Girl’s Girl.-- Mara Delmar

“Hey, you know, I really need this right now,” Geoff breaks our comfortable silence. His voice catches, almost overpowered by SZA blasting from the speakers. “This means a lot to me with everything I have going on.” Moved by his change in tone, I turn from the bar to face him.

“Of course, I always love our time together,” I say, looking into his pale eyes. He touches my faux-leather pants all the way up my thigh. I return the gesture on his khakis and we kiss. He is in his forties and conventionally attractive, but for me the chemistry is barely there. I have loose sketches of Geoff’s life. A garden. A wife and kids in Rochester. Chronic illness. Domestic fatigue. I feel squeamish to say that I am doing the Lord’s work, but I might save his marriage.

Months ago on our first date, Geoff noticed all the hoops in my ears and complimented my “hardware”. He told me that before he was a family man, he always attended Burning Man. I guessed that I reminded him of women there. I lean into that fantasy now: leather and eyeliner. My short hair and tattoos complete the look. When I asked what he did for work he pointed to his Patagonia vest as if it were obvious: “Tech bro uniform.” He talks with the assumption that I party, but I really don’t. I have a few friends in the city, but most of my night life revolves around men like him.

Geoff removes his hand from my thigh and calls over the bartender. While he orders tequila shots, I glance around the lobby bar at the W. The crowd is beautiful and well-dressed. A pleasant tingling rises through my body- the specialness and ease I feel only in proximity to money.

On the walk to the elevator we absorb looks from the other guests. His hand brushes my waist, then lower. But now, like last time, something distracts him. As we trail through city streets and upscale restaurants and plush carpeted hotel halls, my bag full of costumes and condoms, he turns silent. His face tilts upward as if gazing at the moon. Is he contemplating his decision to cheat— or trying to forget about it? I smile and pull him close when we enter the room. He snaps back to the present. 

A while later my bag holds his folded bills. I relax on a couch in the lobby and wait for the Uber. The alcohol is wearing off. Geoff exhausts me with his Viagra and multiple rounds, his requests for outfit changes and unusual positions.

At the bar, the party ramps up. The swarm’s laughter rises with each round of drinks. They’re here for play; I was here for work. I shift in my seat, out of their line of sight. 

The restaurant is dim and windowless, a world apart from the autumn sunshine outside. Ally slides into the booth seat across from me. We’re at a neighborhood bar, chosen for its privacy and location. I admire her Gucci purse, her acrylics, her blonde hair extensions. Sitting up straighter, I set down my Telfar bag and hide my bare nails. 

Ally and I met during a three-way with a mutual client. Her slender body was tanned and completely naked except for a lacy thong. I knew the taste of her pussy before her voice and we exchanged fake orgasms before names. She asked for my number in the Uber home. She proposed we “go into business together.” We could charge a higher rate for three-ways by offering an exclusive experience. That is why we’re meeting now.

“So, I usually charge 500. What’s your rate?” Ally asks, after pleasantries are out of the way. 

“I charge 500, too.” 

She seems surprised, maybe because I’m five years older than her. At thirty-one, I should have expired already. 

We commiserate over the men who lowball us, ask us to host, or flake at the last minute. But soon it becomes obvious that the volume of our experiences differ. I’m just getting started, I have at most five regular clients, and I still work full-time at my day job. She keeps much busier, and has been doing it for longer. 

“Why do you do it?” she asks. When I pause she smiles mischievously, “Are you just greedy?”

We both laugh. 

“I still have so much debt from grad school,” I say, “what about you?” 

“I love saving.” 

I nod, hiding envy. I can’t wait to get to the point where I can really save, rather than paying off credit cards and living hand-to-mouth. 

She insists on paying for our lunch and plucks bills from her purse, complaining that using cash is more expensive than card. The Coinstar charges a fee, and she can never use all the coins she gets as change. I wonder about the carefree way I deposit my earnings directly into my bank account. At what point would it be flagged as suspicious?

Before we leave she asks, “How do you feel about married men?”

“Well… I figure most of them are cheating, whether they tell me or not. And if it’s not with me it’s going to be with someone else…” I trail off uncomfortably.

“Yeah, I get that,” she replies, “but it’s not really being a girl’s girl.”

“Happily married man seeks the hidden passion.”

*

“Looking for a fun relationship with a connection not just something physical. Wine and dine or cuddling watching a movie. Meaningful conversation. Discretion necessary and assured.”

*

“Due to career and family situation discretion matters a lot for me and I will provide that in return. My ideal connection is one where we put secret smiles on each other’s faces and create a private world that makes our ‘real lives’ more livable.”

*

“I’m professional, respectful, confident, and not here to change anyone’s life, including my own. I’m proud of what I have, but if I’m honest, the spark behind closed doors has faded.

I know this might be an unusual request, but I can’t be the only one feeling this way. Desire doesn’t disappear just because life looks good on the outside.

I’m seeking a discreet, like-minded woman – someone who understands the need for passion without pressure, connection without complication.”

Sara sits across from me at a late-night Mexican joint. We’ve been talking nonstop for hours. Though our families have been friends since before our birth, we only became close in undergrad. We went to the same small, religious, liberal arts college in the suburbs. 

Sara repeatedly raises her eyebrows at the hot grad students who walk through the door, then laughs at herself. She teaches at a college similar to our alma mater, and complains about the lack of attractive men. After years of traveling and living in multiple countries, returning to the suburbs has been a culture shock.  

Her approach to dating remains aligned with the Christian tradition we both grew up in. She is dating to find a life partner, and doesn’t plan to have sex before marriage. Still, she encourages me to share my experiences. I decide to tell her about my favorite client. 

“He asks to see me every week. Each time, he pays for an expensive dinner and a hotel room downtown—”

“Do you ever stay in the room overnight? That would be so nice!”

“Well, no, I never pack an overnight bag. And besides, my apartment isn’t far. Anyway, he pays the highest rate, and never complains about using a condom. He comes so fast—"

She giggles.

“— and then we spend time talking and cuddling—"

“Cuddling? You really cuddle them?”

I laugh with her then pause, wondering why the cuddling had thrown her, rather than the coming. This work involves physical affection from the start, which builds up to sex. And after they’ve come, of course they want to lay in bed for a few minutes. 

“Sorry, I’m asking too many questions,” Sara says, assuming my discomfort. 

I want to answer her. I want to say something about building rapport, and that I vet and choose each person. That there is something about the holiness of each human being. That feeling their skin on my fingertips is a spiritual exercise in love, in opening to a stranger. That a benevolent sort of friendship forms. That their payment is a tangible affirmation of my value. 

Or maybe I am just a whore. That word alone puts a stop to poetry. It is what it is. The endless, weary dance between husbands and hookers. 

“No, you’re not asking too many questions,” I assure her. “It’s actually kind of nice to talk about it.”

“Okay, good. Wait, so have you ever caught feelings for a client?”

“No, not at all! But I have incredible chemistry with one. I didn’t expect it, but we have the best sex.”

“How old is he?”

“Umm I think early fifties.”

“Are you attracted to him?”

“Not really.” 

We’re both laughing. I don’t know if we’re laughing at the same thing.

My therapist told me that I’m using my counseling degree, just not in the way I planned. My art professor said I like to surprise myself and others. A friend told me they got the sense that I don’t want to do this much longer, but maybe there’s something I liked about the humiliation. My ex didn’t like how much casual sex I had in our open relationship. He said I don’t think about sex like a normal person. He said I told him I was going out to suck dick as if I were just leaving to check the mail.

Minutes after buying us drinks, JT guides me around the casino in search of a single-occupancy restroom. I sip on my watered-down margarita and barely taste any alcohol. Maybe after this he’ll buy me another. 

JT plays poker for a living. He seems to know half the people we pass, nodding proudly. He hired me for a three-way with his wife, but now insists on some alone time before she arrives. Presumably head in the bathroom. I don’t protest because he offered nearly twice my usual rate. 

Somehow every restroom we pass is in use. He sighs and leads us to the hotel elevator, not explaining much. He is shorter than me, which I suspected. I’m glad I remembered to wear flats. That’s something Ally taught me to pay attention to. 

“Have you and your wife always had an open relationship?” I ask, since he’s bragging about their experiences with three-ways.

“Yeah, I guess so. But there are some things she’ll never know about.” He pauses dramatically. “I might want to see you on my own sometimes, or take you on vacation just the two of us.”

“Okay, yeah, I guess everyone has their things,” I concede vaguely. “Where was your last vacation?”

He scrolls through his camera roll to find pictures of him and his wife smiling in Cancun. They look good together. I spot multiple Van Cleef bracelets on her wrist. Then he pulls up a photo of a white Mercedes topped with a giant red bow. His wife leans against it, beaming.

“That was my Christmas gift to her,” he shows me.

“You take care of her well,” I say, genuinely impressed.

JT is quiet for a second. “I’m very blessed.”

We get up to the room and start making out. Will she be suspicious when she finds us here? I suck him hard then he rubs against me, wanting to go in. 

“Not without a condom,” I say. At that he looks at his watch and decides to hop in the shower. I stand up and pull at my skirt. In one swift motion, I smooth the bedsheets. 

“You’re the best,” he praises. 

I cringe at his audacity, yet feel no remorse. Tonight I will center him: orbit, stroke, pacify. Whether his wife knows it or not, my labor takes work off her plate. She will notice he is in a better mood. The marriage feels lighter. The marriage is saved. 

In an hour I will return to the center of my life, richer. No man to contort around.

---

Mara Delmar is an emerging writer based in New England. When she is not writing about nature, sexuality, and faith, she also work in museums.