I am engaged this evening.
The walk home from the salon is beautiful, if cold. The salon is tucked unfashionably beneath two stores, one which sells musical instruments and another which sells sex toys. Every time I descend the stairs into the zen garden of pain and beauty, I am inclined to ask the owners above if they have considered merging (after all, are not musical instruments the highest-brow sexual toy?), but the exquisite Vietnamese woman with whom I book my appointments is a master of warm wax and matte nail lacquer, and when I leave, I forget my wonderful ideas. The shock of ice-matted tree limbs and wind-corridors made of skyscrapers sucks the thoughts from my memory.
I will nap this afternoon, a dreamless interlude of cotton and down.
The gentleman whose company I am paid to keep tonight likes for me to order the most expensive dishes on the menu, which means, given our lofty destination, that I will choose caviar, a lovely beet salad, and veal. I like to know what I will eat; it helps me to plan my day.
When I am armored in garters and stockings, ivory silk, and black lace, wearing my own hair and jewels like a disguise, balanced on impossible heels which force the eye upwards and under the hem of my skirt, I will walk the seven blocks to the restaurant, take the elevator up, and seat myself at the bar. He will approach me as if we have never met before and offer to buy me a drink. I will agree, and we will go on to eat as though carried away with one another.
A tango of lust, deceit, and the exchange of funds.
When eleven o’clock comes, I will weigh my options. Our initial transaction will be complete, but if I am so inclined, I can offer him certain perks. Instead of leaving, vanishing into the black car which will be waiting, I could ask him back to my home.
I could lead him down to street level and into the black car, where I would slip a black satin cloth over his eyes, and allow the driver to take a circuitous route three times as long as the distance to my apartment. To pass the time, I could open his trousers and take him into my mouth, drawing out his pleasure without allowing him his release.
In the restaurant, he may pretend to own me. In the black car, I am the mistress of all I fellate.
I could lead him, blindfolded and throbbing, hastily tucked back into his trousers, up the stairs of my building. I could let him fuck me in the elevator, him still blind, me still in my garters and impossible heels. I could take him to bed. He would pay for any of that.
With this particular gentleman, I have not been so inclined. Yet.