Memory lane sure does get a girl down sometimes. I could feel myself wanting to cry every time I thought about it. At least some part of me did. That had been a moment of enlightenment. No one knew about what Roger did to me. What would that serve? In all honesty, I knew what mother would have said, and what my grandmother would have told me.
I remembered going home, cleaning myself the best I could, then going to my doctor to get checked out. Who knew what that dirtbag was carrying? Luckily he hadn’t had anything and I didn’t get an STD. Although I was dry when he pushed into me, nothing tore that could damage me. Thank God.
Not that I ever thought about having kids because come on. Why the hell would I ever subject my kids to the likes of me?
Doctor Tuttle checked me over, and had said something to the effect of going to a hospital and then going to the cops about the incident to try and get something done about it. Ha.
Really? What would that serve? It’s not like the guy would serve time jail. His father was wealthy. I mean, like filthy rich. There’s no way he’d probably even see a court room if I was to pursue something like that.
No. I had just told her to check me and finish so I could go about my business. Maybe if there had been an STD or something like that involved, then maybe yes. But since I was physically fine, I just moved on. Emotional? Well, even three years later my mind was set the same way. Men were only good for one thing. Money.
“You’re not even listening to me are you, Taylor?”
Ugh. What was she even doing here? Shouldn’t she be at her own home, being miserable? Why does she have to bother me?
When my mother got too old, she took the man who got her pregnant for everything she could and moved us here from California. Old meant her late twenties to be a sugar baby herself. She moved to the heart of Houston and she became a secretary. I don’t know how she got a job as a secretary at one of the most prestigious law firms in Houston, but there you have it.
She made a decent living along with the sugar baby money she’s received and saved. Things nowadays were a lot different and more expensive than they were back then. She liked her job though. It gave her something to do during the day. All she did was answer phones and direct the calls. And I so didn’t want to know what she did at night. Yuck. None of my business.
“Nope. I’m not going to discuss the shit my life is with you.”
A heavy sigh filtered through her and why oh why did we have to have the same conversation every time we saw each other? It’s like that’s the only thing to talk about. Me. How I was “fucking up my life”. Hoe I wasn’t doing the business right. I really just want to put my hand up and mimic talking; maybe she’d realize I wasn’t paying attention and just get the hint that I want her the hell out. But! I don’t want to get in a fight with her. It’s such a waste of time. And she’d drag it out as much as she could.
“Taylor, all you have to do is get yourself set up and you won’t have to work if you know how to manage your money right.”
“Mother, I make five figures a month. I’m already set for life. I never have to work again if I don’t want to.”
The look on my mother’s face was priceless. “Five figures?”
I laughed, hearing the bitterness sift through as I responded. “I know how to work men to my best advantage and I don’t even have to sleep with them if I don’t want. That’s how good I am.”
Then I got up and walked to the kitchen. I was tired of looking at her. Growing up, school and having fun and just being a girl was not a part of my life. Ever since I could remember I took etiquette classes. Trust me, women trying to make you into a nice young lady were the worst. There were dining courses, walking/sitting/standing posture courses, speech classes. Visual poise, how to talk and write and of course ‘how to host’. Most of which weren’t beneficial for me, but I still learned it.
Everything had to be perfect for my mother and grandmother. I learned a lot about shit that didn’t apply to my services. Like travel, open dates like dinners, weddings, etc. Although I have been asked to escort a few times, but most men were single and that was one of my rules. No single men. That wasn’t the type of service I provided.
That was one of my cardinal rules.
Married men only.
Married, older men. Depending on how many engagements they want set up a month, which was really no more than three, tops four times a month, half or seventy-five percent of the time, they don’t even want sex. Their lives were so demanding and pressured that all they want was for someone, a someone like me, to take them to a place where none of that matters. Where I am the boss and I dominate them. Sick, but that’s how some of these older, more domineering men were. A lot of them just want to watch. They’d sit away from me and tell me exactly what they wanted me to do to myself and I give them want they want.
Or they tell me how they want to be touched, how they want me to treat them. Some were really twisted, but since it was all about the money and they abided by my rules, I didn’t give a shit.
You’d think after four, almost five years of this life that I’d feel used and abused and my vagina the size of a fucking basketball, but like I said, a lot didn’t want sex. Some men thought about ‘infidelity’—you know, prenups and shit if their wives ever found out—and contracted for oral or anal. Eh. Yeah, I went there. But it’s okay.
Most tended to want oral, but I have done anal. It’s give and take. Trust me when I say, my mother and grandmother made sure I learned every single thing you could possibly imagine about the act. But that is very far and few. Trust me, a good call girl’s price for anal was not cheap.
Neither was oral, well duh, hello! It was our fucking mouth over a man’s dick. Food goes in there, but I digress. Most didn’t want to pay that price. But I’ll get to that in a little bit.
Between me, my mother and my grandmother, God please don’t let her rest in peace, I have been the only one who brought home more money than was imaginably possible. In all reality, I was a millionaire. If I did this for another seven years like they did, I’d be a millionaire a few times over—or billionaire for that matter.
They had a plan. Twelve years of being a sugar baby, then at the age of thirty sucker one sugar daddy—hopefully the richest—into getting you pregnant and—ooops! Hush money anyone? Wink. Wink.
They blackmailed them into paying handsomely once a month to live on for say, eighteen years. Because come on, if a man pays child support, if they didn’t find a way around the system, they had eighteen years to pay before that child was an adult. And the thought about revealing said illegitimate child into the public was not ever going to happen so my mother and hers played their cards right and were set for life. All about image. No sugar daddy wanted to reveal he fucked someone other than his wife—or sully their name by having a child by a woman like us. Some were widowers. Not for me though. Nope. Married men were the only way to go for me.
But that’s how they saw it. But not this girl. No one dictated to me. I made myself. Services by Sarah was a beacon to the rich man. I was discreet. They e-mailed me for an inquiry and I sent them the list of services I offered. We’d correspond and within a few short e-mail’s if they chose to go further, we make arrangements to have the first face to face consultation. We’d meet at a hotel of my choice, there were eleven, which I’ll get to later. We’d looked over the contract checked off and scratched out which services would be required, and he’d sign the preliminary contract, where I’d take a picture, insurance you see, before I’d take it home and revise it, striking out what wasn’t wanted and at the first set engagement, we’d sign, each keeping a copy and then our arrangements truly began at a different hotel of his choice.
Services by Sarah was what I called my ‘business’ in my apartment, I had a separate room that was strictly my office where I kept all my business possessions. It was the master bedroom. Yes, well it had a walk-in closet that held many different types of clothing, shoes, safes, tools, that kind of stuff regarding my SBS business. I kept a separate laptop in there that I paid a lot of money to have a very good fire wall put in. Trust me, a good computer geek was hard to come by. And one that didn’t pry.
Ever since Roger, I’ve moved and sold the Honda I had and upgraded slightly. By slightly, I mean I got a Nissan Rogue, and my apartment was a little bigger, but I still lived far enough away that it would be hard to follow me. Trust me, in the past three years, I’ve taken defensive driving and I took self-defense classes. Kickboxing, Jiu-Jitsu, and Krav Maga. Of course, I did various other workouts, but I had to make sure I kept my feminine figure. My business rides on the fact that I look sexy, alluring, and fuckable. A man who fucks women outside of his wife doesn’t want to imagine his wife while he’s fucking the other woman. A lot of men, older men, wanted a young pussy to make them feel like the fucking cock of the hen house. But they didn’t want a woman who looked beefed up or manly.
My legs were muscular. I had a great ass, slim waist and tits to match perfectly. My arms were strong but they weren’t cut. My stomach was toned, but I didn’t have a six-pack. I wasn’t hardcore about looking fit, but I did it enough to keep in perfect shape and kick ass if I had to.
Was I vain? I didn’t think so. I just made sure I looked the part and it was a healthy way of living—physically. The mental part of why I made sure I looked that way might be a little fucked up, but I gave none so moving on. Believe me, it’s hard keeping this size eight. I was pretty sure it was genetic pass down that I couldn’t lose more weight. At least unless I went hardcore, but I liked the way my body looked. It wasn’t like I body-shamed anyone.
Hell, love the fucking skin you’re in. Personal motto. Stick-thin to a blimp, if it makes you happy, fuck everyone else and their self-absorbed, insecure pathetic selves. Don’t waste your time on shit like that unless you’re getting paid and you have no problem with it. I was fine with the way I was. I’ve even been a size ten before. Hell, I’ve been a size twelve, but personally, I had an ideal image in my head and I worked out accordingly. It’s all about how you see yourself, not how anyone, man or woman saw you.
The things my mother told me and what my grandmother has told me and done to me in the past didn’t affect me or how I ran my business.
I took classes to do all the paperwork myself. I was a proficient.
Now, at twenty-two, I had a total of seven clients and I made no less than fifteen grand a month with SBS. I did keep my waitressing job, and I made sure some of the fifteen grand was ‘included’ in my tip out from the restaurant. Not much, but I claimed enough that the IRS hasn’t crawled around my ass. Like I was said, I was smart enough to take accounting and I was good at working the system to my advantage. Sometimes I even ‘owed’ the IRS.
A smart girl knows how to make the most of what she’s got and to make sure it’s always beneficial for her. Another ‘lesson’ I learned.
“Fine, Taylor. I guess you do know what you’re doing, although I still think one man would be better but it’s your life. Especially after that whole York fiasco. You never told your grandmother or I about what happened, but I knew you’d learn from your experiences and have applied them to your work ethic now. Have to look your best.”
“Always mother.” It’s all about fucking image. Maybe I should make myself look like a hobo more often.
“Good girl. Well, I’m off to finish the day at the spa. Would you care to join me?”
Ugh. And have more of this ‘mother-daughter’ bonding? Ha. Yeah, right. I’d rather do something else. Anything else. But I just pasted the same saccharine smile she gave me as I shook the image of me strangling her and put on my ‘Sarah’ face as I turned around to respond.
“No, thank you for asking though, mother. I’m just going to relax before I head into my office to look over my appointments for this week.”
She nodded and smiled although it still didn’t please her. Fucking bitch. Nothing pleased her anymore. Or ever did. Oh, her life now might not be so bad but she was older. She couldn’t have her youth back. Would she even change it if she could? Would she want to do something else with her life is her own mother hadn’t screwed hers up? We were both proficient in our line of work.
Tricks.
We were so good at them. And it blackened our soul until there really wasn’t a soul left.
She smiled like she was proud of me and said, “Of course. Have a good week, Taylor-darling.” And just as she opened the door, she saw the brown studded leather belt I had hooked on a nail to the right of my door. “Why do you have this, Taylor? It really doesn’t have a purpose.”
“Don’t worry, mother. My own personal touch. And yes, it does have a purpose.”
“Care to share that purpose?”
“No, mother. I’m sorry. It’s personal.”
She shook her head like she didn’t know what to do with me and left.
Thank fucking Christ. She had only been here an hour and I wanted to down a bottle of fucking wine. I didn’t touch the harder stuff. It might be too fucking addicting. Wine? I could wine all damn day, every day if I could. But since I work most days, Sunday is the only opportunity to chillax.
I was never going to share the purpose of that little decorating design to anyone. I looked down and brought my wrists up to where there was just the teensiest scar from where I twisted just a little too hard.
That was my reminder of why I did this. Why I continued doing what I was doing. And to never let my guard down. Ever again. That was the harshest lesson I’ve ever had to learn. Everything else I could deal with. But I will never willingly trust another man again. Or woman. I couldn’t trust anyone. Not with my line of work.
When you let your walls down pass a certain point, something slips in and knocks them down. It reminded me that no man was worth the grain of salt they were made from. Hell no. No one could get past the walls I erected when I was nineteen and the years before well, I never told a soul.
I kept all that shit on lockdown. My heart? What fucking heart did I have anyway? I lost my innocent since I was practically fucking born. My life had already been chosen for me. There’s no innocence left. It’s been wiped away. Erased.
This shit happens every time my mother comes to see me. I hated it. Rubbing the small scar, I stuck my tongue out at the stupid belt as if it had eyes and roamed over me like it knew exactly the shit it did to me. As the man who did it and liked it. I walked up to the door, locked it, including the several locks I had on it—still paranoid, okay—then I walked away. Deciding to go take a hot bath instead of the work I knew I’d have to get to later. Fuck if I was going to look at my appointments this week so soon after dealing with my mother. I didn’t want to be reminded of it right this fucking second.
I walked to my room, shuffled through my clothes, might as well get ready for the day. Yeah, it was only eleven in the morning. That’s how my day of rest usually started. My mother always came by. Like clockwork.
I’ll deal with SBS later. For now, I was going to soak in a hot tub of concoctions that always seemed to help drain the sickness of my life away. Even if it was only for a little while, I could at least not think about that part of my life. And not strangling my mother. Let’s not forget about that.