A Night Out

I met my husband lying flat on my back. 

It was his birthday, a fact I was only aware of because his friends had pooled their money to buy him an hour of my time as a special treat for turning 30. Even then, it barely met my minimum. But I’d never been crowdsourced before and the photo they sent me of their bud Jason showed a baby-faced man with black, curly hair and a nice smile and I don’t know? I guess I’m a sucker for tall, dark, and handsome.

Jason was drunk by the time he got to me. Liquid courage. I’d seen it before. There’s a lot of bravado that goes into seeing a prostitute, particularly a high-end escort like yours truly. I had an iron-cast clause in my contract that allowed me to “exit the situation” if the drunk was belligerent. It would be double the fee, none of the satisfaction. Jason, though? He gets giggly when he drinks and that night, he laughed so much I couldn't help but ask if this was his first time. The question immediately sobered him.

“No,” he said, deadpan. Then we got down to business.

When we met two years later, shaking hands in the middle of an art gallery for the exhibition of a friend of a friend, I knew Jason immediately. Even clear-headed and fully dressed, it was hard to forget that boyish grin.

This wasn’t the first time I’d run into a former client. People think women like me live in some interdimensional prostitute pocket, that we evaporate as soon as you leave us. But we’re people, too. We go to the movies or the grocery store, get our hair done, oil changed (not a euphemism). 

I know a few girls who get a kick out of outing their clients but it’s never been my thing. I’m not ashamed of my work. Never have been. I did what I did with a clear goal in mind — pay for school — and I approached the whole thing like a business transaction. Not everyone’s so lucky, don’t I know it, but for me, being an escort was a job, nothing more, nothing less.

And yet I’ve never felt called (pardon the pun) to embarrass the men who made use of my services. The first one I met out in the “real world” was, predictably, on a date with his wife. Unclear to me if she knew of his visit (some folks get off on that, wouldn’t you know?) but either way, I nodded politely as I passed him in the bulk food aisle in that way that you do when you acknowledge another human’s existence but now’s not a good time to chat. He nodded back out of habit. I was nearly at the end of the aisle before I heard the soft “Oh” of recognition emerge from his lips. 

“Do you know that woman?” I heard his wife say as I turned the corner toward dairy and eggs.

The second client I ran into, Larry the Accountant, was so happy to see me, he asked me out on a date. “I’d love to get to know you better,” he said with a nervous smile that reminded me of when my prom date asked me out senior year. I agreed. I didn’t want to see that glow fade from his face and I was, admittedly, curious to see how this might go. I remembered this guy but only vaguely. You’d be amazed at how many accountants I met in a mere 18 months.

Our date was just after Tax Day and as Larry droned on over carbonara and chianti, I found myself remembering flashes of our last evening together. The waiter had just stopped by to refill our glasses when it suddenly came back all at once: “You’re the guy who got off when I tickled his feet!” I said in a rush.

Larry stopped, fork halfway to his open-wide jaw, while the bug-eyed water stared at me until red wine spilled over my glass.

Needless to say, there was no second date.

Larry came to mind that night I met Jason again. It had been six months since I’d seen my last guy and while I didn’t necessarily miss the work, I found myself longing for the variety. Being a dental hygienist wasn’t nearly as stimulating even if the hours were better.

Jason shook my hand vigorously and I watched his eyes for that familiar aha moment. Pump up, pump down and then, was that it? A flicker in the depths of those baby blues?

“Have we met before?” he slowly asked, left eyebrow raised to meet one perfect tumbledown curl. I took in our surroundings — gentle lighting, cheese platters, live piano player keying away in the corner. Did I or didn’t I say exactly how we met?

“You do look familiar...” I hedged.

“I bet you two met at that conference last year!” our mutual friend said from the side. She wrapped her arms around our shoulders and pulled the three of us into a hug. “I just knew you’d get along!”

We didn't leave each other’s side for the rest of the night, going from picture to picture. Half the time I couldn’t tell if we were talking about the art or about one another. Our conversation was coded and soon, it felt like a game. Certain illusions to certain moments, a non sequitur about turning 30 —  I knew that he knew and he knew that I knew. 

And yet the secret hung between us like a bright pink balloon. We volleyed back and forth, never letting reality quite touch the ground. I found myself wondering just how long he could last (I had no doubts of my abilities to keep going).

At the end of the evening, we found ourselves standing together outside the gallery, tipsy patrons weaving around us. Jason turned to me and I saw what was coming. Would I get dinner sometime? I felt my heart leap and then fall with a thump. Larry.

I was on the verge of explaining when Jason gave me that same winning smile I remembered so well from the start of it all. My heart jumped again and without meaning to, I agreed to go out.

That was 10 years, one mortgage, and two kids ago. To this day, neither of us has admitted to knowing each other at all, let alone biblically, before that night at the gallery. When people ask how we first met, we say “Online,” which is true enough. If they press harder, we shrug, nearly always in sync.

“Who even knows anymore?” we joke before bringing up mortgages, joint returns, and PTA meetings. Out of politeness, our friends redirect. I nod — yes, yes I agree you’re kidding oh my — as from the corner of my eye, I look at my husband who’s looking at me. In-between pleasantries, he flashes that same secret smile.

Even now, it makes my head spin.