Relationships, part 1: The Prostitute

You know, I’m not the kind of person who’s ever held any animosity towards anyone. I have had my moments of seediness and jealousy and I can be mean, but I usually apologize. I don’t enjoy harboring negative feelings, yet there are three people in the industry I would have a hard time confronting if I happened upon their path for some reason. For the sake of growth and letting go, maybe I should explore why.

When relationships don’t end well there is remorse beyond just saying good-bye. I had to end a friendship with someone I considered my best friend from the age of fifteen to seventeen. It was years later, and I’d just gotten into the adult industry. I thought she’d treat it the way she treated my telling her I was a topless dancer years before that – with a bit of wonder and slight annoyance – but she didn’t. She began quoting the Bible and I knew we’d grown apart. I might as well have performed an abortion at her wedding. Given drugs to her child. Streaked through a Tea Party Convention. I was really just looking for a reason to use ‘streak’ and ‘Tea Party Convention’ in the same sentence. The point is, it was over and so I ended it by hanging up on her. Not subtle, but I know religious types and once they begin their train of irrational, brain-washed babble, you cannot derail them. It is possible to have a civilized conversation with a religious person, just not when they’re not listening, is what I mean to say. Some get so used to being preached to they forget a conversation is a two-way street and everyone is entitled to their opinion.

The three relationships I referred to in the beginning ended in this way… sort of. One was a very successful prostitute, one a make-up artist, and one someone that I had a three-year relationship with, off and on. I think it’s cathartic to talk about things in order to move on. I don’t have a therapist and I don’t want one. Writing is my therapy and I am happy to use it. I did see a therapist once and she said I seemed pretty well-rounded. Why? Because in one hour’s time I cried, screamed, reminisced, laughed, made her laugh (an unexpected chortle that surprised even her, which was delightful), and then left saying that I would never come back. She said that it usually takes a person several months, even years to reveal their many layers. At ninety dollars an hour, you can bet I gave that bitch everything I had… and then some. (No disrespect to her, of course.)

Anyway, yes… I think talking about it could be cathartic. I think it could be interesting to look back on, at the very least.

The Prostitute

A money-maker if ever there was one. ‘Resourceful’ doesn’t even skim the surface. When I met her at The Hemsley Park Lane in Manhattan, in “Red’s” room, I didn’t trust her for a second. She peered at me from the corner of her eye and I could feel her sizing me up. It felt reptilian. Red was a relaxed and warm woman. She was a porn star, too… should say, is a porn star – we never really stop being porn stars, I guess – but completely the opposite of “Raven”. Red laughed easy, she loved to have fun. She opened up her arms to everyone who seemed nice enough. We were in Red’s room, a suite on the twenty-fifth floor facing Central Park in Fall. It is a beautiful view from there. The city lights glistening at dusk around a square pool of red, orange and green. I sat on the bed, Red played with her iPod and speakers and Raven stood in the doorway between their adjoining rooms. We were shrouded in darkness save for the smooth glow of red and blue lights through dark chiffon scarves atop the canvas lamps. A smoky layer of incense threaded through the air like a thin fog. Red liked her space moody. She’d replace the lamp’s bright white bulbs for the warmer tones of light from colored bulbs because they masked bruising, dark circles and the slow week-long fade of her spray-on tan. She’d been doing this long enough that her customers came to her. She could rely on her own controllable environment to give her comfort. Two vases overflowing with the flower arrangements of orchids, roses, carnations and lilies were placed, one on the dresser, and one on the table by the picture window. Bottles of red wine and crystal stemware sat at the ready. She was a gracious hostess with all the amenities of intoxicating paraphernalia at her disposal. Me, I liked a well-lit room with few distractions. And since I was new, I spent most of my time running to other people’s hotel rooms, lofts and suburban homes.

Red played soft music, a Deftones song, probably, and I talked to her, animated, because I enjoyed being in her presence, but I was keenly aware that Raven was staring at me through the darkness, summing me up, trying to figure me out. She worked everything strategically, and she wanted to know what she could get out of me, if anything. It bothered me at the time, but now I understand why. We were all porn stars that made the bulk of our money working as high-paid escorts, but we had very different personalities. I was fiercely independent, taking care of my ex and our son, as well as myself, and struggling with how to assert myself as a single woman after twelve years of marriage. Red was married with no kids. She took care of herself and her husband while trying to save money for a business that could free her from the industry. She loved having people around, needed a lot of attention, but gave a lot of attention in return. Raven only took care of herself and her various pets. Her world revolved around her things, her possessions. Every purse, outfit, pair of sunglasses had to read the label on it in an obvious way. She dressed that way, too. She heaved her large breasts up in gravity-defying bras and halter tops, wore bicycle shorts and revealed herself just short of walking around naked to get attention. Everything had to advertise what she was after. She loved plastic surgery, home improvement, big expensive cars and any kind of work that was required to carefully construct the outward appearance of affluence. She was excellent at getting what she wanted from people, and she wore it all with the intention of generating more. I think that’s why our friendship was inspired, strained and then inevitably came to an end. She could never get the material things she wanted out of me, and I could never get the friendship I needed out of her.

… to be continued…