Mephisto and Me

By Lily Edwards

I don't want the phone to ring. It's fuckin cold outside. Wet too. Shitty weather for whoring.

Lonely guy Sunday. Lonely guys want the girlfriend experience. I don't mind, I'm good at that. I'm kind. If they fall in love with me I feel pretty bad and refuse to see them again. My manager thinks I'm crazy, the ones that fall in love are cash cows, but I can't do it. It's unethical.

If, however, they assume that the feeling is mutual and that I am truly in love with them, that's when I want to punch them in the neck. Hard. But I don't.

My heart is private. They can fuck off if they are arrogant enough to assume that I want them anywhere near it.

I want to cancel my shift. Again. My leopard print suede stiletto's with the killer heals will get all crusty in the rain. I should have sprayed them with that waterproofing stuff; that's what a grown up would have done. That's what my mum would have done. That's what I would have done back in my other life. I bought some on my last dry mouthed compulsive spending binge in Queen St mall. I think its still in one of the shopping bags by the front door with the rest of the crap I thought I needed; six pairs of Brazilian style knickers in dark colours so the stage makeup I use on my bits to hide the scars from picking at ingrowns wont show up too much, $278 worth of vitamins and protein powder because I forget to eat, a bunch of software to help me with my thesis (which I won't get round to loading onto my computer, but it dulls some of my self loathing for being an academic sham).

I bought a couple of overpriced puppy toys too which I've given to Buddy but he much prefers to play with my dirty knickers.

I shouldn't let him do that.

But I do.

Poor hound, I'm like one of those sad unstable single mothers who keeps her kids home with her because she's lonely. If I wasn’t so goddam agoraphobic these days I’d take him to puppy pre-school. That's what I intended, planned to do when I got him. He was my prayer for a normal life. A life, be in it! kind of life that involves regular walks in daylight.

I can't cancel my shift. Three years ago I would never dream of cancelling a shift. I was a highly skilled professional. A Geisha. Man handler. No drugs. God I must have sounded like such a naïve wanker. I would sincerely bleat out the same rehearsed line to clients, receptionists and other girls; "I treat this career with the same level of professionalism as I would any other job, that's how I stay sane. Why do I do it? … It's ridiculous to ask an escort why she does it; she is among the most highly paid professional women in the world."

I was a pretentious tosser but I did really believe what I was saying. By industry standards I was as pure as the driven snow.

The shelf life of a hooker isn't long and I'm unraveling at an alarming rate. But still I can't abide being branded with the "Whore Stigma." I've somehow become a tragic cliché and I know this in my guts but my pride can't stomach the possibility that I could be so grossly misunderstood. I'm not that girl. I'm a real girl.

So when my phone starts ringing in my hand I brace myself and greet the perky little chicks at reception with an upbeat "Georgia speaking." I'm trying to sound like I've just walked in from the gym.

Actually I haven't left this bed in four days except a couple of times to piss and eat a bowl of crunchy nut cornflakes.

There's a loaded ice pipe on my bedside table but I've lost the will even for that. I am keenly aware of its presence though, and somehow this hasn't felt like cold turkey because I've known its there, known eventually I would answer the phone that keeps on bloody ringing and then I would need it. I've been playing chicken with myself.

It's my last point and I need to either use it to go to work so I can buy more or I need to stay in this bed till I don't notice the pipe anymore.

It's the staunch older receptionist, Dawn. Shit. I’m not good with authority. I used to be their best girl; the receptionists all wanted to work on my shift because they knew I would always pull extensions on the executive jobs and their commissions would be sweet. Driving back from a double with a new girl I felt like an elite spy.

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