Blue Moon by James King Page B

Hardy’s
Jess of the D’Urbervilles?”
    I indicated the names of the authors were known to me, although I had never read anything by them. “You should seek out those two titles, particularly in your line of work. Essential, I would have thought.” He then proceeded to tell me about the struggles that beset both writers in their attempts to write accurately and honestly about the entire life of any man or woman, of how the authorities had attempted to silence them. He proceeded to speak at length about both men, indicating, I now realize, a very sensitive aptitude for literary criticism. We chatted for about an hour, at which time he indicated he had used up my time, and I might leave.
    From this encounter—and those that ensued in the following month—I learned a vital truth. Most of my clients wanted to have the act of sexual intercourse completed quickly in order to experience a chaste social intercourse. In such agendas, sex was an impediment to the real purpose of the encounter.
    I also discovered several things about myself. Sex was merely a necessary inconvenience in being a prostitute. When I sucked or manipulated a penis—or had one inserted into me—I simply imagined myself somewhere else. My body was performing sexual acts, but my mind was always otherwise occupied. I also realized that my skills as a reader could help fill in the time in all these encounters. I began to ask clients if could tell them a story—or read to them. During a first encounter, most clients looked surprised but hardly ever demurred. So my specialty was soonestablished. I was never famous for sex. Among my clients, I became a renowned spinner of tales.
    My retinue was wide and varied. For Mr. Justice Smith, who presided over countless probate cases, the subtle sado-masochistic manipulation of the patient Griselda by the Marquis Walter was perfect ware. A sort of busman’s holiday. Sometimes, I dipped into the boring autobiography of Casanova in order to entertain those clients who thrilled to exploits they would never venture to undertake. On occasion, beautifully simple tales, such as “The Little Mermaid,” calmed the anxiety ridden, reassuring them about themselves.
    A good narrative requires a strong plot line, but so much more resides in the way the teller breathes life into it. Although I did not yet have my own stories to tell, I learned how to frame one, to select the right narrative to match the needs of my client. I was the voice who brought dead authors back to life.

16
    My new profession exacted more time than even I expected. Whenever I left home, I had to be scrupulously groomed. Mother insisted that I always look my part. Sometimes, she would help me with makeup, but I soon learned to deal with this aspect of my toiletry. Endless shopping for clothes, especially undergarments, took up more hours than applying makeup and dressing.
    Later, sales clerks—when interviewed—would recall the expensive blouses, slips and skirts I purchased. Maureen, a tiny loquacious sprite from Ireland who sold the expensive frocks (originals) at Eaton’s, told
Newsweek:
“She adored black. Very classical. Almost severe taste. Always bought the best.” She added: “
Looked
like afilm star. Austere, full of herself. But that impression vanished as soon as she spoke. Very chummy. Always asked after my children. Remembered me at Christmas.”
    My role gave me a great deal of satisfaction. On a full moonlit night, costumed in black with a tiny pillar-box hat and veil, wandering down James Street to meet a client, I became Barbara Stanwyck setting off for an assignation with Fred MacMurray, whom she would inveigle—by means of wily female charms—into becoming a conspirator with her in an insurance scam. Or, on dark rain-splattered Main Street, I was Garbo setting off to rescue her lover from the clutches of the Gestapo.
    Self-imposed illusions can provide wide ranges