Magdalene

MAY 2007

      I didn’t go into prostitution because I was desperate; I did it because I was bored: Bored with my hausfrau existence, bored with my husband both in bed and out, bored with my ingrate daughters who don’t (yet) understand what it means to be the sacrificial lamb in the nuclear family setup and that being a wife and mother can be its own category of prostitution. They will. And I’ll laugh.
      I was never the stereotypical whore with a heart of gold, which seems to be used as point and counterpoint: If you’re pure in heart, being a whore is tolerable, forgivable even; if you’re just a mercenary bitch who likes sex and, moreover, getting paid for it, it’s the unforgivable sin. Ultimately, however, I had to choose my clients on their ability to pay my exorbitant prices and leave the good sex to my carefully selected lovers.
      I didn’t quit prostitution for some sort of wish fulfillment of born-again virginity; I quit because I was bored. Fucking for money involves a certain amount of acting ability and while I’m a very good actress (thus, a very good whore), it takes some amount of concentration that is not usually conducive to having a real orgasm.
      With a healthy bank account, one ex-husband whose current partner sports genitalia similar to his, four grown daughters, my forty-third birthday on the horizon, and with professional ennui setting in, I had to find something else to do.

* * * * *

      “Where are we going tonight?” I asked as we descended the front stairs, feeling my tone suddenly coming from somewhere down deep, husky, willing. I did not do this on purpose; it seemed I couldn’t keep my arousal out of my voice and, worse, he knew that.
      He opened the back door of the taxi that awaited us and said, “Dancing,” low, slow, and held my attention with those unimaginably ordinary blue eyes that did unimaginably extraordinary things to me.
      “I thought dancing was verboten in most Protestant religions.”
      “Dancing is one of my culture’s favorite pastimes and as a collective, we’re very good at it.”
      I wondered how he defined “very good at it.” In my experience, heterosexual white males aren’t particularly interested in dancing, much less taking time to learn how to do it halfway decently. Dancing well takes time and effort, concentration and practice, interest and talent.
      Like making love.
      “We aren’t going anywhere if you don’t get in the cab,” he said finally, his voice filled with amusement.
      He handed me in, but I left him little room to sit beside me. If I calculated correctly, I could end up in his lap by the time we got wherever we were going.
      As he squeezed in next to me, he looked at me sideways with that knowing look he had; I had indeed miscalculated a bit. He was much bigger than he looked under his expensively tailored suit and I had to scoot away from him a bit so he could close the door. He gave the cabbie an address I didn’t recognize and then looked at me, inscrutable, and laid his arm across the back of the seat behind me.
      I leaned into him and touched him, dared him to say a word as I rested on my hip and pressed closer to slide my left leg over his, then draw it up his until my knee nudged his cock. I placed my hand on his shirt front, and slid it slowly across his chest and under the lapel of his jacket.
      He dipped his head a bit. Finally!
      But his lips only barely brushed mine when he whispered, “Were you hoping I’d kiss you?”
      I sighed and began to close my eyes and tilt my head just a tad.
      He chuckled—chuckled!—and drew away from me with a satisfied smirk at my frustration. In retaliation, I found the little nub of nipple through his shirt and flicked it with my thumb. His only response was the slight flare of his nostrils and bob of his Adam’s apple. He said nothing, but continued to watch me as speculatively as I watched him.
      Daring more, I caressed downward, intending to make a point of the fact that he was as aroused as I—if the tent in his trousers was anything to go by—but he caught my hand just as I touched his belt buckle and slid his fingers through mine, at once rebuffing me and drawing me closer.
      “Abstinence,” he murmured, “is an effective aphrodisiac, don’t you think?”
      Unbelievably erotic.
      I swallowed, my mouth dry, unable to stop staring at him. I knew I should feel ridiculous, but I didn’t. He wouldn’t allow it. He seemed to know every move I’d make, be prepared to stop me and at the same time, keep me near.
      He dropped his arm from the back of the seat over my shoulders and pulled me tight against him; my breath caught when I felt his lips against my temple. “Patience.”
      Patience.
      All signs pointed toward the inevitable, but something was off, some disconnect about the basics of the game. We seemed to be playing with the same end in mind, but the rules conflicted in some way I couldn’t sort out.
      “You want me,” I whispered. “You want to make love with me.”
      “Yes, I do.”
      I blinked and drew away from him to stare. I already knew that; I’d known it from the moment he’d asked me to dinner, but his candor shocked and diverted me.
      “That surprises you?”
      “It surprises me how quickly you admitted it.”
      He shrugged. “I have no reason to lie. It’s not a sin to want.”
      “Just a sin to do.”
      He inclined his head just a bit.
      “I am going to seduce you.”
      “You can try. You won’t succeed.”
      “I already have because you’re here.”
      “Maybe I like playing this game with you.”
      “Why would you think it’s a game for me?”
      “You just made it one. I haven’t given you what you want, so you decided to throw down the gauntlet.”
      “I don’t play games I can’t win.”
      “Neither do I,” he whispered.