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“The state of Florida, for one.”
He just sat there, face blank. Evidently my life’s work was such a waste of time that it had rendered him speechless. “They gave you an award?” he finally said. “And that’s something you’re proud of?”
“I’m proud because I’m providing a very important service. There are a lot of people out there who happen to think I’m making the world a better place to live.”
“I’m sure there are,” he said. “That’s the problem. If it seems like I’m mad, it’s because I am. I just don’t understand why a woman like you would be proud of selling herself out like she’s nothing more than a piece of meat.”
“A piece of meat?” I said, completely confused.
I suddenly had a flashback to this morning. I had just woken up and was still disoriented. I saw a stranger at my side and asked him if we’d fornicated. He’d said,I prefer my women free-of-charge.
Oh my God. All this time. Recoiling from my touch. Repeatedly using the words “a woman like you.”
Listening to me talk about the instructional videos on my YouTube channel.
“Holy shit,” I said, aghast. “You think I’m a hooker?”
CHAPTER 10
Ian
She was livid.
“No!” I said. “Not a hooker. What I meant to say was... a sex technician?”
“Awhat?”
“Pleasure consultant?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I’m sorry if I’m not using the politically correct term. And believe me, I’m not some sexist throwback who thinks women don’t have the right to choose how they use their own bodies. I respect your choices. But I don’t understand them.”
“My choice,” she said, making air quotes around the word “choice,” “is to be a PhD candidate at Columbia University.”
I was sure I’d heard her right. But I wasn’t sure I believed her. A PhD candidate? “You’re serious?”
She grabbed her bag and pulled out her wallet. “You need proof?” she said, throwing a laminated card at me. “There’s my campus ID. Read it and weep.”
I picked up the card from my lap. Sure enough, it was a Columbia University ID bearing the name “Clara Zapata.” I looked at the picture, then up at my driver. Yep. This was her. Not a sex engineer. Not an orgasmatician. A graduate student.
How the fuck was I going to get myself out of this one? I decided to givelet’s just pretend none of this ever happeneda try. “So,” I said, “what’s your field of study?”
“Get the hell out of my car!”
“Is that a new discipline?” I tried to joke. “I haven’t heard of it before.”
She wasn’t amused. “I’m an ornithologist!”
“Oh my God, are you kidding me?” I cried in sorry attempt to salvage the situation. “I love ornithols!” In reality, I had no idea what an ornithol was, other than OJ Simpson’s first name. “Small world, huh?”
She wasn’t falling for it. She pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of her wallet, rolled it up, and inserted it into my shirt pocket like a sex-club patron inserting a dollar into a stripper’s underwear. “Have the gas station attendant call you an Uber. We’re through here.”
“Clara, please don’t do this. I’m sorry. Really, really sorry.”
“I said get out!”
“We’re still over a hundred miles from the city! I’ll have to pay the driver for the ride thereandthe drive back. It’s more than either of us have.”
