Madam

NIGHT ONE CHEZ PEACH

I placed my first ads in the After Dark section of the Boston Phoenix and waited with some trepidation for them to come out.

One of the ads was advertising for girls to come work for me (“education required,” I had written), and the other was for the service itself. Both had a boudoir-lace edging and stood out, if I do rather smugly say so myself, among all the screaming ads urging readers to “try out my tits” and to “cum all over my ass.”

I had already hedged my bets. During my transition between the suburbs and the Bay Village, I had been doing more than just decorating (although I have to say that my new apartment, with its skylights, exposed brick walls, and claw-footed bathtub, had indeed been absorbing quite a lot of my energy). I had also been talking to my former colleagues, asking them if they knew anyone who would like to work for me. That wasn’t stealing from Laura, I rationalized. I was employing a network, something altogether different. And of course I got names.

To tell the truth, I don’t always run the employment ad these days. Not every week, anyway. Maybe one week out of the month. The reality is that from the beginning I’ve had the most success getting potential employees through a network – friends, acquaintances, cousins, colleagues, fellow students.

It makes them happy, since they are referred by someone who knows how I work, who knows that I won’t be weird or dangerous or take advantage of them. It makes me happy, too, because referrals aren’t very likely to be cops.

So the first Thursday that the Phoenix came out with my ad, I was ready. The phone lines were set up: one for clients to call in on, one for my outgoing calls, another as a strictly personal line. I had voice mail, I had call waiting and call forwarding, and, just for security, I had my Yellow Pages. I had my textbooks. I had a stack of mindless magazines, a pen, some scrap paper. I was sitting in the middle of my canopied bed with my television on to keep me from getting too nervous, and I was ready.

My voice mail message implied much more than it said. “Hi, we’re busy right now, but someone can talk to you if you call us back after five today.” I could imagine what the caller might think when he heard those words, filled with a breathy double entendre. He probably was fantasizing that the place was filled with women, maybe having sex with each other while they wait. (That, I have discovered, is a premiere fantasy for most of my clients, the idea that women just can’t wait to rip each other’s clothes off every chance they get.) I know what callers had assumed when they called Laura’s place. Of course, in her case, they were correct – minus the jumping on each other part of it: a lot of beautiful girls, scantily clad, each one sitting patiently, just waiting for that one caller to ask for her. Well, chez Peach, it was a little different. It was just me.

But they didn’t have to know that.

I had hoped for some modest business. Maybe a couple of calls on my first night, some contacts for future work. I knew that my voice, with its Southern undertones of peach blossom and bourbon and hot nights, was seductive but businesslike. I knew that anybody who called could easily be enticed to call again. I had some confidence and I expected a nice opening night.

What I got was an avalanche.

This was a step on the learning curve. Clients, I learned, absolutely love new girls, girls they have never seen before, girls who are new to the business. They adore them. I don’t know if it’s some sort of little sick initiation rite that they’re imagining doing, or something leftover from the ever-popular deflowering-the-virgin concept, but whatever it is, they love new girls.

Their assumption was that a new agency must be full of them.

I was hard-pressed to handle all my calls that night. Some weren’t serious, they were just checking me out, testing the waters, trying to pull me into some erotic chat, but my time at Laura’s had taught me how to deflect them – I wasn’t going to play their reindeer games. Others were dead serious: who did I have that I could send out to them right now? There were the perusers of menus, sitting back comfortably, perhaps with a snifter of brandy to hand, asking me to go through my offerings one course at a time. “Ah, yes, and you said that you might have someone else a little older? Can you tell me about her, too? Okay, now remind me again – the one named Tina …?”

There I was, in the midst of it all, answering phones, putting people on hold, racking my brains to keep names straight and numbers remembered, trying to screen these guys so that I wouldn’t send someone out to see a homicidal maniac my first night in business.

The three women I had lined up already were frantically working the telephones, themselves calling up possible recruits.

“Hi, Peach? This is Kara, I’m a friend of Stacey’s, she asked me to call you.”

I cut right to the chase. “Super. What do you look like?”

Kara, no beginner herself, was clearly used to the drill and rattled her stats off in a practiced manner. “I’m a redhead, shoulder-length hair, I’m twenty-two. C cup bra. I weigh 123 pounds, five-foot-six, and I’ve got a car.”

The last part snagged me right away. “Okay. Can you get over to Newton in half an hour?”

“Sure.” She sounded amused.

I riffled through my scribbled notes, most of them in the margins of my textbook. If anyone were ever to read it after me, they’d be in for a shock as the pages were scrawled with my notes … CARL AT THE FOUR SEASONS, BLONDE …

I found what I was looking for. “Okay, give this guy a call, Bill Thompson, 555-5454. Call me back after you talk to him, to confirm.” I disconnected, then called Bill myself. “I’ve got this adorable redhead who’s dying to see you. She’ll give you a call in a minute, and she can be there in half an hour. Her name is Kara. Just give her directions.” I hung up before Bill could say anything. This was not the time to chat: I was on a roll.

“Hello? Hi, yes, this is Peach. Where are you located, sir? The Plaza? Can I confirm your name with the reception desk? Great. Do you have any particular preferences? Okay, yes, I do have a stunning blonde, she’s a college student, she’s 34-24-32 and weighs 110 pounds. Her name is Lacey. I know that you’ll like her.”

Looking back, I don’t know how I got through that night. I don’t even remember what was on television (for me, that’s an extraordinary statement, because TV is definitely my friend). My magazines and Yellow Pages had been kicked off the bed. The ashtray was overflowing with cigarettes I had lit and then forgotten. I was setting up calls one after the other, stretching out late into the night. “Pam? Honey, can you take another two calls? You’re the best, thanks. I have John in Cambridge and Louis at the Four Seasons, in that order. You can call them both now. Here are their numbers. Do you have something to write on?”

Finally, I had to begin telling people they needed to call back the next day. Some took it well; others, not so well. I remember hanging up the phone after one guy called me names at the top of his voice, tiredly massaging the back of my neck, the realization dawning that this was going to work.

It wasn’t until three-thirty in the morning that I shut off the phones, padded into the kitchen, opened the bottle of Veuve Cliquot that I had left chilling in the refrigerator, and toasted myself. My new agency – Avanti – lived!

I had suddenly, mysteriously, become a madam.

A HEAD FOR NUMBERS

I don’t think that I left my apartment for three days after that.

I was blessed with a great memory for numbers, so I didn’t need to develop a routine for keeping information that would leave traces behind: no one will ever break into my place and find a mythical “little black book,” because it simply doesn’t exist. I found that the memorization skills that had served me well in school were again coming to the fore, and that I could, absurdly, remember nearly all the numbers of the people who had called me that first crazy night.

I probably found the only job in the world where my favorite party trick is a professional asset.

I had hired Jake, a driver, through one of the girls I’d met at Laura’s place. It was the girl’s brother, actually, who worked for a taxi service by day and picked up whatever jobs he could find in the evenings; she said he spent all his time and money at the Suffolk Downs horse races. Since three of the girls working for me that first night didn’t have cars, I’d kept him busy. He stopped by my apartment at the end of the night and dropped off the money the girls had given him to hold for me, my part of what they had earned. Back then, my agency fee was sixty dollars an hour, and I just asked the girls to give the fees to Jake. They paid him out of their own take from the call, usually around $20, depending on the distance he had to drive.

Now I called him and asked him to meet up with the girls who had their own cars and pick up their fees, as well; I wasn’t about to leave anyone holding my money for too long. Not this soon in the relationship, anyway.

I sat on my bed and counted my money. Then I counted it again. And again. I had put out eighteen calls that first night, at $60 a call for me. I had calculated what to charge based on what I had learned from Laura – and a few surreptitious calls to some other agencies. Prepared, that’s me.

Even better than all that, I had a waiting list for the next couple of days.

There wasn’t much time to rest on my laurels, though – the telephone kept ringing. The word was out, apparently, that Avanti was the newest, hottest service in town. Everyone wanted to try me out. Everyone wanted to work for me. I did quick phone interviews and prayed that the girls I was talking to had given me accurate descriptions of themselves. “Okay, that’s super, and what name do you want to use? Zoë? All right. Check in with me when you’re ready to go to work and I’ll see what we can do for you. Yes; I’m Peach, that’s right.”

I didn’t pick up the client line until I felt I was ready. I had a quick cheat sheet of who was available and what she looked like; then I took a deep breath and plugged in the work line, and we were off and running again.

Jake was elated. “Hot damn, this is the best it’s ever been. I’ve driven for other services and it was nothing like this. Anytime you need a driver, I’m your guy.”

I didn’t have time for mutual backslapping. “Can you meet Melanie at the Star Market on Commonwealth and pick up some money from her? She’s holding $360 for me. She’ll be there at six. She’s driving a red Subaru.”

“Sure thing, Peach.”

I yawned and walked into the kitchen to make some coffee. I’m not a big coffee-at-night drinker, but it looked like I was going to need it. Wearing my socks, my sweats, and my favorite Paris Hard Rock Café T-shirt, I probably didn’t look like anybody’s idea of a madam. Which was perfectly fine with me.

Around midnight, I got a call from Robert, a French guy I’d met at a party I’d gone to while I was still working for Laura. We’d hit it off – though in a strictly platonic sort of way, which I have to say was somewhat to my disappointment – and hung out together fairly often. He’d helped me decorate my apartment, getting so enthusiastic that at one point I wondered if his lack of interest in me, combined with his total devotion to interior design, added up to his being gay. “So how’s it going? Raking in the money?”

“Oh, you know,” I said, nonchalantly. “Just another so-so day.”

I could imagine the grin over the phone line. “Thought I’d stop by and give you a present to congratulate you.”

This was good news. Robert was, by profession, a drug dealer, and I had just been feeling sleepy. “I’m here, feel free to drop by.”

He arrived just as the phones were slowing down. He had beer, coke, and a friend. “This is Stuart,” he said. “Where’s your Scrabble board?”

My friend Jenny used to say that I ran an intellectual salon, with bright and interesting people clustering around me. She said what I did was hold court with them, on almost a nightly basis. If she was right – and I do think that she exaggerated things just a little – then those soirées started on my second night of business, with Robert, Stuart, and the Scrabble game. I waited until my last girl had been called out, then I unplugged the phones, opened a beer, did a line, and we were off.

* * * * * *

I worked out my own system. When a girl arrived at the client’s home or hotel room, I’d have her give me a call. She told the client that it was so I’d know that she had arrived safely. (“Peach worries about me, you know.”) But in reality I was both starting the clock running, and giving her an option to get out of a situation in which she felt uncomfortable.

It’s funny, as I look back on it now. These days, I give Sam secret code words to keep him safe. “The password is Twinkletoes. Don’t ever, ever go anywhere with anybody, even if that person is a grown-up, even if that person says that I sent them. Do you understand? If they say that I sent them, you ask them for the password. If they don’t know it, then run away from them.”

So I guess I had already started that same thing with my girls. “If you feel funny about anything, you can get out of there. When you call me, pretend that I just told you your sister called and is sick. You can apologize to the client, tell him to call me back, but that you have to leave. And then get out of there. You can tell me later what was wrong. Trust your instincts.”

In fact, I was actually a parent long before I had children: I had my clients and I had my girls. They were all as demanding as any two-year-old – maybe even more so. It goes with the territory.

These are people who are carrying around a lot of baggage. Well, honestly, think about it: you can’t live in the margins forever without eventually becoming marginal yourself.

At best, working as a callgirl can be a necessary interim step on your way to someplace else – as long as you keep that “someplace else” firmly in mind. It’s the women for whom the work becomes a run-on sentence who have the real problems.

But it can be good, believe it or not. It can be a way for a single mother to pay the rent and still spend her days with her children. It can be an abused woman getting the financial independence she needs to get out of a violent life. It can be the final stage of the Ugly Duckling becoming a beautiful swan, and proving it to herself and to the world. However – and this is a big however – those are the best-case scenarios, and they only work if you can manage to use the profession, rather than let the profession use you.

But it’s seductive, sometimes too seductive, and it’s easy to forget the password, the talisman, the way out.

It’s easy to think that this is the Real World.

First off, there’s the money. It’s been called the highest-paid profession in the world for women: that may not always be true, but in terms of hourly work, it has to be right up there. Certainly from my point of view, there is nowhere else on earth, with my education and my qualifications – or lack thereof – where I could be making the kind of money that I do. And it’s the same for the girls that work for me.

So this gets seductive after a while. You look at the other jobs you could have. They’re paying less than a tenth of what you’re making, and leaving becomes a really difficult decision to make. You have to have something set up, ready to segue into, otherwise you won’t make a clean break. People who keep coming back never really leave in the end. The longer they keep at it, the harder that decision will be, and the longer they’ll put it off.

Then there are the drugs – there are always the drugs. They’re so pervasive in this life that there’s almost no way of avoiding them. The names change, the highs change, but the drugs remain.

Wherever you go, it’s easier than easy to get drugs. You practically have to fight off people trying to sell them to you. This was truer at the beginning of my career as a madam, though some drug use remains a constant even today.

That was how Robert made his living in those days. He’d get some coke and divide it into lots of little bags, then he’d go hang out in the clubs, selling the stuff. When it’s past midnight and people are drunk and have run out of their stash and want to keep going, Robert can pretty much charge whatever he wants – for whatever they want.

There’s the whole countercultural thing, too. It’s probably the same dynamic that you see in teenagers, the ones who despise anything “normal” and feel themselves to be above all that. They turn pagan or Goth or grunge, and soon their friends are the only ones who understand them and the rest of the world is just oh-so-boring. That same dynamic operates in adults, too. Or maybe just so-called adults.

But after a while, you live most of your life at night, you make a lot of money and you spend a lot of money and people want to hang out with you. Eventually you’re going to lose interest in any other kind of life. Owning a house? Having kids? Going to work every day? Please. That’s for people who aren’t as hip and cool as I am.

To my mind, that’s the worst of it all. We’re not cooler than anyone else; we just think we are. We feed on each other’s need to believe that, like vampires, and end up like them, too, exhausted and empty, unable to face the light of dawn.

But when you’re in it … while it lasts … oh, man, it’s fucking magic.

JESSE, JESSE, JESSE …

Of course, if you’re anything like me, as soon as one thing in your life starts going well, everything else falls apart.

Work was great. I had opened an escort agency. I had some slow nights after the first mad rush, but work was regular, if not predictable. There were problems, but so far, nothing that I couldn’t handle.

And then the one thing that I couldn’t handle came along. His name was Jesse.

Jesse had, oddly enough, known me before, during a wild and unlucky trip I took to California while I was still at college myself. I had gone with some friends who were convinced that they could beat the odds in Vegas, which they probably could have done, in retrospect, if they hadn’t been caught counting cards the first night out. So much for subtlety. So we took the rest of our money and headed for Palm Springs instead. We had no idea how ludicrously expensive it would be. We lived out of the car for a few days – there were five of us – and then spent the rest of the summer in a kind of leftover hippie place on Manhattan Beach. That was where I met Jesse.

We had a fling, of course. Every proper Eastern girl who goes to California when she’s in college has a fling. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. He was, to my inexperienced eyes, quintessentially Californian, with smooth, tanned skin and dirty blond hair and blue eyes that looked like they were looking straight through you, into your soul, into your secrets. He had gorgeous hands, too, with long, sensitive fingers – what my mother would have called musician’s fingers. And he knew how to use them.

Within a day I was spending every night, every day, every moment of time I could manage with Jesse and his sensitive fingers. And tongue. And other body parts. He was intoxicating, more intoxicating than any liquor I had ever tasted. He did things to my body I hadn’t dreamed could be done. When he undressed he could have leapt from the cover of a romance novel (not that I ever read them, but Jesse was definitely cover material if I had – and I wasn’t immune to that).

Then he’d take off my clothes, too, and start moving his tongue all over me. Insistently, like he needed me, like he was restraining himself from devouring me. That was a such a turn-on – women like to feel that there’s a storm building somewhere – and his cock would be hard and throbbing against me, but his hands would keep moving all the time, and when he finally pushed himself inside me it was always as though every millimeter of my skin was responding, I had become so achingly aware of and in tune with him. Even the air on my skin felt erotic, charged, electric. He would move enough to build the tension, to build the passion, to make me ache for him to continue, then stop thrusting, and the hands would start again, moving, feeling, caressing; and then he’d begin thrusting again. This went on and on and on, through sweat-soaked afternoons, into sweat-drenched nights, until I finally begged him to let me come.

When I did, he would, too. And then he’d start caressing me all over again.

I’d never known a man who didn’t go to sleep, or get up, or do something else irritating after an orgasm. Never. I’d had boyfriends reach for the remote and turn on the game after an orgasm, for heaven’s sake (and, in one unfortunate instance, I had one who reached for it before the orgasm; but that was most decidedly the end of him). Not only did Jesse stay there; he started in all over again.

It was every girl’s wet dream, and, for that marvelous, magical summer, it was mine.

But summers end. I went back to Emerson college, paid attention to my studies, and Jesse became a memory etched in sunlight.

Until he showed up at my doorstep, five years later.

I fell for him all over again.

* * * * * *

I opened the door and stood there, staring at him, in shock. I had been anticipating the cab driver with my turkey dinner from the Union Oyster House.

So I was thinking about turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy, and then suddenly there was Jesse.

“Hey, baby,” he said, a little awkwardly, and then he smiled and the world around us lit up.

“Hi.” I couldn’t say much more – my breathing was a little ragged at that point. “Jesse.”

The smile broadened, and he walked up the three stairs to where I was standing in the doorway, his body tall and hard and tanned, just inches away from mine.

This was definitely not good.

Then he kissed me. And the sunshine and the surf and the happiness of Manhattan Beach sparkled all around us, even on a rainy night in Boston. I put my arms around his neck and hung on for dear life. To his credit, the man carried me into my apartment. We barely got the door shut behind us before we were tearing at each other’s clothes, our breath coming in hot little spurts, his hands suddenly all over me again.