Paid Companion

Dominique Millette (c) 2024

“You nailed it,” Stephen said. “They loved you.”

I basked in the afterglow of a perfect morning meeting. Our new Toronto client had just awarded us our biggest advertorial production contract so far. It made me forgive Stephen for becoming my boss when I’d applied for the same job.

Before getting in the car back to Sudbury, I headed to a bathroom and changed out of my grey silk pencil skirt and matching bustier blouse, an impulse purchase from Holt Renfrew. The outfit seemed perfect for a business look without the antediluvian vibe.

Stephen was still in the lobby when I came out in my jeans and t-shirt. “Can I hitch a ride with you?”

I hesitated. “Aren’t you supposed to drive back with Ezra? You could use the time to hash out financials.”

A smirk spread across Stephen’s face. “I’d rather spend the time with you. We can work out the budget later.”

The look on his face and his tone of voice made me uncomfortable, but he was the boss. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt this way around him. I’d gotten past it before. We got in my car.

The first hour and a half were all about his kids, both still toddlers. As we got to Port Severn, his voice seemed to drop another octave. “That outfit was amazing, by the way. I bet it clinched the deal.”

I squirmed. “Thanks,” I said, curtly.

He started to complain about how his wife never wore anything like that, and in fact hadn’t touched him in months, which he felt was unfair given their incredible sex life before the kids were born.

My hands gripped the steering wheel, and I felt a sudden tension in the back of my head. “That’s too much information,” I mumbled.

He kept talking. “Your ex-boyfriend said you were super hot in bed. Lucky guy.”

That’s when I veered into the nearest exit off the 400 and drove up to the nearby Tim Hortons. I spat the words out like bile.

“Get out.”

He looked at me as if I were an alien bursting through the chest of an astronaut. “What the hell, Marcie?”

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t feel anything but fury. “You crossed a line. Get out. I am not sharing this car with you after what you just said.”

He shook his head and sputtered. “If you have a problem with it, tell your boyfriend. He’s the one who should have kept his mouth shut.”

I glared. “What the hell?”

“Oh, come on. You’re not exactly a nun. Stop acting like it. I’m going to go get a coffee, since we’re stopping. You’re going to take a minute to calm the hell down and when I come back, we’re going to talk about this.”

He headed to the restaurant. I drove off. My stomach dropped and my pulse raced as I got back on the highway. My phone rang repeatedly. He left ten messages. I was fired.

I was just as angry at myself as I was at him. In my head, I replayed all the times I kept quiet because I hadn’t wanted to offend him by assuming too much. Our whole group of friends joked about sex, usually over drinks at after-five get-togethers. We didn’t need boundaries. One of our running gags was about the mayor’s tiny mouth being just big enough for his dick. Now I felt like an idiot.

When I got to Sudbury, I dumped his luggage and equipment in a jumble just inside the office door. My next stop was Iguana Jim’s, where I ordered six consecutive shots of rye and toasted the papier-mâché lizards stuck to the ceiling.

Pamela Bosquet leaned forward in her padded Italian leather chair as my story came pouring out. She spoke in a measured tone. “Of course you’re upset. However, there’s a strong possibility the judge will see your reaction as a fireable offence, at the very least, notwithstanding what preceded it. That’ll be a separate question. While it can be very satisfying to retaliate with a grand gesture, it isn’t productive, legally speaking.”

I gripped the edge of the desk. “I’m upset, all right. Legally speaking, this is bullshit.”

Pamela leaned back. “I have a duty to outline how this is likely to play out. Unfortunately, if you don’t have a recording, it’ll be his word against yours. If your boss admits to anything, he will likely bring up any previous instances where you had no problem with sexual conversations. Furthermore, you were only employed at this company for a few months before the incident.”

I looked up at the ceiling, then back at her. “I may have only been at the company for a short time, but the damage this has done to my career is going to last for years. I left a great position to take this job. I’ve won national awards for my stories on local water quality and healthcare. No one’s going to submit anything of mine to a jury now.”

We went over my options. I wouldn’t get my job back. The odds of getting a judgement in my favour with any award for damages were about fifty-fifty, with said damages likely to be minimal. I drummed my fingers on the leather desk protector. My savings were dwindling. No one was returning my job-related calls. Pamela wanted two thousand dollars to get started and there were few guarantees of success.

“Let me think about it,” I said.

She nodded, then swivelled to her computer with its double screen monitor. I let myself out.

Sudbury isn’t a big media town. It has a film festival, some theatres, radio and television stations and plenty of video producers. However, it never takes long for your name to be dirt in small circles. I got a few contracts through some friends, but they dried up after a year. Nothing permanent came up. At networking events, I made a beeline for any executive from companies I knew were hiring, but no one turned to talk to me. They would pivot to any other interlocutor in their vicinity as soon as I stepped up.

My friend Mab, a morning show host at a local news radio station, took me aside one day after a mixer at the Grand. “You know Stephen is calling you paranoid, psychotic, unstable: the works,” she warned.

I spat out my rye and ginger ale. “You have got to be kidding me,” I hissed. “Unstable? Psychotic? Because I’m understandably furious that he was creeping on me after I trusted him?”

Mab sighed in sympathy. “I hear you. I’ve been there, too. But you’re so angry, you scare people. That just proves his point.”

Now I felt positively volcanic, but the bit of sanity I had left told me not to take it out on Mab. I marched home and took it out on every dish in the cupboard instead. The next thing to break was the glass in the frame of my diploma. I sat down on the floor and cried as I remembered the late nights at the university library and every time my dinner was a candy bar from a vending machine, just so I could get the grades I needed for my scholarship.

I did everything I could to move on. After spending weeks on multiple queries to different papers, magazines and sites, and waiting months for any reply, I spotted an article under someone else’s byline using all my sources and suggested lines of enquiry. This made me close the door on freelance reporting. I created my own media company, Mistress of Arts, a female-centred reference to my graduate degree. I left business cards everywhere: grocery stores, laundromats, bars, any place I found a spare corner. The only calls came from anonymous panting men who hung up as soon as they found out I wasn’t a dominatrix.

Out of sheer desperation, I thought of trying out this domination business. I read about men who paid substantial sums as tribute and did a woman’s dishes and laundry in exchange for verbal abuse or being treated like furniture. It sounded like the perfect deal.

Those men did not cross my path. Instead, I met Bill, a computer geek who corrected my spelling: “It’s domme, with a double m and an e.”

 Then there was Greg, an ad executive with a paunch and a combover. He made a career out of attending every media, marketing and advertising conference he could, and wanted to pick from a menu of whippings and bindings. I wanted to do neither.

I found no takers to be my footstool and give me two thousand dollars. My possessions dwindled, disappearing into second-hand stores on Notre-Dame. I made my way back to Toronto, where I’d grown up. There is very little as humiliating as living with your parents when you are north of twenty-five. My childhood bedroom was now an office for my dad’s day trading business. My new room was in the still-unfinished basement, with a folding camp bed that creaked at every move and sagged in the middle. I spoke to my parents as little as I could. Thankfully, they asked few questions.

As I stewed and plotted my return to greatness, I had to relearn TTC bus and subway schedules, since I’d sold my car after unloading the few belongings I brought with me. The house was at the edge of Scarborough, which everyone I met called Scarberia. It took an hour to get downtown where everything happened.

I joined a media conference committee to boost my chances at gainful employment. It was a resounding success. I felt hope for the first time in years, but months later, I was as unemployed as ever.

At least I’d made a friend: David, a wiry radical environmentalist who wrote doomsday articles about climate change and encouraged me to use grey water in the toilet tank. We attended free outdoor festivals and repertory cinema shows, then nursed coffees and beers for hours at nearby patios. He didn’t have any work or leads for me, but he didn’t care that I had none for him either. I enjoyed listening to him dissect the navigation of late-stage capitalism.

The highlight of our summer was seeing Maxxxi Mayhem at Yonge and Dundas. We both loved her heavy metal style and her gravel-on-steel contralto. Over drinks at a particularly ramshackle patio table after the concert, David and I argued about sex work: was it inherently more exploitative than other work? I thought so. David was skeptical. He identified as asexual, but it didn’t stop him from having opinions about the rest of us.

“Do you think Maxxxi Mayhem feels more exploited than you did at your old job? She flaunts her background in porn instead of hiding it,” he pointed out. “In fact, she monetizes it in her workshops on how to go viral.”

“Sure, she looks like she’s having a great time. But is that the case for most sex workers? What about sex trafficking?”

David raised an eyebrow. “Is that the case for most workers in general? How is paying for sex different from paying a babysitter? I’m not arguing in favour of modern slavery. I’m saying some workers control their means of production more than others, and sex work can actually help them do that. Of course, it would be better if the profit motive disappeared completely. Everyone in the world should work under a cooperative structure.”

I almost spat out my beer. “A sex co-op? I guess it would make more money than a sewing circle.”

David crossed his arms. “Yes, it would. Not that there’s anything wrong with sewing.”

“Isn’t there something deeply disturbing about someone being able to buy the most private part of you? I just don’t see how it’s the same as babysitting. It’s also a lot more expensive, though I’m not sure why.”

“I know! Babies are so much more work,” David said. “There’s this vestigial puritanism about sex being dirty, and the associated idea that if you’ll have sex for money, there’s nothing you won’t do. It seems corrupt. There’s a lot of stigma around using sex in exchange for something else. I also think people look down on it as a job because they think it’s too easy. Goes against the Protestant work ethic. You’re supposed to earn your living by the sweat of your brow, not the sweat of your ass.”

I paused, then confessed my attempt at being a dom, or domme, or however anyone wanted to spell it. “I’m not sure it’s real sex work. Anyway, I had no luck getting customers, because I wouldn’t give them what they wanted. So much for agency or empowerment. You’d think a dom would be calling the shots with the customers, but no.”

This got a giggle from David. “Maybe you could ask Maxxxi for pointers. You could be her apprentice or even join her onstage.”

“I’d probably mess that up, too.” I groaned. “I’m such a loser. I spent my whole childhood getting perfect grades, and now I can’t even get a human foot stool.”

As a consolation, David bought me another beer. “I know it won’t keep your feet warm, but it might help numb the pain,” he said with a wink.

I thanked him as I drowned my sorrows.

After giving up on other possibilities, I got a job as a telephone interviewer. Each survey project lasted two to six weeks. I took two buses and one subway, then walked up Steeles Avenue through Little Iran to get to the squat, square building where I chatted with strangers for however many hours I could get. The time clock was always ahead of the actual time, so that everyone who got there the first day was five minutes late and got docked a full quarter of an hour. You learned by the second day. Chairs at the workstations had broken backs and sagging cushions, the white ceiling tiles leaked into ever-widening rust stains, the carpet was threadbare, and the washrooms malodorous. On the plus side, you could choose your hours and take any days off you wanted, since the job was casual.

The work itself was tortuously repetitive. Sometimes people at the other end of the line hung up without a word. More often, they said a curt “not interested” before the line went dead. On rare occasions, they would unleash a tirade of abuse at me for daring to disturb their peace with my “stupid questions.” We were trained to overcome objections, but it felt like a violation given my life experience, so I didn’t try very hard. I still got paid, because few employees lasted more than a week. I persisted and learned to not take rejection personally after countless hours of it.

About once in every twenty calls when someone answered the phone, they would go along with the surveys. Yes, they loved salami. No, they didn’t like their phone company. On a scale of one to five, they were somewhat pleased with their last vacation and very pleased with their shampoo. Some respondents answered because they were the type who would also help an elderly woman cross the road. Others were happy to share their opinion, especially about politics. Still others seemed afraid to refuse, as if we wouldn’t like them anymore if they ended the call, and this would have dire consequences.

The last types to answer the surveys were people who were lonely and enjoyed the chance to talk. Some liked the sound of our voices and thought it would be nice to meet. Since we didn’t use video calling, we could imagine just about anyone at the other end of the line, so I felt it wasn’t so bad, and pictured Keanu Reeves or Chris Helmsworth lookalikes pining to make my acquaintance.

The phone work gave me practice talking to strangers again. I decided to go back to networking. In the classified section of Now Magazine, I saw the details of an event for self-employed professionals. All I needed to check that box was to find customers. This time, my business cards just had my name and number.

Dressed in a bright red jacket and a black flared skirt, I walked up to the outdoor venue with its paper lanterns and brightly coloured posters, ordered a drink, and chatted with a woman who owned a paint business but didn’t need a media guru, then with a man selling legal services who also didn’t need any of my skills. I told myself I was having a nice time practicing my elevator pitch on a lovely day.

A large man came up to me, swaying and slurring his words. “Wow, you’re beautiful, Lady in Red.”

He started to sing, sounding nothing like Chris de Burgh. I turned away and headed for the exit. He followed me and planted a wet, slobbery, very unwanted kiss on my lips. I shoved him. He fell to the ground.

The host ran up to us. “What happened?”

I straightened my jacket. “He kissed me without any warning. I pushed him away. He’s lucky that’s all I did.”

The host frowned and shook his head. “You didn’t have to hurt the guy.”

My cheeks flushed. “He fell because he was drunk, and he’s a creep. Why are you defending him? He attacked me!”

I turned and stomped my way to the bus stop, then walked farther down the sidewalk to make sure no one I’d met at the venue could see me boarding public transit. My new heels skinned my feet through the sheer pantyhose I wore. I hobbled onto the bus, then took the shoes off to walk home, at the top of a hill an agonizing thirteen minutes from the stop.

My mother banged on the door of the washroom where I sat soaking my wounds for the next half hour. I yelled at her to please go use the downstairs toilet. She yelled back that it was her house, and she had the right to use whatever goddamned bathroom she wanted. It was the longest conversation we’d had in a month.

I slunk around the basement for the better part of the week. David was now my only friend. I met him for coffee near the Royal Ontario Museum, where third Tuesday nights were free.

“You need to get out of your parents’ house,” he said.

“I can’t afford an apartment, and roommates would be worse than family,” I retorted.

“Then you need to meet a boyfriend you can move in with.”

 I scowled. “I feel as much like getting a boyfriend as I feel like jumping into molten lava.”

“You probably mean magma. If you’re jumping into a volcano, it’s still magma.”

I tossed my empty paper cup at his head.

He squawked his disapproval. “Hey. That’s violence!”

“I’m practicing being a proper dominatrix for a new boyfriend.”

To snag a better-paying job, I scoured classified ads, looked for Wanted signs in shop windows, talked to everyone I could and registered with every agency within ten kilometres of the house. One day, an unusual ad nestled in the personals of a normally staid publication caught my eye:

Companion wanted for busy male professional.

Generous compensation provided.

Discretion assured and expected.

A sugar daddy by any other name? If a sex worker took this job, I mused, the compensation would have to be astronomical. Who was this? How much was he offering? Would a throng of women apply?

Maybe David was right. Wasn’t a job just a job? In fact, I brooded, sex work seemed more straightforward than what I’d been through. Resentment welled up. If someone wants to hire a woman for something else and also get sex, why should she do both? She might as well be paid for just the sex.

Out of sheer spite, I decided to apply for the job. Bob replied immediately. He lived in Rosedale, Toronto’s oldest and poshest neighbourhood. His house featured turrets and gables, with clinker bricks dotting the walls as decorative details. I had to lift the heavy dragon-shaped knocker with both hands. The door seemed a foot thick when the owner cracked it open. I promised myself I would run at the first sign of danger, or if I found him disgusting.

Bob was slim, about five foot seven, with a slight stoop. He was in his stocking feet, dressed in black jeans and a buttoned green shirt. His brown hair and beard had no trace of grey, but his face seemed the texture of parchment and his eyes were slightly red. He’d been going over paperwork, he explained. He opened the door wider and nodded at me to come inside.

As I took off my shoes and followed him to the living room, I felt less like a cut of meat or potential prey and more like someone selling encyclopedias. He asked me how old I was, what I had to offer and why I’d answered the ad. I hadn’t thought to bring a résumé and wasn’t sure what the ideal candidate would say: I love the idea of being paid to be at your beck and call? I have no life, and this will do?

I told him the truth, or at least part of it. “I was curious. What are you looking for? Why did you post the ad? Did you get a lot of replies?”

He shrugged. “I’m extremely busy with my investment business and I want absolute control of my time. I’m tired of dating and having to juggle my schedule or adjust it to another person’s. When I’m working, I have to accommodate my clients. When I’m off work, I don’t want to deal with all that. I realize it’s a lot to ask, so I’m willing to pay for your time. And you’re the first to answer the ad.”

We continued the interview. Eventually I told him the story of my downfall. He squirmed, pulling at his collar. I’ve lost him, I thought. Oh well, what’s another failure?

He shifted his weight on the sofa, crossed his legs, grabbed his knee with both hands and cleared his throat before speaking. “I don’t think you belong here. What happened to you sounds very unfair,” he said. He sounded sincere. “Wouldn’t you rather get a good job in your field? I feel bad for you. I have contacts. I could help.”

It was the last thing I expected to hear. I lowered my head, sniffled and wiped my nose with the back of my hand. He handed me a tissue from a box covered in the same type of green yarn my aunt would use to knit our slippers for Christmas.

I owed him an answer. “Yes, I would rather work in my field. It’s very kind of you to offer to help. I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time. I thought I could do this. I haven’t had a lot of prospects.”

I snorted, then sobbed. He gave me the entire box of tissues. My mortification felt complete. I was breaking down in front of a stranger, the very type of person I would have reproved in my previous life—a man buying sex—and he was the kindest person I’d run into in what felt like eons.

He watched me cry. When the flood of tears tapered off, he patted my shoulder in a slightly awkward, avuncular gesture. “Would you like some tea? I could make you a cup. I have chamomile, lavender, licorice and ginger.”

I looked up, nodded, and whispered back. “Ginger would be nice. Thank you.” Ginger was the flavour of several of the better moments in my life: my grandmother’s ginger snap cookies. Ginger wine snuck out of an early boyfriend’s family liquor cabinet. A friend sharing her ginger candy at a summer fair.

Bob went to the kitchen. The kettle whistled. He came back carrying a beautiful Wedgwood bone china teapot with a pheasant and floral motif, a matching cup, and a plate of shortbread cookies, all on a silver tray. My mouth watered. I realized I was hungry and grabbed a cookie. Bob’s face lit up as he watched me chomp and pour myself a cup.

After I’d eaten and sipped, I gave him a wan smile. “This really makes me feel better. You know, if you weren’t looking for a paid companion, you would make a good one yourself.”

Bob laughed. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

His face glowed as his smile widened. The redness in his eyes was gone. I felt a stab of attraction but wasn’t sure if it was mutual. His hand reached out tentatively to touch my leg. I touched him back. He kissed me on the lips and led me into his bedroom.

Bob undressed but kept his socks on. His body and the room itself smelled like moth balls. The stab of attraction waned. Still, I thought, I was wet enough. My body was starving for touch. I hadn’t had sex in several months—I’d been stood up repeatedly at prearranged dates or simply ignored at events and gatherings. The only men who’d wanted me were ones I didn’t want back. I’d come to characterize this as the Groucho Marx reflex, as if I wouldn’t join a club that would have me as a member.

He entered me and thrusted mechanically for a quarter of an hour, then groaned and shuddered. I didn’t come, but I didn’t find it unpleasant. Bob stayed on top of me, playing with my hair, and smiled. I wondered if this was typical of sex work, at least the type with consent.

After what seemed like an hour, Bob kissed me on the forehead, got up and put on a black silk dressing gown. “It’s time for you to go. I have more work to do. I’ll call you later.”

David was excited for me when I told him about Bob. “You took my advice! Well, kind of.”

“Kind of,” I said. “I tried to be a sex worker, but I’m not sure that’s what I’ll be doing, or even if it’s what I did.”

David wagged a finger. “It’s the thought that counts. You are now part of the trade.”

I twirled my glass. “It was weird. It didn’t feel remotely like what I expected.”

 “You mean like those horror stories in magazines or movies-of-the-week about heroin-addled women drowning in self-hatred?”

I winced. “Well, yeah.” I thought of my latest bender and how my self-esteem was in the toilet. “Maybe I should be on heroin. I probably need it more than most escorts.”

“No, you don’t. Have you told your parents you’re leaving? They must be happy.”

I scoffed. “I won’t be moving in with Bob anytime soon. And I have no idea when he might call next. He’s probably trying out several of us.”

The thought of competing for Bob’s attention made me feel like a cat left out in the rain, scratching at a locked door. I felt a pang in my chest. It wasn’t connected to love or even attachment, I reflected, but to the feeling I’d had when I was picked last for a baseball team in grade school.

David patted me warmly on the back. “There’s no one like you, Marcie. He’ll be calling you back in no time.”

I gave more details about Bob and the house. David perked up. “He’s an investor in Rosedale, his house has turrets, he uses Wedgwood china and there’s a green box for tissues that clashes with the rest of the décor... I remember those details from a profile in Business Planet. It’s a good rag for knowing your protest targets. If it’s the same guy, he’s a mogul. You hit the jackpot. Don’t forget your friends,” he added, winking.

“How capitalistic of you.”

David shrugged. “In the words of our favourite singer La Mayhem, we all gotta work it. Of course, I’d only hit him up for donations to the cause. I bet your old boss would give his right arm to meet this guy.”

I smiled. David and I toasted my new opportunities, then I went home on a long subway and bus ride to sneak back into the family basement.

Bob called later in the week. His tone was businesslike. He was serious about helping me in my career, he said, even if I wouldn’t be constantly available to him. This meant the paid companion deal was off. I wouldn’t get a cheque. However, he would pay me for any other work he hired me to do. Whether we had sex was entirely up to me.

I believed him. He hadn’t lied or betrayed me so far.

There was a huge advertising industry conference coming up. Bob had called in a favour for an invitation to be a speaker and wanted to brainstorm with me. The theme of his talk was ethics and corporate responsibility. I knew exactly what to write.

There were two hundred conference booths at the Metro Toronto Convention Centre, and fifty tables for the opening presentation. For the first time in months, I put my hair up and my makeup was flawless. Dressed in a dark blue suit with a paisley silk tie, his hair neatly combed, Bob exuded confidence as he introduced me to various executives. They deferred to him and shook my hand with enthusiasm. I felt wanted. It was like a drug.

The program included a marketing workshop with Maxxxi Mayhem the next day. I squealed at her poster, thinking of David and me at her Dundas Square concert. Bob glanced at me quizzically.

“She’s a bold choice for the conference,” I explained. “It’ll shake things up.”

Media booths lined the walls of the ballroom, filled with supplicants vying for shrinking advertising dollars. Media revenues had plunged twelve per cent over the last year, following a continuous decline in the past decade. Independent producers felt the aftershocks. I spotted Stephen halfway between the entrance and the stage, dressed in jeans, an old flannel shirt and a camera vest. He looked ten years older, with an expanded waistline and dark circles under his eyes. His eyebrows shot up when he saw me next to Bob and he turned away. I felt a jolt of schadenfreude.

Bob got on stage. He sounded like he meant every word I’d written. “Just because you agree to one thing, at one time, with one person, does not mean you agree to the same thing a second time: either with the same person, or with anyone else. Consent is something that anyone can withdraw at anytime. You know this instinctively in your business, with unsubscribe options in every email you send. We all know how consent works. It’s important not to assume it. Ever.”

A smattering of applause followed. Bob continued. “Now imagine if someone pushed your head underwater and held it there, then told everyone you couldn’t swim. This is what retaliation looks like against someone who lodges a complaint. Perpetrators often label their accusers as mentally ill, vindictive or incompetent. Not only does this type of gaslighting worsen the trauma, it’s also a bad look, for you and anyone who does business with you. What makes your suppliers look bad makes you look even worse.”

Bob had hardly finished speaking before several women in the audience sprang to their feet and applauded, shouting “Bravo.” They were joined by most of their colleagues.

Once Bob was back on the floor, a line formed to congratulate him. He was true to his word and introduced me as the speechwriter. I got dozens of business cards with offers of work.

A rotund and balding man emerged from the throng. It took me a few seconds to recognize him: Greg, the ad executive and conference troll.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Mistress of Arts,” he chortled. “Bit ironic of you to write that speech, wouldn’t you say? Did you run out of your more fun customers?”

I reddened. “That was then, and this is now. I’m still good at what I do,” I said.

He harrumphed his disagreement. “Not with a whip, you’re not. Worst dom ever! No wonder you’re out of the business. Or maybe not? Is that how you met this guy?” He jerked his thumb at Bob, who flinched and blushed.

Greg snickered. “Oh, my God. Yes, it is.”

I stepped forward. My voice shook. “Stop assuming things. Whether my speech is any good has nothing to do with whatever personal relationships I may or may not have.”

Greg curled his lip as he looked me up and down. The women who’d pressed their cards into my hands in admiration now frowned at Bob and me. One by one, they moved to the other side of the room. The men who’d joined the throng soon followed.

I was alone with my mentor. He stared at the floor. I imagined what he was thinking: what makes your suppliers look bad makes you look even worse.

“I’ve got some meetings to attend and a few people to catch up with,” he muttered. “Look after yourself, Marcie.”

As Greg crossed the room toward the buffet table, a vision in neon spandex and rhinestones whooshed up to him. Maxxxi Mayhem tossed back her thick purple hair and pointed a long, bejeweled finger at the adman.

“Hey. You know Maya Angelou worked in the sex trade, right? And you do realize she was a genius, and you’re not even worth the ground she walked on?”

He scowled. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”

She crossed her arms and sneered at him. “Oh yeah, you don’t read books. And you can’t read the room, either. The room is me. I’m the future, that’s who I am.”

She pivoted on her thigh-high black and silver platform boots, strode up to me and shook my hand. “I was watching the whole thing. Those people who left are trash! I loved your speech. Loved it! Have I ever been there, honey. And I love that you worked as a dom. I did too! You and I have a lot to talk about. I need a writer for my Instagram and Tik Tok, because I cannot keep up…”

The next time I met David, drinks were on me. I sent Bob some roses with a note: Thank you for your patronage. Enclosed please find my invoice for services rendered. Your (unpaid) companion.