Vixens - The Candidate

It was no use; she and her mom were close, but the thought of breaking her heart; well, she could not do it. "I'll consider it, Mrs. Lindholm," Wenda lied. "I...that is, I love my mom and all, but—"

Eileen, experienced with the personal lives of countless escorts, knew better. Wenda would take the path of all but the smartest of her girls; she would go it alone, relying on her wits, looks, and youthful audacity to get past the hurts. She knew this newest apprentice would eventually tell her mother—but not before trying everything else first. Until then, the new girl would put it off. Like everyone, she would face the emotional pressures of her unruly craft, the isolation and accompanying self-harm that stalks every working girl like Marley's Ghost, draining her strength and putting her on a collision course with calamity.

The potential to make money through paid sex staggered Wenda. "You will 'sell' spectacularly," the madam revealed. Sell? The word jarred Wenda's sensibilities, challenged naïve feminist leanings, and convulsed her juvenile stupor.

"They're genuine, aren't they," Eileen, at one point, remarked, her eyes roving Wenda's shapely breasts. "Happening upon real boobs isn't an everyday thing in New York—I'll need to see them—and everything else—undress."

Self-consciously, and thanking God she had canceled her 'tramp stamp' appointment, Wenda stood, awkwardly unbuttoned her blouse, released the clasp of her bra, removed her skirt and panties, and watched as the madam's glowing expression softened. Eileen nodded approvingly. "You're perfect, young lady," she said. "And I apologize for my attraction; I guess I'm just a typical female; I love eyeing other women's boobs. Your breasts are a lure," she went on. "You're a woman—you know that. What you don't know is that the trick to being a successful escort is to make a man want them—and you back again."

"We use sex to get what we want. One of our girls recently drove off with a new Jaguar after showering her charms on the owner of a local dealership." Wenda detected smugness and a hint of pride in the madam's voice as she told the tale. "She serviced his chief mechanic too," she continued, "it's a union thing, but it is worth it—a girl needs reliable service if she owns a car in the city. She still sees them at the car lot and—well, I won't go into details; let's just say she has a creative car payment."

"Creative, right," Wenda cautiously agreed. Crimson warmth arose from her bare breasts, and she wondered if the dealer was married—she also questioned how long she would be required to stand naked in the presence of the enigmatic woman. Sensing her discomfort, Eileen motioned for Wenda to turn about, spread her buttocks, and dress.

Astonishingly, she touched on the matter of group scenes, asking, "Have you done more than one man at a time? It doubles the money."

A vision of Wenda's high school graduation picnic crisscrossed her mind. There, separately, but on the same day, she had blown the Tarleton twins. She shook her head no but noticed a slim shift in Eileen's demeanor betraying the experienced woman's skepticism.

Wenda tried to stay focused, but her mind drifted. She doubted Vixens' gaggle of escorts abided by all of Eileen's exacting guidelines. Forever one for violating accepted protocols, the candidate imagined permitting men extra leeway—for hefty tips. And suppose the unthinkable happened, and she felt a special vibe from a handsome guy? Then what?

Like a Vulcan den mother mining thoughts from the younger woman's brain, Eileen seized upon Wenda's rule-breaking fantasy, insisting sternly, "No overnights, Wenda; the clock is your concierge. It gets a girl up and away from a client; it stresses that we women set the limits. I'll send a car if you work late. We're classy ladies; we can't be wandering the city unsupervised." Wenda, valuing the maternal care with which Eileen looked after her girls, decided to accept her strict directives—for now.

"Vixens is a working girl's best chance," the madam declared. "I support my ladies, but if they violate the rules—or get fat— they're fined—or worse. Your contract weight is one-eighteen. On Mondays, Celeste weighs every Vixen—including me. I assume you swallow?"

"Ah...yes," Wenda, too hesitantly admitted. "Doesn't everybody?" She knew she sounded childlike. She had only done it twice, and that was with the twins.

"Swallowing shows respect for the client. It gets a girl two things, big tips and regular callbacks. It's good business. Learn to savor a man's sperm or return to art school."

With that, there was nothing to think about, nothing to decide. Wenda's emotional makeover from suburban middle-class undergraduate to urban hyper-slut for pay had transformed into settled law inside of a day.

With the interview finished, the women parted. As Wenda stepped into the outer office, she spotted the Irish girl—whose name she had forgotten. Still awaiting her turn in the lineup, the ex-pat barely concealed her edginess. Celeste's piercing voice broke the stillness: "Taryn, Mrs. Lindholm will see you now."

As Taryn gathered up her things, Wenda passed her by, catching a crisp "hello," as she did. However, before she could reply, Celeste called to her. "Miss Paget, Mrs. Lindholm wants you to have this." She handed Wenda a gift bag within which the candidate glimpsed a small package.

Commencing with a 'woman-made' traffic jam in mid-town and finishing with a quick and dirty interview, the candidate's orientation ended with Celeste's silent hand-off. Handsomely wrapped in silken finery and cinched with a double lush satin ribbon, whatever the package contained, it punctuated the end of the sentence of the strangest twenty-four hours in Wenda's otherwise ordinary life.

***

Afterward: "Will you be a whore then?"

*

Afterward, Wenda wandered Manhattan's busy streets. She thought about Eileen, her scandalous offer, her revealing comments. Things were more complex than the student had imagined, and she imagined a lot!

Wenda felt different—older. Had she matured through the past hour? If so, into what or into whom—time would tell.

She accepted she might be fooling herself about an escort's life. Was its imagined glamor a fantasy for suckers? Listlessly descending the steps to the subway, she sifted the complexities of Eileen's verbal thicket. Nothing about an escort's duties surprised her; her readiness to perform them was shocking.

Later, while climbing the steps to her apartment, she spotted her wife through the window. Stefka barely looked up as Wenda walked in; however, she managed a question: "How'd it go?"

Downplaying the afternoon's limitless surprises, Wenda tersely replied, "It was all right. She was nice."

"Will you be a whore then?" Ignoring her dig, Wenda fidgeted with the package Celeste had handed her. Tearing it open, and to her delight, she found a gift certificate to Felina's! Attached was a tiny pink post-it note, which read, 'Buy that teddy—in white!' Eileen had remembered!

Dropping her purse on the counter, Wenda opened her laptop and half-whispered, "I think I'll start soon and, yes—I'll be a whore. But the madam didn't exactly hire me, not yet. She wants me to think it over—to tell my mother." Stefka, tiptoeing up behind her, wrapped her arms around Wenda's narrow shoulders and, cupping her breasts, gave them an affectionate squeeze.

"Mmm, nice welcome," Wenda murmured. She typed an oddball word into Google search and turned her face to accept Stefka's sultry kiss.

"Bukkake?" Stefka asked, looking on. "What's that?"

"Not sure, but it came up today," Wenda replied. "I didn't want to look super dumb, so I acted as if I knew. Vixen girls make a lot of money doing it. Ever seen it before?"

"Nope, never—looks Spanish."

"I jotted it down—someone said it's Japanese. One of the other girls—she's Irish—admitted she did it once for five-hundred euros!"

Just then, the webpage opened. Scrolling down, the women, wide-eyed, scrutinized the sketch of a naked Asian girl. Surrounded by grinning, happily masturbating men, her glistening skin shimmered under a thick glaze of semen!

"HOLY SHIT!" Stefka shrieked.

END

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