Jenny Angell - Madam

She didn’t hurry him, like some of them did. Finally, she slid out from under him and padded into the bathroom. He heard water running, and a few moments later she was back, a washcloth in her hand.

She moved him onto his back without saying a word, removed the condom, and used the washcloth on him. It was warm and wet, just like she had been. When she was finished, she lay down next to him, her head on his chest, her fingers slowly, lazily caressing him.

He started drifting off. He saw a farmhouse and a well next to it, fragments of some dream he’d been having the night before resurfacing as he drifted into a sleepier state, lulled by her warmth next to him and her fingertips on his body.

The telephone rang.

He jerked awake, aware suddenly of the hotel room, the woman next to him, the shrilling of the phone. It was his room, so he reached for it. Christ, that’s loud! “Hello?” he managed to say at last.

The voice on the other end managed to be both gentle and cheerful. “Craig, hi, this is Peach.”

He rolled over so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Hi, Peach.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“Sure.” The girl was next to him; he handed her the phone. “Hi, Peach,” she said easily, and then listened for a moment. “Yes, I enjoyed it.” She reached over and took his hand, winking at him as she said it. “Anytime he calls again, I’d love to see him.” Another short pause. “Okay, thanks, Peach. Bye.”

She hung up the phone, put her arms around him, and kissed him again. That was unusual, too. “I had a lovely time,” she said, softly.

“You mean that?” She probably says it to everyone. Still, I really felt that she liked me .

“No,” she said softly. “Only when it’s true.”

She moved away, pulled on her skirt and blouse, and he realized with a start that that was all she had taken off. He’s had girls nude in the first five minutes who hadn’t gotten him off like this one had. This is going to be embarrassing , he thought. Here goes …

“Um,” he said, “I’d like to see you again.”

She was running fingertips through her long red hair, tangled now. “I’d like that, too,” she said, softly.

“But –” Just say it . “Umm … I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

To his surprise, she grinned, a wide spontaneous smile. “That’s okay,” she said. “Sometimes I forget it myself.” She had on her black blazer and little black handbag that had been on the nightstand, where she had put the condoms. She came over to where he was still sitting, with just his pants pulled up haphazardly, and kissed the top of his head. “Tia,” she said. “My name is Tia.”

“Tia,” he said. That name suits her. Maybe she’s Italian.

She kissed him again. “I have to go,” she said. “Call Peach and ask for me.”

“I will,” he said.

She started for the door, then suddenly turned, came back quickly, bent down, and gave him a full, deep, wet kiss on the mouth. A lot of the girls never did that, and especially not once they were leaving; there was a depressing postcoital efficiency in the profession that he found irritating. “Soon,” she whispered. “Please call soon.”

He started to say something, then cleared his throat. “I will,” he managed, “I will.”

She closed the hotel room door behind her and walked down the carpeted corridor. Waiting for the elevator, she once again fixed her hair with her fingertips, and straightened her skirt. By the time she emerged into the lobby she looked cool, collected, and still very sexy.

She went to the bank of phones located to the left of the front desk, put in coins that she had ready in her blazer pocket, and called me. “Peach? It’s Jenny. I’m done.”

“Great.” I mentally checked my roster of potential clients for the night. “Do you want another call?”

The woman in the hotel lobby stifled a yawn. “Not really. Only if it’s one of my regulars,” she said. “I have some reading to catch up on.”

“Okay, then,” I said. There was another call coming in. “Hey, honey, call me when you get home, okay? Maybe we can have lunch tomorrow.”

“Sure thing. Talk to you then.”

I disconnected her call and picked up the one that was waiting. “Hello?”

“Hey, Peach, it’s Crystal. I’m here with Mark.”

“Great, honey,” I said, checking the clock. “I’ll call you out in an hour.”

“Sure thing.”

I stretched and looked around for my novels and magazines. Always need my novels. It looked like it was going to be a busy night.

The telephone was ringing.

That’s not unusual: in my world, the telephone is always ringing. It’s an occupational hazard. I don’t suppose that I should complain; I’m the one, after all, who has the advertisements in the local alternative newspaper asking people to call me. I’m the one who persuades guys to use my number, to see my girls, to become, in an odd, indescribable way, my friend. It’s my lifeline, the telephone.

But sometimes – once in a while – I do find myself wishing that it would just stop.

It was ringing this morning while I was trying to get Sam ready for his day. Yes: I am a madam, and I also have a child. It’s not an oxymoron; it’s my life. I checked the caller ID and saw that it was a new client, someone I’d sent a couple of girls to in the last few days. That kind of regularity translates as Very Good Client. “Hi, Gary.”

“Peach?” He sounded surprised that I knew who he was. As though he hadn’t heard about the latest in telephone technology. Although, to be fair, I’ve always been very good with numbers, and I’d matched the cell phone display to his name almost instantaneously. “Hi, Peach. Um – I was just, you know, thinking about what you said last night, and you’re right, I need to get out of my rut.”

Great. And now you want to talk about it. “That’s probably a good idea, Gary.” I was hunting for one of Sam’s missing shoes as I waited for the rest. I already knew what it was going to be about. When one of my clients says he wants to get out of a rut, he’s not talking about changing jobs, going on vacation, or taking up a new hobby.

My clients are much more specific than that.

“Well, you know what you said, about trying something new, and I guess that I just had this kind of fixation with blondes, you know, but I think …” He paused and took a deep breath, as though entering into an important pact, making a difficult commitment. “I think I’m ready for a change.”

I was watching the clock. The school bus waits for no madam. “Gary, that’s terrific. But can you call me back later? I’ve got a new girl working tonight. I think you’ll really like her. We can connect you once she checks in.”

“What’s she like, Peach?”

I sighed. I should have known I wasn’t going to get him off the phone that easily. “She’s got dark hair, five- seven, 122 pounds, 36-26-32. She’s gorgeous, Gary, and she’s really sweet.”

“What’s her name?”

Thinking fast, I said, “April. I’ll have her call you as soon as she checks in, does that work for you? She’s a college student. She’s in class right now.”

“Oh. Okay, Peach.”

No “Thank you, Peach,” or anything like that. Silly me, to expect courtesies from someone who calls an escort service at breakfast time just to chat. I frowned at the phone as I pressed the off button. April. I’d have to remember that.

Most of the girls who work for me use fictional names. I can’t blame them – after all, I do the same thing – but sometimes it’s a little tough keeping them straight. Especially when I assign one on the spur of the moment, as I just had.