Captain Somers, despite being only 5′10″, would have towered over me even more imposingly than Judith did. She was somewhere in her mid-40s, so, being a late Gen Xer, it would not have surprised the average person very much to meet somebody of her age maintaining a cherry red pixie undercut—assuming they were unaware of her workplace’s dress code. She also had an intriguing preference for well-fitted men’s outfits, and tonight’s jacket (though too dark for me to discern its exact hue within the indigo shadows of her car’s interior) was no exception. For a police captain, her hair and mode of dress were rather shocking to encounter at work, while her facial features, unique and strikingly polygonal, nevertheless managed to be more shocking still.
We locked eyes, and I could sense in hers that my own appearance was just as memorable.
I did a surprisingly good job of remaining calm and told myself, ((Maybe she hasn’t noticed that I recognize her.)) She breathed deeply in through her nose, and with eyes hungry as a wolf’s and a ‘come hither’ curl of her finger she demanded, “Closer, girl,” so—driven by some previously hidden inclination towards obedience—I leaned over the window’s threshold and into the cabin. She examined my bone structure, freckles, and eyes. Her nostrils flared as she took another deep breath, and she sighed in satisfaction and smirked—no less intimidatingly for having kept her teeth safely behind her lips. “Are you not that green-eyed redhead from Parking Enforcement?”
“Don’t do this, Esti,” begged Shosh.
((The first precinct Vice captain is soliciting me. This situation is fucked up on more levels than I feel like counting—I oughta)) get myself the hell out of here. “You have me mixed up with another redhead, Capt—” I said this as coolly as I could but winced and quietly groaned as the word ‘Captain’ half-slipped out.
“You are!” She flashed her teeth in predatory amusement. “Why are you patrolling Adams on the other side of the law? Was your pay raise not generous enough this year? Did you write too few citations to earn your bonus?”
My mind was busy searching for a polite way to escape while my mouth hung open, waiting for my mind to give it something to say.
“Would you prefer not to reveal your reasons for waiting on the curb instead of driving your little three-wheeler from meter to meter?”
“I… was… let go. Ma’am.” ((I could just start running. Any second now, just run. Run. Like, now. Go. Fly away. Sprint to safety. For God’s sake, get moving!)) I remained frozen. Like… vanilla ice cream… I waited, inanimate, to be gobbled down. I smelled vanilla, actually—the aroma held me fast, and with each sweet breath I was held faster still.
She nodded with more sympathy than someone with a base salary in excess of 7 times mine should have been capable of showing. “You were caught working your side hustle… or was it something else?”
“Something else, ma’am.”
She did not wait for the elaboration I was not prepared to give. “Tell me.”
((I can tell her to leave me be. I don’t have to explain myself.)) I explained myself. “The brass decided I was unfit for duty.”
“Tell me their rationale.”
“They couldn’t accommodate my disabilities.” ((I’m sure the other two will agree that this is not a good situation to put myself in, and won’t blame me for sprinting away, screaming that a rich pig is trying to lure me into her car with money so she can abduct and murder me.))
“That is unfortunate. But I would be overjoyed to give my business to a former fellow LEO down on her luck. I find helping my own people quite satisfying, especially the ones who have fallen on hard times. What would you say to… 500 dollars for an hour of honest labor? All-inclusive, if that would be alright with you.”
That was half of a month’s rent earned in a single hour, over 20 times my hourly wage as a cop, 6 or 7 times the base rate for streetwalking, and 5 times what Judith said I could get away with charging. I knew damn well this woman was giving me a suspiciously generous deal, but…
((Maybe… as long as she doesn’t make me piss in her mouth or eat her shit or anything gross or dangerous like that… I will satisfy every desire she has the guts to share with me.)) Carefully I asked, “Are you into anything… interesting?”
“I am into things that would frighten, shock, and disgust you, but I would only ask you to indulge the very tamest of my predilections on our first outing.”
“That works for me, ma’am.”
“Do not call me ‘ma’am’ Get in.”
I grabbed the door handle, but before I pulled it I looked back one last time at Judith and Yesenia and Shosh. Yesenia and Judith looked like they were emerging from the wreckage after being T-boned by a fully-loaded clown car, while Shosh’s face was twisted by horror.
I pulled the handle… ((Is this another fantasy?)) …discreetly pinched myself… ((Assuming the pinch test actually works, this is real.)) …swung the door open… ((How did I get here?)) …climbed into the Mercedes… ((I was propositioned, I accepted her offer, I got in her car, and now we’re going somewhere private.)) …closed the door… ((I’m gonna fuck her for money.)) …buckled up… ((I don’t know whether I ought to be scared shitless or jumping out of my dress from the excitement.)) …and the captain drove us away. ((Fear is good. Focus on the fear. Think of ways this could go wrong. Catastrophize. Invent the worst of all worst-case scenarios. Let my imagination run wild. Positively terrify myself.))
The luxurious all-leather femme-fatale’s-lipstick-red interior was illuminated by a violet band of light girding the doors and dashboard, and the cabin smelled of patchouli. (You may find it amusing to learn that the patchouli, in its sensual assertiveness, brought to my mind the imagined experience of strolling into a brothel.) I smelled something else, though, besides the patchouli and the vanilla. It was too subtle to describe, but that wispy cloud descended on my mind and gently fogged my thoughts—and changed me in some way beyond my understanding.
We rode in silence—apart from me reluctantly giving her my name when she asked for it—eventually arriving at the valet kiosk of the swanky Blue Agave Hotel. While my attempts to scare myself did not bear fruit, the whole drive had my nerves tight as suspension bridge cables for every conceivable reason, and as soon as we came to a stop I finally found myself silently panicking; she got out, but I stayed put, frozen by vague, confused thoughts about what we were about to do and the forces driving me to do it, mollified only minimally by her reassurance that we would be performing ‘the tamest’ of her ‘predilections’.
Then the car door opened—she was on the curb—the full ensemble of her sharp midnight-black three-piece suit, rich crimson shirt, and whimsical yet professional black necktie now visible under the hotel’s exterior lighting—waiting for me with a lethally sexy air reminiscent of a mafia hitman, offering her hand to me, ripping me away from my worries and stealing my breath. Calmly I extended my hand; she helped me disembark, then tossed her valet key to the person manning the kiosk.
“Notwithstanding the aggressive neckline, you are more ‘formally’ dressed than the other workers,” she observed as we approached the front desk, arm-in-arm. “That is a very nice cocktail dress for a job that involves a lot of stains.”
“My mother bought it for me for my 21st birthday,” I remarked absentmindedly, befuddled by my enchantment.
“It’s not too late to run,” suggested Shosh, startling me. “You have cash for a taxi.” I silently shushed her; she shook her head, said, “You’re on your own, Esti,” and took a disappointed seat at the bar.
“Your outfit is nice, too,” I continued. “Very dapper. Is that a vest?”
“‘Dapper’! That is precisely what I aim for. Yes, this is indeed a three-piece suit, complete with vest.”
“I have to say… I’m a little surprised to find a—a butch woman attractive,” I confessed with a giddy smile.
She chuckled. “I am not one for labels, especially since they never stick to me for very long.” She gave the front desk clerk a name, ‘Kate Fortune,’ and in exchange he handed her a pair of room cards with a warm if not knowing wish that we would enjoy our stay. “How would your mother feel about you doing the kind of work you are wearing that dress for?”
My mother had never in life explicitly voiced an opinion on sex work. However, in my youth she had insisted that I avoid Adams Avenue, especially at night, and if I absolutely must walk down that street that I cover every inch of skin in the least flattering clothes I had, and ‘for goodness’s sake, hide your hair’; she also said the people there were ‘unclean’, and I should give them a little money to distract them while I made my escape.
I glanced over at Shosh, who sucked down her double rum and coke as she judged me—then shook her head in controlled disbelief like a terrified, overprotective parent forced to keep her distance and trying her best to stay calm amid the worst crisis her child has ever wrought upon herself. ((She isn’t acting like my best friend—she’s acting like a judgmental, nosy pain in the ass, like a controlling mother. As far as I can tell, she’s about as repulsed by sex workers as one can be while still seeing them as human.))
((Is that what I believe?))
((I’ve met sex workers. One of them is my best friend. They aren’t repulsive.))
((My peers, the media, and especially police culture, on the other hand, have painted in stark relief the prost—sex workers of Adams as unsalvageable)) lowlife scum selling their crack-addicted bodies to the lowest bidder and allowing johns to defile their sacred God-given flesh until their souls corrupt to the point of putrefaction, rendering them into husks missing some or all of their humanity—
((Is that what I believe?))
((Even though I don’t believe in any God to give me flesh, this narrative has for years rooted itself in my skull and warped my mind without me noticing. Even Shosh))—who told me everything I needed to know about sex (the penis-in-vagina variety, anyway) before I even had the chance to menstruate for the first time—isn’t immune to the fears forced upon her throughout childhood as well as the prejudices subtly introduced into her mind over the course of her entire life, as evidenced by the anger and despair and disappointment and shame on her face and in her body language and in her choice of a drink with a sweet mixer with a straw rather than neat liquor sipped from a rocks glass.
((Can I disagree with my precious Shosh))?
((It wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe they have nuance, maybe sex workers aren’t disgusting, dirty, diseased leeches. Maybe they’re hard-working, productive members of society, laboring diligently to give others what they need in exchange for money. Just like any other worker. Compared to police, who abuse marginalized people and enforce property laws to the advantage of the rich… maybe… maybe sex workers aren’t just harmless—maybe they make the world a better place.))
The puzzle pieces were sorted into their general areas based on color and shape—so I was ready to put the picture together. “She… would not agree with me saying that it’s just another job that contributes to the economy and the happiness of the public.”
“That she would not approve of your new vocation does not surprise me,” said the captain, “so I promise I will not tell her.” She winked.
We were in the very nicely decorated room 502 in an instant, furnished with a table with a vase of red orchids and a king-size 4-poster bed, and as soon as the door was shut behind us she got to disrobing, shoes and jacket and vest first—as her jacket came off, she informed me with steely authority, “If I do anything you want me to stop doing, you need only say ‘red’, do you understand?” I nodded. “Say it.”
“Red.”
She smiled warmly. “Good. As pretty as that dress is, it needs to come off if we are to get anywhere within the next—” She checked her Rolex. “—50 minutes.”
I blushed. “Oh. Right.”
So I hastily removed my dress; by the time I had it off, she had shed everything except her lacy bra and dapper pants. “No bra…” she observed. “Very sexy. Leave your panties on, though. I want to take those off myself.” She claimed one side of the bed.
“If that’s what you want.” I waited.
“You could get into bed instead of standing awkwardly like a sexless mannequin.” I claimed my half of the bed, and she wrapped the curtains around us. We were enclosed, cut off from the world. It was just the two of us, confined within a space designated expressly for intimacy. Fear tickled the base of my brain, while lust tickled everything else. She scooted close and stared into me. “You have such lovely green eyes.” I reveled in her flattery, her words excited me and—