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Jasmine leans on one elbow and studies me. “So there’s someone you like?”
I shrug again, but I don’t dare to look into her eyes. “Like I said, it’s complicated.”
“You’re a manager. Find a solution to make the situation less complex. That’s your job, for Pete’s sake!” When she gets flustered about these things, she makes me smile.
“Can you stop judging me? I’m against certain types of relationships, okay?” I push the elbow she’s leaning on and she slips back next to me on the bed.
“Can it get more scandalous than having regular sex with a prostitute?”
I glare at her.
“Okay. I’ll shut up about this topic. Either way, you need to find a solution to your relationship allergy as soon as possible, because this is the last time we can see each other. If I’m your only fuck, you won’t get laid for a while.”
I get up on my elbows and look at her. “How? Why?”
“I’m getting married next month, and my future husband wants me to stop doing this job.” She grimaces.
“You’re getting married? To who? I didn’t know anything about it!” I blurt out, scandalized.
Jasmine laughs. “Were you expecting me to invite you to the wedding? Anyway, he’s a former client of mine. Who would have thought that fucking with someone regularly would make me fall in love?” She smiles. She seems genuinely happy thinking about her future. I’ve never seen this radiant smile—she looks thrilled.
“You fuck me regularly, but you’ve never fallen in love with me,” I mumble, almost offended.
“For heaven’s sake, no. You’re so attached to your job I would need to take another lover to have human contact with someone!” She smiles amusedly.
I smile at her and lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “I imagined a million other things when I walked through that door today, but not this conversation,” I admit, resigned. “Can you refer me to some of your colleagues? Don’t take away the only form of fun I have left.”
Jasmine smiles and puts her hand on my chest. “No, if my colleagues find out that you’re the Jailbirds’ manager, they could blackmail you. They have no morals. The only people I would recommend for their discretion stopped doing this job a few years ago. I don’t know enough about the new ones to feel confident. But my solution still stands: find a girlfriend.”
“It takes too much time and too much effort.”
“And you already have a complicated woman in your head, I know. You don’t need to repeat it.” She smiles at me. “Have you ever thought about asugar daddysite? Usually, the girls on those are cute. You can have pleasant conversations and go out with them without necessarily having sex with them. A sugar baby is not a girl you pay by the hour and bring to a hotel to have sex with. You can go out for dinner, go on vacation, and make connections beyond sex. Many of them are on those sites to enhance the income of a regular job with expensive gifts, free vacations, or a luxurious lifestyle they otherwise couldn’t afford. It’s more like a relationship than paying an escort. It’s a good compromise between a prostitute and a girlfriend.”
I look at her for a few seconds and think about it.
“No, it’s too complicated. It’s like going on dating apps and finding someone for an evening. You still have to get out there and spend some time getting to know her. Usually, you end up in a club with a person you have no chemistry with, struggling to have a decent conversation, and sometimes she doesn’t even attract you physically. You both understand there won’t be a second date because it doesn’t work. So you go on the app again, choose a girl who apparently has the same interests as you, and hope she agrees to go on a date with you, and again risk ending up on another terrible date like the one you just returned from. I tried, really, but it’s exhausting to go from one blind date to another, starting from scratch every time. With a sugar baby, it’s the same system.”
Jasmine smiles and shakes her head disconsolately at my answer. “Do you think we can just have fun tonight? After all, you’ve already paid me.”
I look down at my pelvis and observe the absolute reluctance of my erection. “I don’t think that part of me is cooperating tonight,” I admit bitterly.
I lay my head back and look at the ceiling. I got up this morning ready to take on the world, planning my day to flow as smoothly as oil. Fifteen hours later, I’m almost dumped by a client, I have an unsolvable problem at work, and I’m in bed next to a half-naked, beautiful woman and have the erection of a comatose ninety-year-old. Where the hell did I go wrong?
St. Barts island in the French Antilles is the kind of paradise that smells of money and luxury, especially if you fly here in five hours in a private jet from New York. Theodore Wilson, a ruddy fifty-year-old man sitting next to me on the balcony of our room, is the typical patron of these places. He’s never short on money and flaunts it at every opportunity, like having his assistant book this three-thousand-square-foot hotel room by the ocean. Three thousand huge square feet that includes four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a swimming pool we don’t use because we have the crystal-clear water of the bay literally sixteen steps away. I counted them a million times this weekend as I tried to stay as far away as possible from his stubby, sticky hands.
“What are you thinking about,mon amour?” he asks as he spreads blueberry jam and goji berries over a croissant soaked in butter.
That I would like to smash your face every time you call me that. I turn to him, hiding an annoyed grimace behind the glass of mango juice freshly squeezed by some underpaid waiter.
“Some problems at work. I don’t want to bore you with useless chatter.” I try to cut it short.
This weekend with Theodore has been particularly challenging, and the five-hour flight that separates me from my coveted freedom feels like a lifetime away. Usually, he’s a pleasant man to talk to, always has interesting topics to rattle off, and I’ve discovered that he has an unbridled passion for high-society gossip. After months of outings, I know more about New York affairs than any gossip magazine. Sometimes, I find out details about the lives of his friends that I’m sure even the FBI would like to know. This weekend, however, he seems to want to talk a little less and have a lot more sex. While I’ve never denied him the physical act of our agreement, he’s one of the worst lovers I’ve ever had, and spending the weekend between the sheets with him isn’t at the top of my list of favorite pastimes.
“You’re always stressed about that job. You should live a little more carefree. You’re twenty-seven years old—plenty of time to have a career,” he scolds like a professor making me feel like an inexperienced girl.
“Aren’t you the one who says that either you make money before the age of thirty or you won’t make it?” I raise an eyebrow and challenge him to tell me otherwise. He always boasted of becoming a millionaire at twenty-five and a billionaire at twenty-nine.
“Yes, but you’re a woman. You can make money in much more pleasant ways.” He smiles and winks at me.
