Chapter OneA Chapter by Ketlyn Brooke Austen
In reflection, it's hard to say whether any sum of events led me to my decision, or just one big one. In the end, I think maybe it was both. I remember my first sexual experience. It was horrendous. The pain. He was rough. When I begged him to stop because it hurt, he kept trying.
The second was not terrible. He was loving. Yet, he was not capable. The relationship lasted a little over a year, yet I was never satisfied. Some in the year we broke up, and the year I quit college for a hiatus, I moved to London, spending my first weeks in the cheapest commodations I could find: hostels. I was broke, knew no one, and broken hearted. I had three casual sex encounters within the first two weeks. Neither terrible, nor exciting, I discovered that, for one, the average male does not know how to stimulate a female without making it feel as if he were trying to rub her c**t off; for another I always feel a nearly irrepressable urge to pee in every position but doggy style.
In an evening of frustration and brankruptcy, I turned to CSI. A call girl came up in the plotline somewhere down the line. I spent all night thinking about it. And the next night. And the rest of the week. The way I saw it, if I was going to have bad sex, I might as well get paid for it. I had maid up my mind that first night really, but this night a week later was when I first took steps to actually do it.
I didn't know where to start. I figured google was as good a start as any. I was surprised how fast and easily I found ads. I sent an email to one who seemed genuine and didn't strike me as creepy. He answered right away. Within the next hour, we had talked, exchanged numbers, and scheduled a coffee date.
I remember throwing my phone on the bed and going to the kitchen to get a can of Seven Up. I wasn't nervous. No second thoughts. I had simply scheduled a job interview at a coffeeshop, and with luck and good looks, was going to get the job. It wasn't until I stood outside the underground station, when I realized this person could be disgusting, smelly, and creppy. And how was a creepy person supposed to filter out the creepy clients?
When he walked up to meet me, I bit back my sigh of relief. He was normal. Attractive, slightly indie style of dress, congenial smile. An absolute extrovert. Momentary doubts vanished. We sat at the table; he ordered my coffee, and the conversation began. The questions and details came forth. My age. I showed ID.
Anonymousity. Fake eMail. Fake name. Throwaway number. Phone call upon arrival. Scheduled call upon departure. If the call was not made, he would call. If it did not work he would call the client. If neither worked, he showed up and began bangingn doors. I nodded. Everything made sense. I was hired, and asked to join a gym to keep in shape.
He called later to schedule a pretend date, so he could walk me through what to expect. I knew this would entail sleeping with my boss. I didn't care. I never really cared. I felt strangely numb towards everything. So long as I earned a lot of money, in cash, and got a few drinks and food to boot.
© 2010 Ketlyn Brooke Austen
Ketlyn Brooke Austen
New York, NY
AboutI am twenty-two years old, and have recently moved to New York after growing up in London and Germany. I consider myself a writer; not merely one who writes and creates because it’s fun, but.. more..