3 comments/ 28317 views/ 4 favorites Vixens - The Candidate By: Nellskitchen - Part I Eileen Lindholm was too smart not to know she had stumbled upon the ultimate rookie and I wondered, why the interest? It left me thinking that even in prostitution, there was a special place reserved for the uninitiated, for the candidate who had never donned the hooker's habit. Since I knew nothing about the business of sex for pay, it was the only thing that made sense. Anyway, this was on my mind at the moment I called for an appointment. Now I was alone, sitting in the quiet of her office, waiting for some private time with a madam I'd met but didn't know. I listened intently for any clue that might tell me what to expect. But there was nothing, only silence. I was excited and insecure. Unlike our encounter out on the street, where the city's general dissonance had obscured almost everything she said, this time I would face her knowing what Vixens really was, that it was one of New York's posh escort services. Since finding out, I had spent days researching articles about call girls and what they did. The internet was obsessed. Escort service listings by the dozen, where anyone could order up a girl, ran through page after page in every search engine. I was intrigued. But though I had easily found call girls, I really wanted something else. What I wanted was information about Eileen. In that area, my efforts had yielded nothing. She was a ghost in the information age, and somehow operated off the radar. So this is it, I thought to myself, looking around. This is where she recruits her girls, where she sets her schedules and matches clients with dates. It's where she orients the likes of me, new prostitutes -- the word made me cringe - to her way, a different way of looking at things. It's here where she bestows the title: escort, a whore's euphemism. I shook my head, thinking about the duality of it all. I liked it though, her space that is, and was taken by our mutual love of pastels, women's colors -- soft, vulnerable -- coloring a scary world with a little beauty. The room was aglow in a mysterious mauve, which seeped into me, its walls, in effect, framing a large print of Lydia, the infamous "Ice Princess," whose orphic beauty once held sway over the great Henri Matisse. She looked out at me with that famous arrogance of hers, safe in her framed surety. She'd mastered the master, after all. And she'd done it her way. I wanted to be her. My eyes searched the delicate Queen Anne desk where they found a picture. He was handsome in a burly kind of way, strong and powerful-looking. His arms were wrapped affectionately around two pretty teens. They had to be her daughters. In the younger one, I saw Eileen's face. In the older, I saw the man's. The door to the office opened. She was wearing a bright lilac suit, complimenting a warm smile. I leaned forward but didn't get up from my chair, instead staying put; nervously glued. She detected my apprehension. "Please Wenda dear," she said mildly, "try to relax. I promise I won't bite." It was an inviting beginning. "Give me a moment," she added. Settling into her chair, she scrutinized her laptop. Having filed my resume online, she carefully inspected it, or at least it's what I assumed. Grinning from time to time and now and then nodding, she appeared to like what she saw. That resume, such as it was, embarrassed me. What was there to like, after all? A brief vocation working the drive-thru window at McDonald's; a couple of jobs waiting tables during high school? Those experiences hardly covered the bottom line, but I self-importantly asserted, "I haven't done paid sex, but I need you to hire me anyway!" Such nerve, I thought. As she surveyed things, I wondered about other girls, girls who'd been there and how differently she must deal with them. Why would she bother me? I was just another jittery prospect, trembling inside, yet conceitedly playing a weak hand across the table from the master of the game. I glanced out the window at the city that hid me from the prying eyes of family and overly-close relationships. But the dots had been connected long ago. I had come to New York to do this. There was secrecy on the crowded island, the kind that existed nowhere else. Maybe, I thought, I really could pull it off. I glanced at Eileen, who still hadn't looked up. She'd made me cool my heels in her waiting room for the better part of an hour. There, I had craved distractions, anything to take my mind off what I was doing, and I got one when her office door opened suddenly, producing a whoosh of air as a freckled -faced dazzler came raging out. With her long, slender legs and beautifully frosted reddish hair, she unleashed vibrations of hostility, which had to be directed towards Eileen. Something had pissed her off, and she didn't care who knew it. Sporting a black party dress, seized at the shoulder by a glittering sequined clip, she was terrifyingly sure of herself. Marching straight for the exit, her gold hooped earrings bounced as her heels snapped angrily at the hard floor. Leaving little to the imagination and dramatically tossing her head back as she passed, she intentionally didn't acknowledge me; but rather pranced by like a detached super model taking flight on a runway. Her bedazzling looks and air of self-confidence were bracing. As she opened the door to leave, Celeste stood from her chair and peered over her geek chic, black-rimmed glasses. The too serious receptionist called out after her, "Etta? Remember, if you're taking the assignment, don't shave!" Etta stopped dead in her tracks, halting for a perilous moment before slowly turning around. She now wore an ironic smile and in what, for her, must have been a calm sort of way, slowly enunciated, "All...fuckin'...right! I already told ya; I'm takin' the Arab guy assignment! Got it?" "Um...got it." Celeste's meek whisper was barely audible. Arrogant bitch, I thought as the door slammed behind her. God, she was wonderful. Part II I started with a hundred questions, but I asked none, fearing I would appear too -- what I was -- amateurish. Instead my mind worked itself silly, trying to anticipate what she might ask. My mind wandered over dumb things. What could she possibly put to a candidate anyway? I didn't know a thing about how it all worked, so imagining an actual interview was far removed from my thinking. To make things even more awkward, I was someone who despised talking about herself. I hated interviews. At the same time, the prospect of where all this was going intrigued me more than anything I'd ever done. I was certain of only one thing, however - I wanted to have it thrown at me - to be told what to do: "Miss Paget, it's expected you'll do this, but in that way." That type of thing. But remembering back to meeting her at the lingerie shop, I doubted she'd come at me like that. It wasn't her style and besides, it would frighten a new girl off. I persisted in thinking about other women and what motivated them to make their living as escorts? Who was a nude dancer trying to take a step up before her looks faded? Who had an eating disorder and was molested by Uncle Ernie at age nine? Who was simply a mental case? And me? None of the above. Well, maybe the mental case applied. But in fact, my life was...boringly normal. I imagined Eileen's analysis: Raised by loving parents - played field hockey in eleventh grade - took Advanced Placement classes in the same school where her mother taught! Even my obsession for sex with women, something I'd conveniently left out of the resume, hadn't surfaced until Jordan, although I admit, it had nibbled at me since puberty. I reflected on last week and how, while window shopping outside Felina's, the world slid out from under my feet. It all happened quickly. I was standing outside the shop when the reflection of a woman slipped into the glass next to my own. She was statuesque, her smile beamingly friendly. Standing slightly behind me, the forty-ish knockout's eyes instantly seized mine, as if she'd spied something in them I didn't know about. "You'd look heavenly in that," I heard her say. "It's erotically virginal, don't you think? You simply must have it -- in white." She extended a delicate hand which I cautiously grasped. This was New York, after all. "Thanks," I said awkwardly. She was slender and stood erect. To die for high cheek bones governed her expression and her partially open coat showcased a willowy waist. Her dark hair was full and lustrous. She personified all things stylish. She introduced herself, but horns were blaring as cars stood waiting behind a very black, very shiny, very double-parked limo, brazenly holding up a full lane of traffic. Pretending to have got wind of her name, I loudly called back my own, "WENDA. WENDA PAGET!" As if she owned the city, the woman disregarded her personally fashioned traffic jam and momentarily serious, she looked me up and down. "Listen...Wenda, I run my own firm and wondered if you might want to make some extra money?" "I'm in college," I hedged. "Of course you are," she said, half-raising an eyebrow. "Only, it's nice to have money, isn't it? She seized hold of my arms and cocked her head. "Especially in New York!" She knew she was baffling me. "Anyway, I'm always on the lookout for pretty girls who have...that special look, you know? So when I spotted you here on the sidewalk, I said to Sam, 'Sam! Pull over this instant! I have to meet her!'" I looked over at her driver. He impatiently rolled his eyes. "Oh?" She paused to rummage her purse; eventually producing a business card which she hurriedly scribbled something on the back of. I gave it a glance as she retreated to the door of the limo, held open by the clearly aggravated chauffer. "I'm late and can't talk more right now," she hollered to me. As she slid into the back seat, I glimpsed the underside of her arresting black, stocking-clad legs. She was wearing a garter belt! I'd never seen one before, not in real life anyway. The rear window slid down as Sam closed the car door and she shouted a final proposition, "Phone me Wenda! Call that number when...WHEN YOU CAN GIVE ME AN HOUR OF YOUR TIME! Tell Celeste you have the pink card! You'll like what I have to say -- call me! Don't forget! Goodbye!" As quickly as her image had intruded into the storefront window, she was gone. I watched in astonishment as the limo drove off and glanced again at the business card. Its decorative burgundy lettering revealed little: - Eileen Lindholm - -212-745-1702- Picking up a scent, I gently waved the little ticket under my nose and sauntering a couple of steps, I thought, Chanel. On the back, she'd scrawled a puzzling word: "Cub." Before melting into the crowd, I glanced back at the enticing teddy. Too expensive, I thought. Part III Obsession, not an uncommon feature of my personality, overtook me. For days I hunted the internet, searching an Eileen Lindholm. Nothing. Observing my preoccupation, Jordan said dismissively, "You wait, it's something illegal." "Right," I acknowledged, but nonetheless, I couldn't get the peculiar encounter out of my head. Tying up midtown traffic to meet me? What did she want? Of course I called the number anyway, and anxiously paced the kitchen, waiting for someone to pick up. Finally, a businesslike voice came on the line: "Vixens, this is Celeste, how may I help you?" I lied confidently. "It's Wenda Paget, Celeste. I'm returning Eileen's call." Efficiently protective, the receptionist never hesitated. "I'm afraid Ms. Lindholm's busy. Would you like to leave a...?" "I have her card Celeste." I acted like I knew what I was talking about. "Oh? And what card is that?" she replied curtly. I answered matter of factly, "It's Eileen's personal card. Her pink one. Naturally she wrote 'cub' on the back." Hinting sarcasm, she repeated, "Naturally. What did you say she wrote?" "Cub," I restated. She was intentionally aggravating. "Oh...one moment please." Later that morning, sitting nervously opposite the mysterious dispenser of perfumed business cards, I stole a glance at the others. All five of us had one. Part IV They scheduled me for two very different meetings. The first was a general orientation kind of thing where all of us sat together. One girl was experienced; I knew because she dripped it. She also brought along some industrial strength attitude, and didn't seem much interested in anything being said. Two others wore wedding bands and might just as well have worn signs with "Soccer Mom" printed in bold letters. Each woman was gorgeous, but in different ways. One glowed, due to her advanced pregnancy. About six months along, I thought. The other was a petite brunette whose boobs were almost nonexistent. She was the prettiest, with flawless white skin and sultry blue eyes. She wore her hair loose. Despite the obvious mom thing, their special beauty made me feel uncomfortably out of my league. Reassuringly, four of us were fidgety. The moms were visibly nervous and I could tell they knew each other. Definitely Long Island types, I half-expected their frisky six year olds to burst through the office door screaming, "Mommy, mommy, I lost my milk money!" It was a safe bet their husbands had been hard hit by the recession and they needed the money to sustain the lifestyle to which they were accustomed in South Hampton. Another girl, in her mid-twenties like me, was foreign. After stealing a glance at hers, I gazed self-consciously down at my boobs. Hers were more beautiful, rounder and softer-looking. Girls notice boobs. I'd caught a smidge of her Irish lilt when I overheard her asking one of the moms whether our chemists displayed condoms in plain sight in their stores. What's a chemist, I wondered? Far too nervous to warm up to one another, it was one of those things where eye contact was a no no. Even the expecting mom to whom the Irish girl put her curious question, simply shrugged, offering a "what's a chemist," sort of look in return. Sitting quietly in the back of the room, Eileen let Celeste, who seemed to know everything about everything, do the talking. "Dress conservatively," she cautioned. "Stockings and garter belts are mandatory on all dates. Vixen girls do not wear pantyhose -- ever!" She insisted stiffly. Slutty was out. Overly provocative was out and I wondered why the hot number sitting absentmindedly to one side, wasn't "out" too. I stole a glimpse of her as well. A sexy redhead, she was my preconceived vision of the superlative call girl. Yet here, she seemed strangely out of place. Feigning disregard for Celeste's admonishments, she casually thumbed the latest edition of Cosmo. "I'll provide general information about Miss Lindholm's organization," Celeste informed. "Individual interviews will follow, at which time Miss Lindholm will decide whether or not to certify you as a Vixens' Girl." It struck me that everything was conveyed verbally. To my amazement, I learned if I got picked, that is, if I survived the one on one interview with Eileen, I'd be covered under the firm's health insurance plan! And they had dental! Each of us sat up a little straighter at the news. The moms gave each other high fives and smiled gleefully. When it ended, we were assigned alone time with Eileen. I so wished I had read Veronica Monet's "Sex Secrets of Escorts," or one of the slew of other memoirs currently flooding Amazon, but there hadn't been time. In the end, Celeste courteously probed for questions, but faced a stony silence from the antsy mixture of women. No one dared ask anything, at least not out in the open like that. Besides, what we needed to know, what was on everyone's mind, was sex, money, and how the two connected. Smartly, the capable receptionist never once brought it up. I felt a gentle tap on the shoulder. "Am I missing something?" The Irish girl asked innocently. "She hasn't spoken about...you know..." She hesitated, unable to say the word sex. "Shouldn't we be asking?" Her look was entreating, as though she needed answers, and soon. I assumed her visa was about to expire. I shook my head slightly and looking into the girl's friendly green eyes, I whispered, "I think Eileen will do that privately," "Oh...I see. Thank you." For sure, she was an illegal. Part V "Wenda darling," she said squarely, "It has to be clear to you now that I want you to work for Vixens in the worst way. But stepping into an escort's world where you'll share your body and intimate companionship with strangers isn't an easy thing, so we have several touchy items to put on the table today." She smiled warmly. "Your cover girl beauty and sparkling personality will draw a lot of demand. Can you give me fifty weeks a year?" "Fifty?!" "Some girls naturally want fifty-two..." "Naturally..." "...but we prefer you give your body a break, so...we'll send you to the Aruban sun if your work is worthy. My treat! That's only first year. Later on, we'll see to other interesting things. Ever shopped in Paris?" "Eileen, I'd..." "Good. If everything works out, we'll talk about Paris your second year." "Wow...all right, but..." "Your resume says you can do four nights a week." My mind strayed arithmetically: Fifty weeks at four nights a week. Two hundred clients a year! Jesus! I hadn't considered it this way till now! Eileen laughed in that charming way of hers. "It's not so bad hon. Condoms are mandatory. And...if you don't mind, can I ask a 'between us girls sort of question?'" I nodded uncomfortably. "May I know how many sexual partners you've had?" Unlike my previous thought, this question involved minimal calculation. There had only been four. Jimmy was my last and he was two years ago. "Six." I answered confidently. "Good," she said. "Good?" I assumed she wanted lots of experience. Her reaction surprised me. "Yes, good. It's what I suspected. It's why I had to introduce myself that day in front of Felina's. Wenda, remember I told you how virginal you'd look in the teddy? With a minor exception here and there to account for differences in taste, you're the face of Vixens' sweetheart; soft, inviting, innocent, gorgeous." She knew when to drop the compliments and I blushed suitably. Her words were baffling though. They appeared contradictory. Virginal call girls? "The group meeting?" She continued. "Let's take a minute together, to picture the other girls there." I nodded, calling to mind their faces. "Do you see what I see?" Eileen was like a cat, closely monitoring the reactions of a mouse she'd cornered. "That virtuous look? Women who've never done it before? Pretty suburban moms? Innocent coeds. You? And Taryn? The girl from Ireland? Her strict Catholic upbringing? Men pay money for it -- lots of money. It's why I insist we look as refined as we are. After all, I want my girls treated like ladies out there. Can you step out looking ladylike for me Wenda?" "I guess..." Ladylike wasn't something I did consciously. So I suspected whatever 'look' the madam was talking about, she'd already spotted in me. Whatever it was, it was obviously high on her list. But there was still that other girl, the redhead. Eileen didn't mention her just now. What about her 'look'? "Now tell me, are you open to sex with women?" She asked suddenly. "Um..." "We have lots of female clients," she added as I blanched, "You like women, don't you?" The thought struck me that she'd done some investigating. I nodded carefully. "Yes, I live with..." "Great Wenda! Bringing flexibility to your repertoire, appealing to dissimilar sexual desires, is a great help. You know, oftentimes men buy our services for their wives and lady friends. I need girls who do girls. Sometimes, not often mind you, but sometimes, women even contract with us directly, you know, to surprise their man with a threesome for a special tenth anniversary present," she added. My palms were sweating. Call Girl 101 was leaving me a fidgety blend of excitement and concern, as I fleetingly envisioned intimate meetings with strangers in exotic settings. Things I craved came to mind; bubble baths and late-night dinners with nameless men I'd never see again. Vixens - The Candidate Eileen's business-like voice interrupted those vagrant thoughts, however. "Remember this Wenda," she said seriously. "Successful escorts recognize that their dates require two things. Wenda? Are you paying attention?" "I'm sorry Miss Lindholm. Can you..." Her eyes met mine in silent chastisement. "Our clients, Wenda. I was telling you they need two things..." "Oh yes, two things...yes." "...to come, of course, and to have us disappear. We're paid for both, but especially for the latter. When the story broke about Ashley Dupre and the governor? The whole industry instantly crashed in Manhattan. We were down for months as our best clients vanished into God knows where, fearing they'd be dragged into some scandal. I'll tolerate none of that," she said ominously. "You can understand my reasoning, can't you?" "Yes. Sure. I understand completely!" I said stupidly. I wanted to ask who Ashley Dupre was, but didn't. My focus drifted off again and I questioned if accepting the job meant I was a whore. Till now, I'd rationalized escorts, with their managed lives and steep hourly rates, weren't prostitutes. "Let's discuss the 'Big A,'" she said. "Um, the what?" I shook my head, confused. "Can you do anal sex Wenda?" She leaned back slightly as if she'd asked, 'Are you getting this dear?' "Will you ever do it? Can you...will you do it...on demand I mean?" My mind flashed to Jordan's strap on. "Yes, definitely," I gushed. "Um...Eileen...does having done it with a woman count?" I'd never had anal with a man but Jordan loved it. It had to count for something. "Eileen, there's this thing I have to tell you. See, I have a girlfriend and..." Her face brightened. "Yes dear. Girlfriend experiences count." The thought suddenly struck me that if Vixens wanted access to wives whose husbands needed to watch, I might be in demand after all. "Answer me something, about your girlfriend. Will she be jealous if you do it with other women?" Jordan was insanely jealous. Everyone in the lesbian community knew it. "She'll understand," I lied again. Eileen nodded but I don't think she believed me. "Wenda, one more question before we leave this back door thing." I shifted my bottom nervously. "Can you orgasm this way?" I felt the crimson creeping into my face. "Um...yes. I do...come that way." "Great again darling! You see, if it's real, you know what I mean...clients go for that. Anal is tight and men can feel a girl's contractions. Anyway, how lovely that you can," she said. "I don't mean to make you uneasy with all this, but I have to be honest; back door sex is compulsory now. A sign of the times I suppose. When I started out, we almost never did it but the demands are tougher these days." Her abject tone signaled she had mixed feelings about it, but the market place was the market place. "In any case, all my girls do it," she added. "So, tell me what you think about all this," she asked solicitously. "I've made up my mind Miss Lindholm..." I heard myself begin to say. Standing up, she interjected abruptly, "We'll stop there then." Offering her hand in departure, she gave me marching orders, "Sleep on it. We don't want your decision to come back to bite you with regrets later. Talk to your girlfriend so she understands. And Wenda...some girls even tell their mothers, whatever. Call Celeste next week. I so hope you'll say yes." Part VI There was nothing to think about; nothing to decide. My transformation from sheltered coed to hyper-slut for pay had been underway for days. I opened the door to the reception area, and saw the Irish girl, whose name I couldn't remember. She was seated exactly where I had sat an hour before. Pretending to read a book, she waited her turn and looked up as Celeste's voice, broke the silence. "Taryn, Miss Lindholm will see you now." As I passed her, I said "Hi Taryn." She hurriedly gathered up her things, and responded with a crisp, "Hello." I smiled and walked past her, thinking, beautiful boobs. I so wanted to eat her. Celeste's voice shifted my attention back to her, however. "Miss Paget. Miss Lindholm wants you to have this." She handed me a sealed white envelope with my name on it. Part VII As if wandering a dream, I meandered home through the busy streets of Manhattan. I thought about Eileen and the life she held out to me and tore open the envelope, thinking - that life - is only a phone call away. One thing was clear, there was more to it than I'd first imagined. And I had already imagined a lot! I had somehow matured during the hour just past and knew instinctively there was more to it than I imagined even now. Before descending the steps to the subway, my thoughts gradually pulled together the complexities of Eileen's verbal thicket. None of my forthcoming "responsibilities" surprised me. The fact that I'd accepted it all so willingly surprised me a lot. I'd make a ton of money. Eileen speculated I'd "sell" -- she'd actually used word "sell," something which clashed in my head like two armored knights charging into battle, challenging my feministic tendencies - for $2500 an hour! "Having real breasts is a plus," she told me. "So we might push the figure to $2700." What would I do with it all? I thought about getting a safe-deposit box to stuff it in. "Loyal clients will shower you with gifts Wenda," Eileen disclosed. "The magic is to make them want you back, to need you. One of our girls drove off in a new Jaguar XF after catering her services to the owner of that dealership in Queens!" There was pride in her voice. "Well, to be completely honest, she did his mechanics too, a union thing, you understand, but it was worth it, don't you think?" I nodded doubtful agreement. "And she still sees him! They meet in his car lot and she services him...I'd have to ask Celeste to be sure, but I think it's the first Tuesday each month. Such a creative car payment." "Creative," I'd repeated. Eileen even touched on the little matter of group scenes. "From time to time, we'll have multiples for you," she revealed. "But only after you're experienced. Can you handle that?" "Um..." "The pay's super, but you've never done more than one boy, have you?" I shook my head. "That's good. We prefer you fashion yourself after our girls anyway. It's always best," she assured with a nod. "We don't tolerate rough sex Wenda." She shook her head steadfastly. "You're going to see some of it. Clients like rough sometimes. We don't do it. They'll try anyway. Say no. Some girls play along, especially if they like the guy. But the rule is no. Pain is never a game. It's not allowed." I wondered whether her escorts really abided by any of this. Always one for breaking rules, I pictured myself grabbing extra cash for allowing myself to be tied. What's the big deal, I thought. Jordan does it to me all the time. "No overnights Wenda," Eileen insisted. "The clock is your ally. Use it. It will always get you out and away from the client. We'll send a limo if you work after 2:00 a.m. It's safer. We can't have our ladies wandering Manhattan in the middle of the night." What if I liked him and he asked me to stay? Another question I didn't dare ask, but Eileen wouldn't have to know. I'd broker my own deals now and then. There had to be ways to do it. I'd have to think. I could call in to say "I'm finished, I'm leaving," but might stay on and fuck all night. Big bucks! "Vixens is a working girl's best opportunity," she proclaimed lovingly. "But Wenda, much as I support my girls, if you violate the rules, you'll be fined or let go. I assume you swallow?" "Ah...yes." I said too hesitantly. "Everybody swallows, right?" I sounded naïve and thought, what a dumb question. I had only done it a few times, well, maybe more, but only for that one guy in Staten Island and we'd only been an item for two months. "Good fellatio," Eileen informed, "translates into two things Wenda: big tips and regular call-backs. It's good business and swallowing shows respect for the client." Part VIII I spotted Jordan through the window as I approached our apartment door. She was sitting on the couch, playing with her new iPad. "How'd it go?" She asked disinterestedly. Downplaying the afternoon's many surprises, I answered tepidly, "It was all right. She was nice." Jordan was on her Facebook page and failed to look up. "When do you start?" Suddenly remembering the envelope Celeste handed me after the interview, I opened it and smiled. It was a gift certificate to Felina's! On it was a tiny pink post-it note which read, "Remember to buy it in White!" Eileen had remembered the teddy! Dropping my things on the counter, I wandered over to my computer and half-whispered, "Not sure when I'll start. Not just yet." Jordan tiptoed up behind me and put her arms around me, hugging me warmly. "Mmm. Nice welcome," I said, slowly typing an oddball word into Google search. "Bukkake? What's that?" she asked, looking over my shoulder. "Not sure. But it came up this afternoon and I didn't want to look any dumber than I already did, so I didn't exactly ask. Seen it before?" "Nope. Never. Must be Spanish." "I jotted it into my notes after Eileen alluded to it. She says her girls get thousands for doing it. It's Japanese," I said, scrolling the Wikipedia article. Halfway down the page, the sketch of a girl came into view. My eyes widened to her naked and kneeling form. Covered in sperm, she was surrounded by masturbating men. "HOLY SHIT!" I gasped. End