I was in my first professional position. I had been hired as an Accounts Payable Clerk through a temp agency for a mass mailer company. It was an easy enough job for someone with absolutely no office experience: open mail, enter amount in a spreadsheet, compare the cost to the previous month, and submit an approval request for the check to be cut; then check the check, put in an envelope, stamp the envelope, and drop it in the outgoing mail. It was boring, but came with a paycheck and I needed martini money.
Brittany worked in the graphic design department creating the flyers, brochures, and whatnot that were mailed weekly, and no doubt thrown in the recycling with the rest of the junk mail. She was entry-level, just putting the graphics made by the more experience designers onto the pages. It was boring, but came with a paycheck, though she didn’t need the martini money.
Brittany dressed Sax Fifth Avenue on a Walmart salary. I assumed she came from money. As with most assumptions, I was wrong.
We quickly became work buddies, eating lunch and taking smoke breaks together. After about a month, we made plans to go out for drinks. Brittany told me to meet her at the mall before we went out.
She wanted to buy me something suitable for our evening out. I protested. She insisted. I protested again. My white cotton Swiss Dot sundress was attractive and comfortable and paired well with slinky heels.
“You have to look like money to attract money,” she said. “I’m not saying you can’t afford what I’m going to buy you, but you probably can’t.” She was right, and when I dressed for the night I felt like a million dollars. “You can take me shopping anytime,” I laughed.
We went to a posh place: cigars, scotch, and leather permeated an atmosphere already pervaded with wealth. We sat, observant, ignoring the side-eye glances from men of all ages. Brittany talked of ploys, being coy, and other strategies for capturing the interest of just the right man. She was grooming me. I felt it before I understood it. I was happy for a man mentor.
She picked my clothes before we went out, every time, buying more when I had run through what she deemed acceptable. My fashion sense was not rich, limited to the comfort of my favorite jeans and t-shirts. Clothes were only to be repeated if at another establishment and we went to only a few select places.
At one such place I met the mysterious man who had sat silently in the darkest corner, watching intently as Brittany and I conversed and laughed, flirted and drank, leaving every time only in the company of each other.
John was her john. “I think you’d make an excellent escort,” he said. The night was ending. Only a few gentlemen remained at the bar, teetering with a sway not altogether conspicuous. “You’re a natural beauty,” he continued. “You hold yourself with a great deal of respect and converse well with men.”
This was all true.
He handed me a slip of paper. Folded so as not to show its message.
“Brittany will explain,” he said as he rose from his seat. He kissed her hand, then exited through the side door reserved for guests of the inn upstairs. Brittany explained, and I considered. I had three days to decide if I would accept the trial.
I accepted. It was $200 for the first hour, $200 for every half hour after that, with a two-hour minimum: $600 for two hours and the sex I would have had anyway.