I will not ask the scion of real estate why we are dressed like this or why we are watching this movie. Just like I did not ask him last week and will not ask him next week to explain the scenario he requests that I enact for him. He has provided me with the money to make this dream come true. And that is all I do. I pander to my clients’ dreams. Some are darker, but many are surprisingly simple. Rarely do I have to turn clients away or say no.
And tonight I will not only do as Peter Pan wants, but I will enjoy all of it. Will I feel what you feel when you look into the eyes of a man you love? Who makes your heart beat faster and makes you wet between your legs? Is this coming together something I long for the way you do when you lie in bed and imagine your lover kissing your lips and stroking you gently?
No. This is how I make my living. But I do enjoy my job. Especially when I have clients like Peter Pan.
The play is about to begin. Shh. Sit back. Let go of your preconceived notions. Watch the action. And don’t judge. Just watch.
We have not touched. At all. We are both properly dressed. The movie has been playing for fifteen minutes.
Now Peter Pan puts his arm around the top of my seat back. He leaves it there for a minute. Just resting it on the edge of the seat. I am aware of his arm being there. I wait.
The scene on the screen shifts. Benjamin is going to meet Mrs. Robinson for the first time in the hotel. We watch the film. We laugh. My laugh is more authentic than Peter Pan’s. He is really more interested in making his next move than watching the movie. And as soon as the music comes up again, I feel his fingers on my shoulder. I shut my eyes.
I am sixteen. I am sitting in a movie theater with my boyfriend. He has just touched me. It is helpful for me to be in character. The better I can be at my role, the more authentic it will seem to Peter Pan, and pleasing my client is my only true role.
Ah. You see. You get the first glimpse. You don’t like where I am going, do you? Of course not. This is not about equality. This is not about a relationship of two people building a life together. Yes, there is sex in that equation. But sex of a different nature. In a relationship you both have needs, you must each bend, give, take, learn and understand. That is right. It has its place. But it has its restrictions, too. It has its problems. It makes for issues. It is constricting, limiting.
I, on the other hand, want nothing from Peter Pan. I am an actress in his play. The money has already changed hands. He is the director.
Too pretty? Too easy? Am I sugarcoating? Oh, sugar, I wish I was. I wish I could tell you how ugly and deranged what I do is. But the truth is, it just isn’t. Men are not all monsters. Most of them just want to believe for a little while that they really are the center of the universe and that the power they yearn for is really the power that they wield. They want their fantasies to come true. And they are used to buying what they want and making it happen.
There are other women who will tell you different stories. Maybe there are more of them than there are of hookers like me. But listen, there are wives and girlfriends who will tell you other stories, too. There are women who wear diamonds on their fingers the size of olives in a martini, and they get treated worse than I do and perform far more demeaning tasks in bed. Whore, mother, wife, mistress, lover, girlfriend. We are all giving up something to get something. I just chose to get my alimony payments or divorce settlements without having to go through the emotional turmoil of love and marriage.
Peter Pan’s hand plays with my hair. And it feels good. He has a light touch. He leans over now, closer to me. And I pull away just a little. This is my role. I’m supposed to be shy. I have never been to bed with a boy. I’m sixteen. I am in love with him.
And to tell you the truth, it is not hard at all to imagine this.
Peter Pan smells of a cologne called Fahrenheit. And beneath that scent he is clean. He is trim. His nails are manicured. He has thick black hair. Yes, his hairline is slightly receding. He has dark green eyes and an engaging smile. A small scar on his chin makes me curious. I don’t ask, though. Not now. His eyebrows are expressive. His mouth isn’t. His secrets are words. You can tell this, too, the better you get at this. Everyone has secrets that they hide. Peter Pan’s secrets are words he has spoken. His mouth is pressed tight. Another man’s secrets are actions he has taken; he will keep his hands pressed tightly in his lap.
There is no more time to think about this. My sixteen-year-old boyfriend leans forward and then turns in his seat so that he can kiss me. It is tentative at first and I pull back. Stare at him with a mixture of surprise and confusion. He whispers, please, just let me kiss you. Once more.
I do not say no.
He presses his lips against mine with more certainty this time. And more pressure. It is a sweet-smelling kiss and I taste champagne. The kiss moves in me the way the bubbles in the wine did a few minutes ago.
If I were to break role now I would tell you that I am not feeling this the way you would if this were a man you were having a relationship with. But the man you are in a relationship with will not tell you that in his fantasies he is always sixteen, always just falling in love with his first girlfriend, always hot and horny and needing to make out in every dark corner he can find. He will not tell you because you are his wife or his girlfriend now, and what would you say? Go to a therapist. Stop fantasizing about someone who dumped you. Don’t you love me?
I don’t say any of those things. I act the part. I make the money. I pay the bills.
I kiss him back. His mouth opens just a little. I open mine.
Sixteen. Summertime. The movie is The Graduate. The music is Simon and Garfunkel. The theater is dark. His hand is moist but not unpleasant as it works its way from around my back to my shirt buttons.
I pull back.
I’m not sure you should-
Shhh. He kisses me quiet.
He knows how to kiss. And what he has forgotten by being married to the same woman for the last eighteen years, I am making him remember.
The problem is, the woman he’s married to has his balls in a vise. She is a good, hardworking woman who is obsessed with her image and her notoriety and her power. She came to it later in life and she adores it. As well she should. She is brilliant and she has worked like a slave for her success. But sexually, she’s not interested. She provides but isn’t passionate. She loves him but isn’t “in” love with him.
You know about this. Either you are in a relationship like this or you know someone who is. The marriage is fine. The couple are friends. But the fire’s gone out a long time ago.
Peter Pan’s wife isn’t his fantasy. Hell, she isn’t even his lover anymore. And he worries, more than he should, that if she finds out what he’s doing with me, she’ll leave him. And if she does that, he’s afraid of what else she will do. Because the trouble is her father’s inheritance started his business. So in effect she owns his business. Or at least half of it. And that is half more than he ever wants to give up.
I tease him with my tongue and he teases me back. I have to go slow, play my part and not be too eager. His hand is inside my shirt now, his fingers moving over the fabric that keeps him from making the contact he wants so very badly to make.
I don’t help. I let him fumble with the cotton bra. I actually have forgotten what this was like. And for a while I, too, slip back and am sixteen again. Going out with one of the handsome guys. In a movie theater making out.
He unclasps my bra and has access. As he cups my breast he sighs. A long, slow, deep, sweet sigh. His first goal. He touches my nipple as if he has just discovered that such a thing exists and I harden under his touch. He kisses me now with more ardor and some urgency. On the screen, a new song starts. “Feeling Groovy.”
He is. I am, too. I like this role. Being Peter Pan’s girlfriend feels groovy, and as long as I concentrate on that, I can make him happy.