My Life in Pink - Part 9

In the cab, I asked what I had no choice but to ask — if she ever consorted with customers on her own time. She said she did, and my heart sank, but not for long, as she explained that her interactions with them involved no sexual contact. Playing a dominatrix — in an outfit she would show me later — she simply insulted them or bossed them around or whatever else of that sort they wanted — and got them to jerk themselves off at the end. It was her understanding that she made at least half again for these sessions what the other girls earned for allowing their clients to penetrate them. But when she suggested I consider it for myself, I had to laugh. I couldn’t imagine another person in the City having less aptitude for dominance than I.

The only one, in fact, who came to mind was another of my fellow servers, who called herself Khanh, and with whom I’d gone out shopping and for coffee a couple of times. She was the gentlest, most demure, creature I’d ever encountered, the living embodiment of the stereotype of the submissive Asian girl. She’d had brief dalliances with a couple of customers, but it had hurt terribly; she was a crossdresser, rather than a full-fledged transsexual. She’d found another way to supplement her income that she found very much more agreeable. There was an agency in the City that specialized in supplying TV or transsexual domestics to wealthy persons who thought it quite chic to have pretty boys impersonating French maids in their employ. Most prospective employers, Khanh had discovered, were lecherous men, but the agency also had among its clients a few women who were much amused by their ladies’ teas being served by dolled-up bois.

What Khanh had neglected to mention was that the agency’s proprietor was himself an avid lech. Before he would invite me in for a face-to-face interview, I had to email him photos of myself. I sent the same ones I’d sent Bangcock, and he was on the phone to me almost before I’d clicked SEND, telling me how rigid the photos had made him, and asking, rather breathlessly, if I liked cock. “Just my own, to be honest,” I said. When I explained that I’m straight, he sounded crestfallen. “Well, ain’t that a swift kick in the crotch! But a hand job wouldn’t be the end of the world, would it? I mean, you could do that much for me, couldn’t you, if it meant my representing you or not?” I sighed and thanked him for his time and hung up.

He called back instantly. “Jesus,” he marveled disgustedly, “so touchy!” He told me his rates, and asked if they were acceptable. They were actually more than Khanh had told me, and far beyond just acceptable — $1000 for four hours, with no sexual services expected. He told me to expect to hear from him soon, and was as good as his word, phoning two mornings later to ask if I were interested in serving a couple brunch on the Upper East Side on Sunday. They would provide my costume (he’d taken all my sizes in our earlier conversation), and it would probably take no more than a couple of hours, though I would be paid for the full four. The only downside I could see was that I’d have to get up very much earlier on Sunday than was my custom.

What a tiny downside!