she kiss me? Would she embrace me, hold me in her arms? Comfort me?
She is a woman, and so am I.
“Do sex workers take on female clients?” is my question. My friend Google replies: “Some do.” Then it elaborates: “It depends. Few do. You have to find the right one.”
I don’t want to find the right one. I want her. I don’t even know if I’m lesbian. I know that I don’t particularly like most men. Does that make me a lesbian? I know that I am scared of pussy. Of its sinister power. When I am touched down there in the right way then it changes everything. When my pussy is teased, when its lust is unleashed, it opens a door to another world. It is like a scary drug.
My fingers used to be able to. Not anymore. They have become numb, clumsy like stumps. And my sex toys are just that: They are machines. I am too analytical to let them fool me that they mean their touch, that they pretend to care. They are impostors, promising what they cannot deliver.
Her fingers can. I just know that. Once I stood next to her in the café, when she took a coin out of her purse with one hand, delicately fishing the right one out like her fingers were acrobats in a circus tent. I bet she plays an instrument. One that plays haunting and beautiful notes. The piano maybe. She can find the right keys and every finger can just push down the keys with the right amount of pressure to evoke a new emotion. Imagine what they could do on my body, on my pussy?
Watching her, I feel she has travelled the world. She seems so confident, while I am sitting in my tiny room, too scared to go out, looking out of my window with curiosity, yet too much anxiety to actually talk to anyone, let alone this sophisticated woman.
I watch her every time she enters the house in the company of men. Sometimes I have seen them before. No clue where she picks them up. She also has regulars who ring her doorbell. They are the ones that scare me most. I am jealous of them. That she might fall in love with them, and she quits what she is doing. My hope to ever approach her would be gone.
A silly thought because I could never just talk to her and ask her to do to me what she does to the men. It’s just out of the question, unrealistic. So, I will imagine it. And it’s not so bad. My fantasy will surely surpass any reality.
Imagine my encounter with her: Me and her in the small café in line to place our orders at the counter.
She turns around and smiles a little confused: “Hello! I’m sorry, but do I know you?”
I whisper: “No. But I’ve seen you around. I know your business, you know, what you do. The service you offer.”
That was the wrong way to start the conversation, I can see it in her eyes. I am not good at this. At conversation. She is surprised and careful. I bet she thinks I’m the wife of one of the men she takes home. So, I quickly add:
“I would like to use your services… For myself. If you… offer your services to women, that is.”
She relaxes and the room warms up with her smile: “That’s a bit of an unusual way to approach me.”
“Don’t be! Let’s talk! And yes, I am happy to be with women.”
She orders her coffee, and so do I. While we are waiting for our orders, she does some small talk about the café. There is nothing I could possibly add to the conversation, I rarely come here. But I smile and nod and agree with everything she says because it sounds so right.
We walk over to a booth and slide in opposite each other.
Facing her so close for the first time, I savor everything I see. Her eyes are dark brown and huge, and they seem to burst with curiosity and life. Her brown hair falls to her shoulders in a calculated wavy mess. Her jawline is very pronounced and square. It gives her an almost aristocratic look. Like her creator took the time to chisel it.
“So, what can I do for you?”
“Well, as I said. I would like to… hire you? I don’t know how to say it.”
She smiles patiently. “I understand. But what would you like us to do?”
I like how it is us, as if we have already formed some union. I don’t know how to answer though, and she senses that.
A moment later the most erotic thing in a long time happens to me. She puts her hand on mine. Her delicate fingers rest on mine. They are soft and reassuring. It is so casual but also such a gift of reassurance and sympathy.
I wish I could put my other hand on hers and feel her soft skin, to gently stroke it. Not in a sexual way, but like you pet a rabbit, to feel good, but also to make it feel good. But that would be inappropriate.
I haven’t been touched like that for a while. Looking at her fingers I imagine what is in store for me. Her index finger, slightly tanned and slender, is the most elegant. Can fingers be beautiful? Hers can. I just know that its natural curvature seems to be made to perfectly slide into my pussy and do just the right things. I picture various positions in which her index fingers do things to me. How it slides across my vulva, enters my pussy, gathers the nectar of my arousal, and then feeds it to me.
If just her fingers can do all those things to me, then what can the rest of her body do?
I can see how this woman was made to make me happy. She radiates this assurance that she is the right one. This must be witchcraft.
“Let me guess, you have never done this?”
I shake my head no.
“Don’t feel bad. Don’t be embarrassed. I’ll run you through things, okay? And if you have a question, just ask!”
She explains how this arrangement works, and she isn’t shy about it. There are people around us, yet she doesn’t care if they hear us. I am mesmerized how considerate she is and how caring. After all, she only wants to sell me sex, but she makes it sound so precious and relevant, and of course, to me it absolutely is.
This is how I imagine this conversation to go realistically. But there is another dimension in which she is especially generous and raunchy. In this world she slips out of her Ballerina flats under the table and gently touches my leg. At first, I think this is an accident, but it is not. She slides it up and down my calf gently. I wish I’d worn a skirt to feel her skin on mine. I never do, though… regretfully.
While she is talking, her leg moves up to my knees, gently pushing them apart to get access to my thighs. She doesn’t stop there. Her toes move up. I can only imagine them, slender, well-shaped, tanned. Eventually, they are only inches from my pussy, casually wiggling up and down, stimulating my thirst for satisfaction. I slowly thrust my hips forward, so my groin can touch her toes. But she just smiles and pulls them away. She teases me. She merely teases me. I haven’t made the transaction, and nothing is for free. That is her message.
There is an ATM at the entrance of the café, and I consider making her an offer:
“Please. If you just… you know… I will give you whatever you want. Right now! Well, afterwards. I promise! From the ATM there. I promise!”
I don’t say it though. It would be undignified. She has too much honor to deal in such quick and sloppy hack jobs. She is a professional, she is the real deal. She is not a fortune teller in a tent at a carnival. She is a proper sorceress. No sleight of hand from her!
She also gives me her price. It’s steep. It really is. This is much more than I had anticipated. But then again, I have thought of her as an artist, and art is not cheap. Just sitting opposite her radiating personality, I feel like even if I have to get a second job to afford her more often, it will be worth it.
We agree on a time and date. I wish I could sit there with her for a little longer, but she has to go.
“I have business to do!”
She smiles, seeking for my understanding, and already I am jealous of her business.
Before she leaves, I ask her: “Wait, what is your name?”
“I am sorry, how rude of me. I am Valerie!”
I know it is not her real name. There is a song by Amy Winehouse. I vaguely remember that the singer longs to see Valerie and invites her over. While we are listening to Amy, my friend Google later explains to me that Valerie means ‘bravery’. I like it. The sound of it and the meaning.
“What do I call you?” Her question is more accurate. It acknowledges that we both deal in chosen identities.
“Samantha,” I say from the top of my head.
“Pleased to meet you, Samantha!”
From the way she pronounces my nom de plume I conclude that I have chosen well. It rolls softly off her tongue. If only I had given her my real name so that she could pronounce it in the same loving way. I would record her saying it. However, it is too late now for the truth.
“I am looking forward to our date!”
It is a date? I haven’t had one of those in an eternity.
She gets up and so do I, hoping for a brief hug, maybe a quick kiss on the cheeks to seal our deal. I suddenly ache to smell her hair, her perfume. It would give me so much vital information.
But she just waves goodbye and smiles one last time. The last thing I see is her scarlet scarf, as I return to my grey life.
Stop making a fool out of me! Why don’t you come on over, Valerie? Those words are on my mind.
My anticipation in the following days is like a cold wave creeping through my body and slowing the rest of my irrelevant life. I warm myself in these times with my blazing anticipation and my endless imagination of what she will do to me: When she opens the door to her apartment, I am actually scared.
She is wearing a colorful kimono which reveals a generous amount of her chest, when she turns around, the garment opens itself and for a moment I see her right breast. It is the briefest of moments, less than a heartbeat, before the silky garment presses itself against her body and removes any indecency.
I wonder whether Valerie intended this, whether this is orchestrated to tease me. I feel bad and then I remember that I am actually here for this, and I am paying for all of it.
She invites me into her living room. I expected a lot of trinkets and walls full of pictures and memories from all sorts of experiences and travels around the world. Instead, there is almost no furniture, and the walls are empty. As if this is her workplace. And maybe it is. I never considered it.
She offers me a seat on the large couch. Her scarlet scarf is draped over it. I feel that this must be a symbol, right? This can’t be coincidence!
“Would you like something to drink?”
I’m wondering whether that is included in the price. I should have asked Google!
“A red wine, maybe?” I ask.
“Coming right up!”
Payment. Google told me to pay in advance. I have rolled up the bills like gangsters do. I am looking for a jar to put it in. Like in the movies.
“I’ll take that,” she says gently, and I hand her the cash. To my disappointment, she quickly unrolls it to count it.
Valerie, you can trust me!
She disappears in the kitchen and returns with two glasses. Valerie hands me her glass and sits next to me. Everything about her is of a casual grace. The way she is holding her glass, how she has tucked her leg under, how she plays with her hair. She brushes her neck with the tips of her hair. I make a note to kiss her there. If that is what she likes. The mere thought that I might get to kiss that beautiful creature makes me shiver.
Everything about me is tense.
She attempts some small talk, but I don’t want to talk. My mouth is dry despite the wine and my mind empty despite the alcohol. I want to listen to her. My words would spoil the moment.
There are so many things I would like to ask her though. But none are appropriate, even considering that I paid her. How long she has done this, whether she likes it, how many johns she had today. I am pretty sure that she has been confronted with these questions hundreds of times before. I don’t want to be a cliché; I want to be original. I am not though, and so I remain quiet.
“So, what would you like us to do?”
I did not answer that question when she asked me in the café.
I see her lips: Can I kiss them?
I see her breasts: Can I touch them?
Can I kiss your neck? Can I put my fingers inside of you? I’ll be gentle, just trust me. You must have had a hard day. Let me take care of you!
I understand now that I want her to feel good. I am here to make her happy. This seems to be more important than my own pleasure.
My pleasure rests in hers. I wish I could make her come. I wish I could give her pleasure. Google has lectured me that some prostitutes actually come, that it happens more often than one would think. I don’t quite believe it.
While all these distracting thoughts have rumbled through my head, she has just looked at me. I still haven’t answered her question.
She puts her hand on my neck and slides it around it to gently pull me to her lips.
I can smell the wine on her breath before I taste her lips. They are soft and wet. A feeling I have not felt in a long time. Something is happening to me, it’s not just that our lips touch. I just know that there is some sort of sorcery going on, that she is injecting an unknown potion into my body. I breathe it in, sweet and heavy, when I inhale her kiss.
I dig my fist into her hair, not sure if I am allowed to do that, if I am allowed to touch her. She doesn’t object. My fingers run through the strands of her hair, and I tickle my cheek with them when I want to smell her hair briefly.
Her hand slides down my neck and to my breasts. Before she opens the button on my blouse, she checks whether I’m okay with it. And of course, I am. I am okay with all her attention and care.
I’m getting moist, and I am not talking about my pussy. My eyes are getting teary. I quickly wipe away the tear before she notices. It is not sadness, it’s the beauty of what she is doing to me.
Valerie reaches into my bra and her fingers rub against my hard nipples. She plays with them and breaks off our kiss. I raise my head and offer my neck to her. She could bite me like an animal, instead she kisses the sensitive skin on my neck, and I feel her gently sucking it. I wish she did it harder. I’d proudly wear her love bite for the next couple of days. Like a teenager in love. Like a mark or a seal showing my allegiance.
But she is professional enough to leave no marks.
I don’t resist when she slides my blouse off my shoulder. Undressing myself during the few times I have had sex has always been awkward. She makes it feel elegant. Like a royal would unpack a present.
It’s the little things that I will remember later. When she rests her hand on the top button of my pants and seeks my approval before she opens them.
“Is it okay?” she asks. “Do you like it? May I?” Always checking.
Valerie has taken control of me in the subtlest of ways.
She doesn’t open the zipper, though. Instead, she points her attention to my breast. She kisses them, sucks them, and I feel like electricity is jolting through my body. I look down at her. Guys have sucked on my breasts but never with that meaningful passion. As if there is a certain technique of moving her tongue, maybe similar to a spell, something that only witches are taught at full moon. It must be more than mere experience, it is supernatural.
I play with her hair and remember that she asked me what I would like her to do. There are so many options. There is so much she could do, and I would be okay with all of them.
But what I am most curious about are her fingers. The fingers that rested on my hand in the café, that held my neck, that caressed my nipples. I want to feel her fingers in me.
Maybe it is the only thing that I decide that night, but I find her wrist and put it between my legs.
She stops for a moment and looks me in the eyes. They are not as dark brown, as I had previously thought. There are sprinkles of hazel in them. It makes them even more lively. What a great choice of color, I am thinking, as if she had a say in choosing it.
Her hand moves up and down my thigh, and for a second, I wonder whether she misunderstood, but then her fingers find the zipper. She looks at me again, and I nod before she pulls it down to reveal my panties.
I have bought a new set of underwear. Just for her. It was not cheap. For a moment I am thinking that I will never wear it again. That I will frame it and put it up in my bedroom, and whenever I meet her, I will buy a new set of underwear and a frame. And I will write a letter for each frame, like the entry of a diary, in which I will treasure my memories. And I will compose a song on the piano for every time I met her, and the song will reflect my feelings during that session.
It is a silly idea. I can’t play the piano, I don’t have enough money for underwear and frames, and I don’t think that I would be able to find the words to express my feelings.
It would be nice though.
She has asked me to lift my hips and has peeled off my jeans and my panties. I am naked in front of her.
It feels right, but it also feels unfair, and so in an act of rebellion I push her away and focus my attention on her, as I open her kimono. My unwrapping of her is like that of a greedy child who can’t wait to get to the presents.
It is my turn to caress her body, and I feel like a peasant compared to her elegance. But when my tongue flicks over her nipples, I hear her moan.
I am so proud of myself. That I am able to make her moan in pleasure. It is an odd thought. Only later it occurs to me that she might be faking it. But at that moment I don’t mind and later I reason that she would never do that to me.
She lets me explore her body, doesn’t object, whatever I do.
Eventually, she takes control again, and eventually, I feel her hand on my neatly trimmed triangle. Yes, I have groomed myself for her.
She seeks my approval when her fingers caress my vulva, and lost in her eyes, I almost forget to give it to her. I am worried that I might be leaking my juices all over her couch. That is how wet I am.
By now my body is on fire and when her finger slides into me, I feel that something is happening that is far beyond everything I have deemed possible.
She must have dipped her finger into a poison that consumes me with lust, that manipulates my body. This is witchcraft. I feel like after this I will not be the same. Valerie will turn me into something wicked like her sex slave. And I wouldn’t mind serving her, cleaning up after her clients have left, just to get a fraction of her attention. It is insane.
When I am about to climax, I whisper: “No, no, no!” But it is a whisper only in my mind. I don’t want her to hear it and to stop, But I also don’t want it to be over so soon. So, I gather all my strength to fight against it, to hold back.
Of course, she notices and gently tells me to relax, to enjoy it, and of course, I follow her advice. There is nothing I can do against her sorcery.
This is pure beauty.
It is art.
It is too much.
When I climax, I feel like my flesh is raw, and when her fingers caress me while my lower body is caught in the most violent spasms, I push her hand away.
It is something I will regret. Something I would want to apologize for. I can only hope that she forgives my rudeness.
I never do apologize, though, I forget.
We are lying next to each other. My hand is gently playing with her breast, hers with my hair. I can’t say anything. I don’t want to speak. I just want to feel all my happiness circulate through my veins, and I don’t want it to leave.
Of course, nothing like that will ever happen. All this will remain nothing but a dream. I am too scared to approach her. I can’t see myself do that, and I doubt that I will ever find the courage.
But I watch her every day as she leaves and when she returns. Those brief seconds make my day. The rest is filled with my imagination. All I can do is fantasize about my encounters with her. It might sound sad, it is not for me, though. My thoughts of her are purer than reality can ever be.
Just one thing, though: I have asked Google how I can learn to play the piano, and I am trying to put to music my dreams of our time together.