A [Redacted] Story pt. 2

“You could get me a cappuccino!” Jeremy said, cutting in.

“And two more of these, and one more of whatever this guy is drinking.” David said, pointing to the empty cocktail glasses scattered across the table.

“Coming right up.” The waiter replied.

“Where are you from, Luis?” Jeremy asked, suddenly interested in the man attending to our table.

Luis spoke with a heavy Spanish accent, but I hadn’t clocked it until Jeremy’s comment. LA is full of Spanish speakers, but Jeremy is not from LA. The waiter wore a black N96 mask that concealed most of his face. I wondered what expression he was making as he stood attentively while being othered by his patrons.

“I’m from El Salvador, sir.” He replied politely, then left to grab the beverages.

“Nice man.” Jeremy remarked as he pet my arm, “It’s good to see ya, kid. Been a while.”

“It’s good to see you too,” I said in turn.

It would have been significantly better to have met him in private, far away from a restaurant in the process of closing for the night, but still it was nice to see him. It was a break in the monotony of my pandemic existence, visiting the same three or four men over and over again. I’d missed hotel excursions, drinking at fancy bars I’d never otherwise patronize, and having any excuse to get dressed. It wasn’t the outing I’d wanted, but it was an outing nonetheless. And it was good to see Jeremy.

The waiter returned in no time at all, four drinks balanced upon his tray. He expertly handed them off to Jeremy, David, and David’s girlfriend. The little blonde woman took a shot of clear liquid and chased it with a lime, then smiled bashfully at David as she looped her arm around his and took a hit from her vape pen.

“That’s how you do it.” David said, smiling devilishly. He looked up at me, mischief on his face, “Now it’s time for you to take a shot.”

“I can’t, I’m driving.”

“Oh, she’s a ‘good girl’.” David said teasingly to Jeremy, “C’mon. You can’t just sit here sober while we’re all drunk off our asses.”

“Don’t push her, David.” His girlfriend chastised. “If she doesn’t want to drink, she doesn’t have to drink.”

“C’mon, have some fun. It isn’t that serious.” David said, pouting.

“Is there anything else I can get for you all? It’s last call for food and drinks.” The waiter said.

“Another round for all of us, even her.” David answered for everyone.

“Can I see your ID, ma’am?” The waiter looked at me, questioningly.

“I’m fine.”

“She’s fine.” Jeremy said, stepping in. “Everything is fine.” Jeremy’s glossy eyes flickered with mischief. He held out his hand and the waiter took it, unsure of what was going on. “Muchas gracias amigo. We love Cubanos, you know? You like LA?” Jeremy slurred his words as he attempted to do his best Scarface impression.

“Yes, sir.” The waiter said, shifting uncomfortably.

I felt my soul leaving my body, utterly mortified. I was with them but I wasn’t *with* them. I wasn’t the same as them. My eyes pleaded apologetically at the man who could do little more than stand by politely as Jeremy painted a racist caricature of a culture that wasn’t even his.

“He’s from El Salvador!” I theater-whispered urgently.

“I love Cuba,” Jeremy continued in his Tony Montana voice, not hearing me. He pronounced “Cuba” as “Coo-bah” with the brash confidence only he could muster while being so wrong. “I love Cubans. I love Cuba: the cigars, the classic cars, Cuban rum, Cuban girls. But LA, ‘This is paradise, I’m tellin’ ya. This town like a great big pussy just waiting to get fucked.’ You know what I mean?”

“Sir, I’m from El Salvador, not Cuba.” The waiter interjected.

“Oh! My apologies, amigo! Yo soy estupido.” Jeremy said, laughing off his error.

“It’s okay, sir. Is there anything else I can get for you all tonight?” The waiter asked one more time.

“Just the check, when you have a moment.” Jeremy said, sinking down into his seat as he fished a cigarette from his pocket.

“Well, that was funny.” David said grinning.

I felt the eyes of the waitstaff on us as Jeremy and David continued leisurely sipping their drinks. Our waiter entered our final order into the system, then retreated to a group of other workers huddled together slightly obscured by a decorative tree. I imagined him commiserating about the ignorant gringos flanked by us: their child escorts. But it was likely entirely commonplace at a restaurant like Mr. Chow’s. We were no stranger than the plastic surgery experiments who had assaulted me upon my arrival. It was just another evening in Beverly Hills.

They call food service the “golden handcuffs,” because the money isn’t bad. In fact, it’s remarkably good, especially at a spot like this. People may not enjoy the work, but the hours are flexible and the pay is enough to live comfortably in LA, so people get stuck. But who isn’t stuck to some degree, working jobs that don’t really need to be worked? I was certainly stuck in a less than desirable position, flanked by people I wouldn’t normally associate with outside of a monetary exchange. David was the kind of man emblematic of everything I hate: opulent, White, and swarthy in his ignorance. He picked at the plate of food in front of him as he eyed me, a smile plastered on his face as he schemed.

“Isn’t it a beautiful thing, having such beautiful people together?” Jeremy mused, dreamily, “Two beautiful girls, one handsome man, and another devastatingly handsome man.”

Jeremy reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze as David laughed. David pulled his girlfriend close and kissed her deeply. I could see that Jeremy wanted to do the same, but knew me too well to attempt such a thing.

“Come sit closer to me, you’re too far, all the way over there.” Jeremy said.

I scooted closer to him and leaned on his shoulder, allowing myself to rest for a moment.

“How did we ever get to be so lucky?” Jeremy asked rhetorically, staring across at David.

“Being filthy rich helps.” David said, then looked at his girlfriend, “I know for sure this one wouldn’t be with me if I wasn’t taking such good care of her, and not just with my dick.”

“David!” His girlfriend said, swatting at him in embarrassment, “Don’t say that!”

“What, honey? I’m just telling the truth. You’re not just here for my good looks.”

David smiled knowingly as he toed the line of acceptable candor. We all knew the truth, but verbalizing it was another thing entirely.

“I believe we would all be friends, no matter what. Even in another universe, in another life, we would be friends.” Jeremy said, reaching across the table for David’s hand.

David took it, knowing Jeremy and his affectionate nature as well as anybody.

“We are the very best of friends, the very very best of friends.” David began singing.

I didn’t know if it was a bar tune or something he had improvised on the spot. David took his girlfriend’s hand, and she looked at me with uncertainty, knowing what should come next. I stared back, reluctant to take her hand. Eventually I acquiesced. Her skin was baby soft. She was giving me limp-fish hand, which meant I had to hold on more tightly to compensate. While we were both young, she was only twenty-two. I’d been her many moons ago, dating my first sugar daddy who was sixty. I remembered the looks and stigma of that moment, and I wasn’t even sleeping with him. I had to deal with some sexual touch, but it was relatively mild comparatively: lap dances here and there where he wanted to suckle on my nipples like a baby. Nothing explicit in public, thankfully. He was too timid for public displays of affection, and I have a knack for giving off “don’t touch me” vibes. In a way, I was in awe of her confidence. She was handling a high impact client, publicly, and at such a young age. She was a real sugar baby: paid, housed, flown out, a mistress not-so in the shadows.

“Everybody stand! We are the very best of friends, the very very best of friends.” Jeremy sang as he stood.

The two men sang it together as if it was a well-known pub song the lads might clink giant pint glasses to as they hugged and shed gleeful, manly tears. David stood, following Jeremy’s lead while David’s girlfriend and I looked at them, increasingly embarrassed. I cringed. I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t want to be overstaying my welcome at a restaurant that had closed nearly an hour ago at that point. I didn’t want to attract more attention by singing loudly. My feet were tired, and I didn’t want to stand. David’s girlfriend hesitantly stood.

“C’mon, Selena, stand with us!” Jeremy pushed.

Jeremy tugged at me, hoping I would take her cue and capitulate to the peer pressure, but that was not going to happen.

“No.” I said, firmly.

“Okay, dear. Whatever you want.” Jeremy sighed, knowing I wouldn’t budge.

I dragged my feet, killing the momentum of the moment, and David’s girlfriend followed my lead.

“I’m tired, baby.” She said as she returned to her seat.

David sat too, and petted her head.

“You wanna go back to the hotel, kitty cat?” He asked, kissing her forehead.

She nodded.

“Let’s get the check.” David said.

“I think he’s coming back with it now.” Jeremy said, as he turned to retrieve his wallet.

He slowly went through his cards, searching for the right one to expense their dinner. He was struggling to see straight. I worried he might drop everything, or leave his bag tucked under the table. Somehow he managed to bumble his way through nights like this relatively unscathed. I was amazed that life had treated him so kindly.

“I don’t have my wallet on me, so it looks like you’re treating us, chico.” David said.

“That’s fine.” Jeremy replied.

He continued searching through his deck of credit cards. I felt compelled to step in, but I also didn’t want to be responsible for his messiness. A ring of white crust caked his right nostril. He held his cards out for me.

“Can you grab the shiny blue one? I’m having trouble seeing which is which.”

“The Chase?”

“I think so. It should have the company name on the front.”

“I got it.” I said, and placed the thick card on top of the bill.

Jeremy downed the rest of his cappuccino.

“Thanks, girlie.”

The waiter swooped in and took the card before it touched the tablecloth.

I didn’t know what to think when I saw that Jeremy was getting high again. I generally prefer not to judge other people’s habits, especially since they tend to hire me for the moments where they’re free to cut loose. There’s nothing wrong with doing blow when you hire hookers. Normally I would enable this kind of behavior, but with Jeremy it was different. He’d told me he was proud of taking a break for his health. Jeremy is a robust man, capable of handling a startling amount of coke, but he was getting older and there were times when I noticed his breathing was haggard. A body can only handle so much, and Jeremy had certainly tested that limit. Maybe he felt he had cleansed for long enough. Maybe visiting me was a special occasion he was celebrating. Maybe he’d fallen off and returned to old habits. I didn’t say anything, but I watched his hands tremble as he smoked his cigarette.

“Thanks for coming out with me. I really missed you.” He said.

I felt torn between my love for him and his inconsiderate behavior. I knew it wasn’t intentional, it was simply a lack of awareness that seemed to consistently lead to me being put into frustrating situations. But was it his job to worry about my comfort? With these relationships, there is an expectation that one person is providing and the other is receiving, and the provider is supposed to play the role of the fantasy companion: sexy and ready for action at any moment, a good listener, accommodating, low maintenance compared to an unpaid romantic partner. We aren’t supposed to be judgmental or needy. Our comfort is secondary, if at all considered. And even when it’s considered, it isn’t real comfort. It's a slight easing of discomfort, except in those rare cases where we actually like our clients as people and mutually enjoy the experience. But that isn’t the bulk of my labor. Most of the time I’m pacing myself as I run out the clock, like every other hourly worker.

“Can we give these knuckleheads a ride to their hotel?” Jeremy asked.

I gave him a withering look. I wasn’t getting paid enough to be his hooker uber. I didn’t want to have these rich people in my economy car. I didn’t even want to be where I was. If I’d had my druthers, we would have already been at the Mondrian drinking alone.

Some escorts enjoy schmoozing with the rich, and the adventure of social climbing. I, on the other hand, am a solitary hoe. I prefer to do my job and go home. Partially because socializing is exhausting to me. Partially because I’ve put my trust in rich people before, hoping they would give me a leg up and share opportunities with me, only to be let down again and again. In the end, most rich people use opportunities as a carrot dangled at the end of an ever-extending stick. They never give it to you, because the point is to draw you in. They want the relationship, the sex, the dream. If they make your dream come true, they risk losing you. The only assured payout is the actual payment for services rendered.

Maybe this is a jaded perspective. I know a lot of whores who have gotten a lot out of financial relationships with clients, but this almost exclusively happens when there are overnights, trips, and other high-impact services involved. Yes, you’ll get flown out to Paris, but you’ll have to share a bed with daddy. Yes, you’ll get the car, but you need to be available to drive to see daddy at a moment’s notice or he’ll stop the payments. Yes, you’ll get the house, but daddy lives there too when he isn’t away on business trips. Yes, you can have your own company, but daddy is a majority shareholder with voting power. Every gain has a caveat when it isn’t your money invested.

David saw my expression and stepped in.

“Don’t worry about us. I’ll just call an Uber.” He said, rubbing his girlfriend’s shoulder.

“You sure?” Jeremy asked.

“You two love birds go on.” David said.

I was both grateful for the permission to finally leave, and perturbed by the fact that I was grateful for not having to perform a favor I didn’t sign up for (???). It was a mind fuck. I didn’t want the waitstaff to see me leave with Jeremy, conspicuous whore that I was, but there was no getting around it. We were the last ones at the restaurant. In the end, what did it matter what impression we’d made?

I led Jeremy out to my car, exhausted before we’d even really started.