Over the next week, I did a LOT of thinking.
I talked to Maggie first. Her reaction was predictable. "They offered WHAT?!" she asked.
So I ran over it all again. The 150K. The 401(k). The car. The credit card with no restrictions or limits.
"Shit, Sammee, can I get a piece of that action?" she asked.
I laughed.
"But there's the 18-year-old boy thing," she said. "I suppose the good news is you can't go to jail for that unless you're a teacher?"
We both giggled at that.
"Yeah," I said, "there IS that. But it's his parents, so I think there's protection there."
She said, "talk to your lawyer, honey. I'm serious now. I get that it's a good gig. Hell, for a hooker it's THE dream gig. Anyone of us in the Profession would jump at it. I'm just saying, talk to your goddam lawyer."
I smiled and said, "I intend to. But can you handle my clients for the next month? I promised Jacob and Marta I'd be 'fresh' for my, well, my 'presentation' I guess you'd call it, and what the hell, they paid for it. Plus which, if I wind up taking this gig, I'll turn my whole little black book over to you and notify all of my clients that there's a new girl for them."
She grinned and said, "hell yes. You have interesting clients."
So we set it up. For the rest of the afternoon, we talked, hashing over my new life mostly but exchanging anecdotes from our professional lives.
She had a client that night, though, so I slept alone and for the first time in memory I did NOT masturbate when sleeping alone.
I read up on Jewish traditions, especially the Bar Mitzvah and its symbolic impact on a boy. It turned out, the Bar Mitzvah, formally, an acceptance of the boy into full membership of the religious community, making him subject to the law, was a big deal for a Jewish boy. While not quite passage into being a "man" as gentiles often misinterpret it, it IS full acceptance into being responsible for your own actions. Until the Bar Mitzvah, or the Bat Mitzvah for girls (who knew there was such a thing?), parents are responsible for the actions and, more importantly, the transgressions, of their children. Afterward, though, the new adult is responsible for his or her own actions. So with an 18-year-old, I would be clear on that account anyway.
I studied some biology too. I was a 30-something hooker and had plenty of experience with men. This, though, was uncharted territory. I realized, being more serious with myself than I had, probably since I turned pro, that I could do damage if I wasn't careful. So I wanted to understand virginity, something I didn't encounter much in my line of work, and what would be happening. And the more I read the more captivated with the idea of what they were proposing I became.
If I was going to be dealing with, teaching if you will, a large hormone in tennis shoes, something I had heard being 18 described as, I would want to, well, guide him into a path that would lead to happiness. I almost had a panic attack at one point as I read an article in one of the trade journals for psychologists - it's amazing what you run across with a Google search - that described the impotence of a man who had been mistreated by an aunt during the surrender of his virginity. God, I wouldn't want that on my conscience.
So I spent my evenings, rather than entertaining men, developing what was, basically, a lesson plan. This was interesting since my Bachelor's Degree was in Education (Secondary Social Studies) but I had never actually worked as a teacher or developed a lesson plan. But that's what it was.
I developed lists too. Things to Remember. Things to Do. Things to Wear. Stuff like that.
"Marta," I said when she answered the phone, "we need to talk."
I could hear the panic in her voice when she said, "you're not changing your mind, are you?"
I laughed and said, "No, I'm in, but I need to get that credit card you promised. I need new clothes."
She giggled at that and said, "Come on over, Mandy, and I'll fix you up."
"Ummmmm," I said, "I think our relationship has changed. Call me Sammee, please."
She giggled again and said, "Come on over Sammee," with a bit of emphasis on my name, "and I'll fix you up."
So I headed over to their house.
She greeted me at the door, looking every inch the housewife. Her hair was a bit flyaway, she had no makeup, her jeans had dusty knees, and the fact that her bra was still in the drawer was pretty obvious.
She grinned and kissed me.
"Cleaning day," she said by way of explanation.
I grinned. "So domestic," I said.
"As a good Jewish wife should be," she said, grinning, "come on and I'll get you fixed up."
I followed her through a hall into a well-appointed home office. She opened a drawer, pulled out a Visa and a Discover card, sat at the desk, moved the mouse to wake up the computer, and watched the screen as it did its thing.
I moved behind her and laid my hands on her shoulders, massaging very gently.
"Mmmmmmmm," she said, "watch it or I'll get too distracted to do this."
I bent and kissed the top of her head. "Wouldn't want that," I said.
She logged in to the Visa site, and worked through various dialogue boxes almost too quickly to follow, she had obviously done this before. She clicked on the "add new user" box and more little data boxes showed up.
"How do you sign your name?" she asked, "you know, your 'payroll signature'."
"Oh," I said, then, "Samantha Richards (no, nosy, that's not my real last name)."
She entered that into the little box.
"Your cell phone number?" she asked.
"Why?" I asked. I don't normally give that out.
"They may need to confirm it's you, that's all," she said.
So I rattled off the number.
"Date of birth?" she asked.
I groaned and rattled it off.
"And," she clicked "accept," "done."
She handed me the Visa card, showing her name on the front.
"You'll get your own card in a few days, but you can use this now," she said.
Then she repeated the process on the Discover site.
After she handed me the card she stood and kissed me.
"Now," she said, a little breathless, "I think you were doing something with your hands."
I laughed and said, "slut."
She laughed back and said, "I'm learning."
"Let's go out by the pool," I said, smiling as her eyes got big.
"You DO have a privacy fence, don't you?" I asked.
