My friend Jane is a call girl. If you can call a sixty-year-old woman a girl. She’s five feet ten inches tall and weighs around 240 pounds. She advertises in publications that list such things, that she is available, gives her phone number, and takes calls. She lives in a large north American city and likes to eat out, go to the movies, argue with her on/off again boyfriend, and go shopping.
Jane started in the life as a dancer in Vegas, back in the days of magical costumes with huge head-dresses and long gowns. Very glamorous. After a number of years, she semi-retired and sewed expensive custom outfits for dancers. Things that came off neatly, I imagine. But those days are over, she says sadly. “Nowadays, the girls just wear a bikini or a thong. No more elegant costumes.”
Jane has a decorator’s eye. Her upscale apartment, with a picture window looking at stunning scenery, is all done in black and white. It is so clean you could eat off the floor.
Her bedroom is dominated, of course, by a huge bed. On the wall facing it, there’s a massive flat-screen monitor showing a scenic slide show of mountains and lakes. Very peaceful. The bathroom in antiseptically sterile clean, with paper towels available for guests and big fluffy white towels if they need to shower, preferably before.
If they want to talk, that’s fine, but it eats into their hour. She often informs them after twenty minutes of idle chatter, that they only have so many minutes left. Sometimes they get annoyed – too bad.
Jane has been assaulted a few times, but nothing she couldn’t handle. She’s a tough cookie, and bigger than many men.
She charges two hundred dollars per hour for “straight stuff” and three hundred for “fetishes,”like feet. She wears black corsets and spike heels and has all kinds of lace boudoir clothing, stockings, thongs, and so forth. And because she’s sixty and not as nimble as she used to be, she has a carpeted flat dolly that she can kneel comfortably on at the edge of the bed for…you know…
She also has other equipment, some of which I found surprising. Never mind.
Jane says, “I also have a gay client who pays me $200. an hour to listen to his gay stories. I act like I’m intrigued, but really I’m thinking oh geez who cares who pumped your ass over the weekend…I had my own pumping going on ok! I don’t think he has ever done anything, but is wanting to have another man jump him. He is 24 years old and still living at home with his rich parents.”
Jane, ever conscious of her age, has invented a temporary mechanical facelift, which is an apparatus she fastens to her head, under her long blond hair. She uses medical tape or a clear bandage cutting to fasten the ends of an elastic band just above and behind either eye. The band is pulled tight around her head so it stretches the skin in much the same way as a surgical facelift does. Then she paints the mechanism over with make-up. Ingenious. It works. Ouch.
Jane says, “They don’t care how old or how fat you are. I’ll never be out of work.”
“One time, when I was working in Phoenix, Sheriff Joe, that awful guy who keeps getting reelected in Arapajo County, did a sting and loaded a bunch of us up into a van. I was doing private dancing from home at the time. Anyway, he drives us into this big mall and opens the doors so everyone can look at us. There was an eighty-year-old woman in there with us, and she was looking good.”
Recently, I visited Jane and spent the night at her place. We went out for dinner to a Japanese restaurant. On the way, we toured some neighborhoods and got a little turned around. She was driving her customized Chrysler with a grill that looked like a lion’s mouth. She rolled the car up to a man, who obviously lived in one of the houses, to ask for directions.
I can’t quantify what it was she did, but within thirty seconds, the tone of the conversation was sexual. It wasn’t so much what she said out loud, but how she said it, and how her eyes moved. The man was drawn to her instantly and got closer and closer to the car window. He looked like anyone’s husband, and no doubt his wife could see him out the window. I studied Jane hard, believe me, but couldn’t understand how she did that. The man finally got flustered, snapping back to the reality of where he was, and almost ran from the car. If she’d given him a card, I’m sure she would have heard from him.
The woman is like a magnet. She was dressed casually when we went out, but made up beautifully. Her hair is long and blond and ironed smooth. She looks totally gorgeous. Her low vocal tones and whatever else she did drew in a storekeeper and a waiter during the next few hours.
She isn’t even conscious of what she’s doing. I guess she figures every woman attracts every man who comes in contact with them, like she seems to.
She is tolerant, but a bit contemptuous when she talks about her clients. She is a little sick of putting up with them, even though she has a great income. We brainstormed a lot about alternate careers, like teaching pole dancing, but the fact is that she makes money so easily and effortlessly that it doesn’t seem worth it. Let’s face it, not everyone loves their jobs. But she’s getting sick of this shit, she really is. Can you blame her?
Recently I was talking to a friend about Jane, and she suggested that Jane could give sex classes to straight women – you know, housewives, or women whose husbands could be her clients. Not a demo class or anything crude, but maybe using dummies and props.
Mostly though, to hear Jane talk about it, sexiness is a matter of attitude. There are simply things that men wouldn’t think of requesting from their wives, so they call Jane instead. It never enters their minds that they might have what they need right there at home.
My businesslike mind says that it is just possible that some wives or girlfriends would like to learn how to act more like Jane, without making an actual profession out of it. I think she could score big that way. I will offer to help her with the website.
If any of you girls out there are interested, let me know.