Free Cha-Ching! by Ali Liebegott Page B

apartment.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYeah, I’m just waiting for him to call back and make a time to see it. It’s $695. One bedroom. Yard. In Sunset Park.”
    â€œThey take dogs?”
    â€œYeah. The only bad thing is it’s right next door to a car alarm store.”
    â€œHow bad could that be?” Theo said glancing at the escort ads.
    â€œGirl, are you there?” Sammy said after a short silence on the phone.
    â€œDo you think I should be an escort or get into a depression study?”
    Every queer Theo knew in San Francisco had done phone sex, been a dominatrix or a stripper or hooker.
    â€œOh, you’re reading the back of the paper. Escort,” Sammy said laughing. “It makes me think of Cary Grant in a top hat.”
    â€œSeriously. I have a wig,” Theo said.
    People could do anything if they put their mind to it, right? She hadn’t had sex with a man since high school, but how hard could it really be?
    â€œYou’re not really going to be a prostitute,” Sammy said, a touch surprised.
    â€œIt can’t hurt,” Theo said. The dare of it filled her with courage. “I’ll call you right back.” She hung up and dialed the number of an escort agency.
    â€œHello,” a woman answered after the first ring.
    â€œHello. I’m calling about the ad for the escort job,” Theo said.
    â€œAre you a police officer?”
    Theo laughed.
    The woman was silent.
    â€œNo,” Theo quickly said.
    â€œHave you escorted before?”
    â€œNo.”
    Theo could hear the woman hesitate so she added, “But my friends have. I know what the job is.”
    â€œTell me what you look like,” the woman said.
    Theo knew not to tell her she was butch. Even though prostitution included special requests, she was sure there wasn’t a great demand for timid sirma’amsirs.
    â€œI’m five foot seven and a half inches. Brown eyes. A hundred and forty pounds.”
    â€œWhat’s your bra size?” the woman interrupted.
    â€œ36 B,” Theo lied.
    Theo was flat as a board, even though she came from a long line of huge-breasted women. When she was ten she’d started to pray before bed please God, don’t give me any tits . She’d been boyish for as long as she could remember, and when her chest remained flat while the chests of the girls on her soccer team grew, Theo wondered if she’d really saved herself with prayer.
    â€œWell, there’s a market for small-breasted women. What about tattoos? Do you have any?”
    Theo was running out of truths the Madame could handle. Being a tattooed prostitute in San Francisco was a plus, but here in New York things were different.
    â€œI have one,” Theo started.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    Theo considered how to word it, and then just said, “A dagger?” as if she was asking permission.
    She could hear the Madame’s skepticism, “Where is the dagger?”
    â€œOn my chest, uh, between my breasts.”
    Theo was surprised to find herself invested in getting an escort interview. She was agitated by the woman’s hesitation.
    â€œHow big is the dagger?”
    â€œIt’s tasteful, I swear,” Theo insisted.
    â€œCan you come to the East Village around three o’clock tomorrow so I can take a look at you and see if you’d be the right fit for us?”
    â€œSure,” Theo said, writing down the address.
    â€¢
    Theo was too ashamed to tell anyone she’d gotten the idea for her first tattoo from a photograph in Madonna’s SEX book. The picture was of Madonna sitting on the floor between two shaved-headed lesbians. Madonna, freshly emerged from a bondage scene, rubbing her rope-burned wrists. Theo didn’t give a shit about Madonna having sex or getting tied up by lesbians. But she did care about the perfect dagger tattoo on one lesbian’s chest, as if she’d swallowed the knife whole.
    Theo had just