Working Sex (7 page)

Come with me, MaryLiz said. She was adequately stoned, it kept her soft. There was something in her eyes, perhaps it was love. I didn’t dare ask. Nothing kills your chances for getting love like acting like you need it. I remembered who I’d been when MaryLiz had found me. A rogue in the handicapped stall, a femme girl’s opera glove balled in my mouth, her hand up my cunt. MaryLiz had walked in on us, stared a second too long, and left. It was the first incident of lesbiana she’d ever witnessed. Her gay boyfriend had brought her to the club. The femme girl left first, and I stayed behind, cleaning myself up. When I left the stall there was MaryLiz, leaning up against the tampon machine. I want to do that to you, too.

I followed MaryLiz to the bank of pay phones in the hallway. She punched Burt Starr’s numbers with her fingernails. They’d grown in when she’d stopped fucking me, like weeds overtaking a neglected lot.

Hi, she breathed into the receiver. The hallway was quieter, but still loud. The roar of gay boys talking and laughing,
the relentless thump of their music. Burt, it’s me, hi. I miss you, too. She paused, listening, a finger plugged in her other ear. Everything’s fine. Her voice was husky and affected, a comforting lilt and breathy tone infusing her words. Everything is totally okay. Okay? The electricity in my body, there beneath the numb of the gin, froze. A freezing spread down my limbs and through my arms, an ice age. A glacial advance, thick and frozen and terrible, ice scraping the softness away. Of course I love you, she continued. I felt dizzy. Was she talking to me? Those were my words, my tone. I love you so much, Burt. Go back to sleep, okay?

To meet Burt Starr MaryLiz wore her wig out into the world, with a long flowered dress and her pumps. The wig looked so wiggy to me; I didn’t understand how Burt believed it. Didn’t he touch her head? Couldn’t he see the bobby pins stabbing into the woven scalp? MaryLiz met Burt at a popular Back Bay café, and sat, for twenty nerve-wracked minutes, across from Tony the accused thief, who was having a coffee with a couple other guys MaryLiz knew. Again and again their eyes scanned over her, and looked away. Again and again they failed to recognize her, and she sat, clenched in fear of their next glance, the eventual MaryLiz? Is that you? They would laugh at her wig and make to pull it off. They would gesture at Burt and ask, Is this your father? MaryLiz was so nervous, Burt had to inquire.

Just excited, she said weakly, with a smile. They left the café unrecognized. Burt paid in cash, put the flat in Veronica’s name. MaryLiz froze. Would that be a problem? It was too late now to tell Burt Starr she’d lied about her name. She had assured him she was the rare whore who kept her real name. I don’t like to lie, she’d said, swelling his heart with love. It would have to be Veronica. He gave her the receipt, a gesture of trust.

Nonrefundable after this weekend, the property manager said. MaryLiz slid the paper into her purse. They lunched at the Ritz Carlton and made plans to shop for furniture. He handed her money for the meantime, for odds and ends she might need. It went in the purse with the receipt.

The next day MaryLiz wore the same blonde wig and a different floral dress back to the apartment. She got the money back. The property manager didn’t want to give it, but he did. She wore him down with sweetness and threats. MaryLiz was high with it, mania shot from her face. She loaded the car. Together we lugged a trunk, heavy with all her clothes, into the street. The wooden box with our savings went into the glove box. MaryLiz was regretful. She looked at me, her lip caught in her teeth. I should’ve waited for the car, she said. He bought that girl that Tanya knows a Ferrari. She lunged at me, hitting my cheek with a sudden kiss. Come on
,
she said. Snap out of it. I’ll call you from the road. Okay?
I nodded. Who knows where we’ll live. It’s exciting, isn’t it? Her car left the street, its backside heavy with the weight of all her things.

That night I packed up the rest of the room, what was left over, my things. There wasn’t much. It fit in a mediumsized duffel bag. My records, mostly new-wave British and goth-core bands from the last decade, would be left in the basement. The Vietnam vet who lived upstairs would eventually find them and sell them, same with the books I left behind. I ate oatmeal for dinner and flipped through the roommate’s staticky television. I settled on
Oprah.
Her guests were two women who had been swindled by men they’d dated, professional con men.

How did it feel to learn that he was wanted by the law for having done this to other women? Oprah asked.

Horrible, the woman sputtered. Oprah handed her a tissue. I shut off the TV.

At work Burt Starr was ringing the phone off the hook. Apparently, MaryLiz had called him from the road. She had told him she was a lesbian and told him to fuck off. Burt was crazed; it had happened again. A lesbian! he howled into the phone. He was outraged. He wanted to report us to someone, but there was no one who could help him. He’d been swindled by a prostitute. Again. She should not even have been allowed to work there! He screamed in my ear.
Lesbians should not be allowed to work there! That’s unethical! You are misleading your clients! I laughed at him. It shut him right up. Are you laughing? He puffed. Are you laughing at me?

You’re deluded, I told him. The girls in the room with me gaped.

Pardon me?

Delusional, I said. You’re delusional. They would tell Karen, and she would be furious. She would fire me and not let me sleep in the rooms at night, but I didn’t care. MaryLiz would be calling for me any minute. I would meet her in the desert, and we would sit on our long clay porch and drink wine. The chili peppers would rattle in the gentle wind, and the sun would set orange and purple above our heads.

JOE: middle-aged, hairy, fat, with a husky voice and a great love for marijuana

MARILYN: twenties, soft, fat, smooth brown skin, with a sultry young voice and hips that swing for effect

PROLOGUE: The space between then and now, made from voices

THE BEGINNING: Along a hotel hallway, anticipatory anxiety

THE MIDDLE: In a cheap hotel room, a space inhabited by very little emotion

THE END: In a cheap hotel room, a space inhabited by an uncommon type of desire

EPILOGUE: The space between now and then, made from voices

(In a blackout, a recorded message on a cell phone is heard.)

 

JOE. Marilyn, this is Joe. I’m here. It’s the Bayside Inn, 135 Bayside Drive, Chelmsford, MA, Room 150. One, five, zero. The name is Joe Trillo.

MARILYN.
(Still in darkness.)
Fuck, what was that?
(Buttons are pushed and the recording is heard again.)

(In darkness, the sound of footsteps along a very long carpeted corridor)

 

MARILYN. 112, 113 . . . Uhhh, no, the other way. 123, 124 . . .
(more footsteps, first going faster, and then slowing down.)
147, 148, 149 . . . Well . . .
(She takes deep breaths, and then knocks on the door. The sounds of the door opening.)
Hi, I’m Marilyn.

JOE. I’m Joe, good to finally meet you.

(Lights up on Marilyn and Joe naked in a motel room bed. Joe looks tired, sweating and breathing hard a little bit. He starts rolling a joint.)

 

JOE. Not bad for an old guy. You came right?

MARILYN. Uh-huh.

JOE. I thought so. Want to smoke?

MARILYN. No thanks, I have to drive.

JOE. Where you gotta drive to?

MARILYN. I’m going to meet some friends in a little while.

JOE. Your friends cute like you?

MARILYN. No one’s cute like me.

JOE. Baby, this is one hell of a first date isn’t it?

MARILYN. Yeah, it’s great.

JOE. You sure you don’t want to hang around for Chinese food? I got pork friend rice.

MARILYN. I’m really not hungry. I had fish and chips—

JOE. Fish and chips.

MARILYN. I had fish and chips earlier. Not very healthy, but very tasty.

JOE. Skinny people die too.

MARILYN.
(laughs)
They do.

JOE. Do you want to watch a little TV?

MARILYN. It’s already on.

JOE. I’ve been watching a little porn-ography.

MARILYN. I see.

JOE. I hope you don’t mind me watching a little porn-ography.

MARILYN. Not at all.

JOE. It’s soft-core. Figured you wouldn’t be o-ffended.

MARILYN. That’s soft-core?

JOE.They don’t show any cum. C’mon baby, watch the TV for me.

MARILYN. It’s less fun with the sound off.

JOE. You like porn-ography?

MARILYN. I like it with the sound on.

JOE. Most women don’t like porn-ography.

MARILYN. I’m special.

JOE.
(Grabs her hand, squeezes it and kisses it.)
Yes you are. And so beautiful.

MARILYN.
(Freeing her hand, yawns)
Good thing I didn’t smoke. I’d be asleep by now.

JOE. We can have a nap.

MARILYN. Whatever you want.

JOE. You could take a nap or you could stay over or something.

MARILYN. I’ve got to meet my friends. I have to be out of here by 10, no later.

JOE. I’m gonna stay the night I think.

MARILYN. I’ve got to drive all the way home. It’s almost thirty minutes away. You live around here, so it’s easy for you.

JOE. Actually I have a one and a half hour drive. And when I got here, I was wondering, is she gonna call me back, or should I just stay here or is she just going to show up at 8:30, and I figured you would just show up and I was right.

MARILYN. You were right.

JOE. I knew we would get along good, this would be a good first date.

MARILYN. I knew too Joe.

JOE. Could you call me Daddy?

MARILYN. Ummm.

JOE. You called me Daddy in the emails, and I like that.

MARILYN. Well.

JOE. It’s just that you sound so good when you talk and I bet I’d like the way you sound when you say that.

MARILYN. It probably wouldn’t seem so strange if you weren’t actually old enough to be my father.

JOE. I’m not so bad for an old man.

MARILYN. But I don’t think I can call you Daddy. I don’t think I’d like that. You can call me baby all you want though.

JOE. Okay baby. But you got that real sweet voice. I like the way you sound.

MARILYN. Thanks . . . Daddy. Just once to be nice, but that’s it.

JOE. You’re welcome baby. I think I want to take a nap.

MARILYN. Sure, whatever you want.
(They lie down and snuggle up together. Awkward, but affectionate. Joe rubs her face and back a lot. He tucks her into the covers.)
You’re not a cop are you? I guess I should have asked you that before. I’m new at this.

(There’s darkness, in the darkness there are the sounds of sheets and covers rustling. Marilyn and Joe settling in and getting comfortable. After a short while, Marilyn’s very quiet, then increasingly loud and breathy moans as Joe brings her to a very real orgasm. Joe doesn’t speak at all, or make any noise. Marilyn seems to be holding herself back at first, and then cannot help herself.)

(Still in darkness, with TV flickering from offstage. A car pulling up and stopping, emergency brake going up, radio going off. The sound of cell phone numbers dialing and Marilyn’s message, “Hi, you’ve reached Marilyn, leave a message.”

 

JOE. Hi, this is Joe. Joe Trillo, from before. I’m just calling to make sure you had a safe ride home. It was pretty foggy out there. I decided to stay the night here, about to fall asleep. I wish you were here. I had a great time, you know. Maybe
next time you could spend the night with me. I could get us some food and I’d go up to maybe 300 or something if you wanted. I could get some drinks or something too if you wanted. Whatever. Just let me know if it’s best to call you or email you or whatever. Okay, sleep well baby.

P
ulling myself onstage, filthy club, nobody in it but some random guy rolling cigarette after cigarette with a rolling machine. Who knows why. They let you dance to the sad songs when nobody’s here. The sound of Kris Kristofferson’s voice croaks, and my sternum vibrates and through the other speaker a tambourine jangles. Like an alarm clock, not in the sense of being annoying but being distinct and sharply lucid like the first thing you hear in the morning. Gorgeous. Who would carpet a stage in a strip club I don’t know. My heel catches on the scabby blue dentist office carpet as I begin to dance, but it does not interrupt
my grace. What is the point of telling you that the carpet is scabby, or blue? What would be the point of telling you that not all of the torn bucket chairs match and that many limp on uneven legs? Are you picturing the other girls draped in the corner bored, waiting? Smoking? It sounds romantic. I feel romantic. I think I’m in love with you.

 

p
erhaps the most depressing thing about how working in the sex trade causes other women to see you as an adversary, as antifeminist, is that there is a way in which the whole thing has nothing to do with feminism. It’s about money. The older I get, the more I think most things are. At age nineteen I had already been an active member of the workforce for eight years, and college was about as accessible as Mars. Looking ahead and seeing that my future was just going to be my $3.15 an hour food-service job writ large, a certain kind of occupational existentialism became attractive. It wasn’t just attractive, it was practical, it was survival, it was intelligent. Sex work is not only a means to an end, it’s a means to a
different
end. Given the choice between the indignity of handing people burgers for minimum wage or the indignity of showing your tits for $500 a night, the answer seems obvious. It’s a choice many people will never find themselves in the position of having to make, and their insistence on trying to make it for others is totally boring.