Heather Brown - Door to door wife

"It's simple," he said frankly. "A business can't take a chance on somebody as controversial as you. When word got out that you were supposed to know everything about sex, all the other employees would start coming to you with their problems. Either that, or trying to proposition you so they could brag they'd balled the sex expert. You might be able to fight it at first, but once the lid was off the ultimate results would be inevitable. It would turn the place upside down."

After that, I swallowed an even greater hunk of pride, and tried to conceal that I'd ever worked at S.E.X.. However, that ploy proved to be even more of a disaster than the truth, since it left me with no previous job experience to point to. And nobody's willing to hire some dumb housewife who doesn't know how to do anything.

Then, one day when I was at the end of my rope, I saw something in the "Help Wanted" section that made me wonder if I was dreaming. Just as I'd originally seen the ad for S.E.X. in the newspaper, I now saw one that said, "Attractive women under 35 with professional background in sex needed. Ability to communicate absolutely necessary."

This seemed like the break I needed. The ad seemed to have been written with me specifically in mind. This was one job I was certain I could get. Changing into my smartest outfit, I jumped in the car and headed into town for the address given in the paper. I was surprised that the place was located in such a tacky part of the city, but went inside anyway with my optimism still brimming.

There was no receptionist, or any other of the usual professional trappings. The guy I was supposed to talk to was the only one around, and he was parked in the middle of a dingy office that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in months.

When I told him I'd come about the ad, he told me to sit down. Then, while I waited, he handled about six calls in a row as the phone practically rang off the hook. At least, I hopefully concluded, despite the modest surroundings, he seemed to be running a going concern.

"Shit," he finally spat after the half-dozenth call, "I'll have to take the Goddamn phone off the hook if I'm ever gonna talk to you. Fucking customers'll drive you nuts in this business – wanting this, wanting that."

Needless to say, he was about as far from Jason Evans as he could be.

His name was Mike DeLucca, and he told me he was in charge of everything. After I'd introduced myself, I carefully inquired what "everything" might be.

"You read my ad, didn't you, honey?"

"Yes."

"Then you ought to know the story."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd explain in your own words," I quietly insisted.

"Sex, honey, sex," he said as though he were addressing a retarded child. "Do you want me to spell it out for you? S-E-X."

"Do you mean like research?" I asked hopefully. "Something scientific?"

That pole-axed him with laughter. I couldn't have been more astonished if he'd pulled a gun on me.

Finally I reclaimed my wits sufficiently to say, "I beg your pardon?"

He stopped laughing and looked at me like I'd just stepped out of a flying saucer. "Say, you're really on the level, aren't you?" he asked incredulously.

"Of course."

"Okay, then," he said. "There's no point in wasting any more of my time or yours. I'll give it to you straight, and it's up to you to take it from there. If you want the job, I'll tell you in advance it's yours."

I was suddenly tlinging with a combination of anticipation and fear. At last somebody was offering me work, but I was afraid to hear what it was.

"I'm running a hooker-shop here," he bluntly informed me. "The world's oldest profession. Whores. You interested, baby? It pays two bills every week."

Now the meaning of the ad in the paper became clear.

Mike DeLucca made it even clearer. "I can tell even through those clothes you're wearing that you got a body a lot of men will pay plenty to fuck. All you'll have to do is show up where you're told, talk nice to them, and spread your legs when they show you the long green."

My mind reeled from his proposition. From sex researcher to hooker had been about the last thing on my mind. Yet, it was the only opportunity for gainful employment presented to me since I'd left S.E.X.

And two hundred a week could put a lot of groceries on the table.

"The whole operation runs right out of this office," he explained to me. "The tricks call in, tell me what they want, and then I phone the girls and tell them where to go. You're on call twenty-four hours a day, but on the other hand you can stay home when you're not working."

It immediately registered with me that the latter condition meant I could spend more time with the twins. And since my marriage had broken up, they needed me more than ever.

"Well, whatta you say, baby?" he pressed me for my decision.

I quickly weighed all the pertinent factors. In the final analysis it came down to money versus degradation.

"Come on, make up your mind," he snapped impatiently. "Every minute this phone's off the hook's costing me dough."

"I'll take it," I hung my head and agreed to his terms. "It's the best offer I've had in weeks."

So that was it, I was a prostitute. And, not only that, but a successful one – DeLucca had been right about my body's allure – I had all the work I could handle. I'd been promised two hundred a week, but was soon over the three-fifty mark.

In order to square it with myself I thought of myself in the scientific framework with which I'd become so accustomed at S.E.X.. Instead of a call-girl, I regarded myself as a sexual technician. From sex researcher to sex technician didn't seem such a comedown to me.

I won't even bother to tell you about the things I did with my customers, because the fact of the matter is that I forgot everything the instant a trick – or a therapy-session as I thought of them – was over. Approaching the work from a purely professional standpoint, I went through my paces more like a machine than a woman.

My detachment was so complete that, incredibly, I felt as though I had no real sex-life. I considered myself to be leading a chaste existence despite the volume of cocks I serviced day and night. Even though I was making my living screwing, I'd forgotten all about sex.

Then, one afternoon, after months of working for DeLucca, it reared its head again in a way I couldn't ignore. However, its reentry into my consciousness had nothing to do with my present job.

It had to do with my old one, and came in the form of a bulky brown package that I'd received a notice to pick up at the post office. It was The S.E.X. Report. My copy of the final, bound edition. The yellow letters were at least two inches high on the royal-blue background of the fly-leaf.

Opening it up, my eyes immediately came to rest on my name among the other contributors.

Lately my whole experience with S.E.X. had come to seem like a dream to me. But, now, here it was… my name under the title of a book certain to be a best-seller.

No matter what happened to me in my life from here on in, I'd always have this. My proof that I'd once amounted to something important.

Cradling the book like rare treasure, I went into the bedroom with it, lay down on the bed, and began reading it. When the phone started to ring, I just left it unanswered. DeLucca could get somebody else today.

I can't begin to describe all the wonderful memories that flowed through my mind as I scanned chapter after chapter. I had repressed it all for so long, but now everything was coming back with crystal clarity.

The people I was meeting working for DeLucca meant nothing to me. But the people with whom I'd been involved at S.E.X. were once again vibrant personalities as I recalled my experiences.

It seemed like I could remember every interview I'd ever conducted in the most vibrant detail.