Paula the Perfect Pear Ch. 14

[Author's note: Well, Gentle Reader, once again I was surprised by the characters I write about. I did not see that coming. I'm surprised, although I don't know why. Ugly ducklings who discover they are really swans often have extreme reactions. Oh, my beloved Paula, what will become of you now? I hope your clients are good to you but I worry. The life expectancy of whores in this old world doesn't make me optimistic. But if you can really be the best, well, maybe you can retire in comfort before the calendar and its handmaiden gravity take away the charms that make you so damn attractive. Well, let's see how it goes for her, shall we?]

"If you're going to be a whore," I said to the woman in the mirror, an odd, exotic creature I barely recognized, "at least be a good one."

My hair was fresh from the salon, a shade redder than my natural color. David had given me a choice. I could use his credit card and consider it a "draw" against earnings or I could use my own card and keep my full 60 percent.

I used my credit card.

If I was to be a whore I would be a good one but I would damn sure approach it as a business.

My hair was a little redder, and cut in a new style, a change from the same straight cut with bangs I had worn since about the seventh grade.

When I smiled, my teeth were very white. They'd damn well better be after I had spent $650 and a very uncomfortable two hours in the dentist's chair to get them that way.

The little diamond, well, glass, stud in my nose was new too, another painful visit, at least just a second or two of very sharp pain for this one.

I was doing my face. My first "appointment" with a new "client" was this evening. I was to "escort" an engineer I had never seen before, to the final banquet of a three-day conference and he specified that he wanted a "whore who looked like a whore."

My base was very pale, setting off my red hair. The blush on my cheeks highlighted my cheekbones with a light dusting of a darker blush to show them off further. The eyeshadow was next, a very bright blue done heavy, obvious, setting off my new hair color.

I did my lips the brightest scarlet I could find. I sealed it with gloss so they looked wet.

The eyelashes I applied were ridiculous butterfly lashes. When I closed my eyes I felt the brush my cheeks.

"Oh, yeah," I said aloud to that woman in the mirror, "no doubt what you are."

I stared at myself and then added, "Whore."

I took the stopper out of my ridiculously expensive Pherazone, something I had dropped over two hundred dollars on. It's not really a scent or a perfume. It's pure pheromones guaranteed to give any man within about fifteen feet a hardon and to piss off pretty much any woman. I touched the little glass dropper to each armpit, behind my ears, and lifted my clitoral hood and touched there too.

Face done, I walked, naked, to the closet.

He wanted a whore, David said, so I picked out things that would make my profession obvious.

The top I selected was asymmetric, the current style, a very bright blue, the single strap fitting over my shoulder while the neckline trailed well down my ribs on the opposite side. The material wasn't exactly sheer but it was clear that any bra I owned was still in the drawer.

The garter belt was white and had four suspender straps on each leg. I wondered, as I settled it above my big hips, what it was that men found so damn sexy about a garter belt, but I didn't object. It's a lot easier to pee when all you have to do is get your panties out of the way. The hose were so pale they almost didn't exist but the slightly darker band at the top would show, especially where the suspenders hooked to the hose, something David had assured me was a look men appreciated. The most prominent thing on the hose was the seam, and I did that twist-and-bend thing to look over my shoulder and make sure those seams were ruler-straight.

The thong I pulled on next was the same color as the top. I hated it. I spent a good bit of my life trying to keep my panties from riding up into the crack of my caboose and now the style said I had to buttfloss. But, again, David had assured me it was part of a whore's uniform so I carefully flossed my ass until everything was even.

The skirt barely reached the tops of the nylons but three inches of fringe gave me the appearance of modesty as long as I didn't move. As soon as I moved, though, the fringe started swaying, putting more of me on display.

My belly button was exposed, a gap of about three inches between the skirt and top. I took the little belly button ring out and replaced it with a ridiculously gaudy, rhinestone-encrusted dangler that no one could miss.

I eased my sleeves up my arms. They are like those long evening gloves you might see in a movie from the 1950s where the dresses brushed the floor and the men were in tuxedos. The difference was that these fit very tightly. I had to work them up my arms like the nylons on my legs and they were tight enough that the soft pad at the back of my upper arm bulged dramatically. There were no fingers, just a loop for my thumbs.

The shoes were blue as well, five-inch stiletto heels and ankle straps, what I used to think of as "fuck me" shoes went on my feet and I stood, feeling like I was on stilts.

I tottered over to my jewel box, getting used to the ridiculous heels. I don't have much jewelry, but what I have is good quality. I took the little sapphire studs out of the lowest hole on my earlobe and put them into the box. Then I selected the biggest, gaudiest earrings in the box. They were chandeliers, silver threads supporting turquoise stones, heavy enough that they pulled my earlobes out of shape.

I walked to the bedroom door, closed my eyes, and swung the door shut.

When I opened them there was no doubt what I saw in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the door.

That was a whore. There was no doubt about it.

"At least," I thought, staring, "you don't look like a streetwalker trying to turn a dozen tricks a night in your crib. You have maintained a little class."

I felt tears start to well up in my eyes and said, aloud, "Don't you cry, bitch. Don't you dare fuck up my work!"

I took a deep breath, let it out, and did it again.

"All right, Whore," I said aloud, meeting my eyes in the mirror, "get out there and start earning your keep."

I walked down the stairs and found David busy at the computer, doing something with some pictures. I was always fascinated with the way he would manipulate things. He would draw a frame around something, maybe the whole picture. Then he'd do some pointing and clicking and say something like, "Oh, yeah," or maybe, "Oops, no." The thing is, I could see absolutely no change. But he was concentrating hard and jumped when I touched him on the shoulder.

He turned and looked me up and down.

And he smiled. Not his well-practiced grin, the one that got me out of my panties that first time, but a real smile.

He reached into his bag, the one he always carried in lieu of a wallet, and pulled out a red flower. He stood, came to me, and put the flower in my hair so it peeked out above my ear.

"I told George that you'd have a red flower in your hair," he said. "He's paid for plenty of extras, so just don't say 'no' to him, got it?"

I was abashed and barely managed a nod.

"Okay," he said, patting my ass, "get that big moneymaker out there and start making me some money."

And the way he said it, so casually, dismissing me as if I was an employee he was telling to get to work, made our new relationship clearer to me than spending the time to make myself look like a whore had.

"Well," I said, "thanks for telling me his name at least."

He had turned his back, dismissing me, and waved over his shoulder.

"Can you tell me, at least, what he paid for," I asked.

He spun on the office chair and glared at me.

"You just don't say fucking 'no' to anything," he said, "now get that big ass to work."

And he turned away again.

I was surprised that I didn't cry, but I didn't. I just called an Uber and headed to the downtown venue to meet my client. I giggled to myself as I waited.

"Client," I thought, "at least be an honest whore and call him a 'John.'"

But then I thought, "No. You may be a whore, but you're a businesswoman too. He's your client."

At the hotel I took a deep breath and then walked to the in-house bar, one of those "Theme Bars" with about a dozen big screen televisions going, all featuring some sporting event or another, a long bar along the wall, and a couple of dozen small tables scattered about.

I stood, centered in the entry, posing if I'm being honest, waiting to be recognized because of the red flower in my hair ("If you're going, to San Francisco, be sure to wear, some flowers in your hair," the song ran through my mind). I had no idea at all what my client looked like.

I stood, striking the pose, surveying the room, and I saw a guy stand and start toward me.

"Oh, yeah," I thought, this guy is definitely an engineer."

My first impression was that he was big. I guessed him to be about six feet tall and with a couple of hundred pounds on a big frame. He just looked the part of an engineer, and I had no idea what sort of engineer he might be, going to the end-of-conference banquet. He had on a beige sports coat, some sort of faux suede material, a light, patterned shirt with one of those string ties, I think it's called a "bolo," slacks of a khaki color but a finer material, and very workmanlike brown suede shoes. I could picture him tossing the jacket into the back of his pickup truck (and I knew, in my mind, it would be big and have "4X4" decals in several places), pulling off his string tie, putting on a hard hat, and walking onto the construction site or into the factory and, well, doing engineering stuff.

He stopped about a foot in front of me, barely infringing on my personal space, and just looked for long enough that I felt like squirming although I managed to stand still and return his gaze.

He had a truly terrific smile when he smiled, one of those smiles that seemed to say, "You are the most important thing in the world."

"Paula," he said, not a question, rather a greeting, "I am George," and he extended his hand.

I took his hand and he surprised me by bending down and kissing me. Not a hard kiss, I guess he didn't want to mess up my image, and then he whispered in my ear, "David sold you short, Sugar, you are spectacular."

I damn near cried.

I don't know what I expected, but this wasn't it.

It felt like a date, oh, a blind date to be sure, but a date.

I was surprised by the little rush in my belly when I thought the difference between this and any other blind date was that I knew where it was going and he had paid for "extras."

We went into the "McArthur Room" for the banquet (As we passed the little plaque I wondered who McArthur might have been. It didn't seem like a place that would want to honor the General.) and realized that I was enjoying myself.

So I latched onto George's arm, holding in that two-hands-on-the-arm way women use to demonstrate their claim. I was the relatively young rebound lover, captivated by the attention an older man was giving her.

And I was loving it.

As dinner was served I scooted my chair close to George and was the completely besotted girlfriend. I giggled at his jokes, ate my rubber chicken, stole his stuffed mushrooms, giggling as he slapped at my hand, and had my hand on his leg through most of the meal. I chatted, bright-eyed and giggly with the other men at the table and the one wife there, a matron who rather dramatically disapproved of me.

When dinner was done the tables and chairs were moved around and a four-piece band set up on a small stage. As we stood up while things were being moved around, I liked the way his hand lay on my hip, and I kind of squirmed against him.

When the band started playing I took his hand and pulled him out of the group of six he had been talking to and led him onto the floor. As often happens, they started slow, the frontman doing a passable Ricky Nelson whining about the horrors of being a teenage idol.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and molded my body to his like we were at the prom. He was tall enough that I had to bend my neck dramatically to look up at him.

I bent my neck and looked up at him.

"You know," I said, smiling, playing with his hairline with my fingers, "that whole Pretty Woman thing is wrong."

"The what?" he asked, smiling down at me.

I giggled, my best girlish giggle, and said, "You know, the movie, Pretty Woman."

He looked puzzled.

"Oh my GOD," I said, trying for my best valley girl voice, "You haven't seen it?"

"Afraid not," he said, smiling.

"Welllllll," I said, drawing the alveolar lateral approximant, the "L" sound out, my tongue locked behind my teeth and my lips parted, "here's the thing," I continued, holding his eyes, my feet following the dance steps on autopilot, "it's okay to kiss a whore."

I stopped moving then, standing still in the middle of the dance floor. It wasn't crowded, but there were a few other couples. I stood, looking up at him, lips parted, trying to make it obvious that I wanted him to kiss me.

He almost waited me out. I was starting to feel foolish, standing there while other couples moved around us when he finally bent and kissed me.

I made it a kiss worth waiting for. My arms were wrapped around his neck so tight that to break the kiss he'd have to lift me off of the floor. His tongue met mine and we fenced like that as I felt his hands slowly move down my back to cup, well, to lay on my big caboose.

It was a very good kiss for me, and I think it was for him. Hell, I'd have kept it going except a voice from the room called out, "Hey, you on the dance floor, get a room."

We broke the kiss, laughing, and went back to dancing.

While we danced I pulled him down so I could speak directly into his ear, not whispering but not something I wanted to broadcast either.

"Don't worry, George," I said in what I hoped was my best bedroom voice, "just because you kissed me and I love you, I won't say 'no' to any of those extras you paid for."

And it was true. Oh, I'm not a giggly girl and wasn't pretending my Prince Charming had arrived, but I wasn't just a piece of fuckmeat either. I may be a whore, but I'm not a streetwalker trying to turn a dozen tricks a night. This was a nice man and I did, right then, love him.

We danced through a passable version of Bobby Vinton's Blue Velvet and a terrible version of Roy Orbison's Crying, the frontman couldn't get within an octave of some of Roy's notes, and then George surprised me.

"Let's pick things up a little," the frontman called, and the band broke into that four-chord progression (C Am F G7 if you care about such things) and he started into Twist and Shout. George surprised me by grinning, tapping his foot to catch the beat, and spinning me into a pretty good Jive dance.

Every time he would spin me the skirt flared and my nylons, garter belt, and, well, my ass, were there for everyone to see.

I laughed when I heard a wolf whistle.

He was breathing a little hard after that and started toward the table. I smiled, said, "I need to visit the little girl's room," and headed to the bathrooms.

I sat and peed and when I was done I wiped but reached down and picked up my thong rather than putting it back on. I washed my hands and freshened my lipstick.

At the table, he stood, such a gentleman, and looked surprised and then smiled broadly when I handed him the thong. He didn't make a production of it, but he put it into his pocket.

We sat through a couple of dances, me doing my smitten girl act, hanging on his every word while he talked about stuff I didn't understand with the other three at our table.

I was surprised to feel a light hand on my shoulder and then see an outrageously handsome man lean down, his other hand on George's shoulder.

"Let's dance, Beautiful," he said, "I know you must be bored out of your skull with the shop talk my old friend George can't seem to stop."

I looked at George. He was the one who had paid, but he was looking up at the interloper.

"Can I borrow this lovely creature, George?" he asked.

George grinned, and said, "Paula, meet Greg, my oldest friend and one of the world's truly great pains in the ass. Greg, meet Paula."

They shook hands and then Greg caught my hand and said, "Come along, now, Paula, I'm rescuing you."

I caught George's eye again and he nodded. "Go ahead," he said, "Just remember who's taking you home tonight." I wondered if he knew he had quoted the lyrics from that old song, Save the Last Dance For Me.

Greg was even taller than George, towering over my short frame. Moving to the floor Greg moved with that confident grace of a good dancer. On the stage, the band was doing Ebb Tide and Greg swept me into a waltz.

His lead was strong and while I'm not ballroom dance contest quality, I dance reasonably well and it was quite exhilarating.

For the next dance, another slow number but this one I didn't recognize, he didn't waltz. It was a simple box step. When he dropped my right hand to lay his left on my hip it seemed natural to wrap my other arm around his neck. Christ, I felt like I was at the prom or something.

"You're not really a long-lost girlfriend, Paula, are you?" he asked, the first words he had spoken since we started dancing.

"What do you mean?" I asked, putting my best too-innocent-for-butter-to-melt-in-my-mouth face.

He grinned down at me.

"I'm not judging, but I'm pretty sure this is a, well, let's be diplomatic and say your relationship is, ummm, 'transactional'," he said.

I smiled at that. He was good.

"Am I that obvious?" I asked, keeping my innocent face on. That was ridiculous, of course, since I had deliberately gone out of my way to be exactly that obvious.

He smiled, not the grin, a smile and it was a good smile.

"I get to town pretty regularly," he said, "and I was wondering if I could have your number."

I looked up at him, smiled, and rattled off the ten-digit number.

"And," I added, "in a couple of weeks I should be online. Look for Paula the Perfect Pear."

That stopped him.

"A website?" he asked.

"I just thought of it," I said, "You're right about my profession but I'm new to it. But now that I think of it, maybe it is time for the world's oldest profession to be brought into the 21st century."

The night went like that. George was talking to colleagues and I was flattered by the attention.

"Come on, Baby," I said at one point, "dance with me."

"Dance later," he said, dismissing me and returning to his discussion of things that made no sense to me.

So I sat and simpered until I was asked to dance again.

And it hit me, like an epiphany, almost like a revelation.

I liked being a whore. I liked the attention.

Oh, hell, let's be honest, I LOVED the attention. I spent my life as the "other girl" at the table. Now I was the girl that the men wanted to dance with. And in several cases, I was the girl that I thought men would be willing to pay for the privilege of having.

I relished the feeling.

Finally, as it must, the evening ended. I gave my phone number to seven men and was sure that I would have David set me up with a website to advertise my availability.

As we walked to the elevator, I could feel my excitement building. It was deep in my belly, I could feel the pressure of arousal building. But it was in my mind as well as I imagined offering myself to this man that I had only known a few hours, knowing that he was paying for me.