Free Fucking Daphne by Daphne Gottlieb

cut your clothes off with a knife, call you names, and hit you. But she actually did pretty well with talking sweetly and saying “baby” and “honey.” She just needed to make some money. “I hate that I have to do this fucking job,” she told me once. “I hate that I know writers who live off what they write. But most of them whore in some form. What can writers do for work? Not a lot. Mostly shit jobs that don’t pay anything. I’d rather suck cock. It’s easier.”
    She made a lot of money. Guys thought she was exotic. Like they were getting their very own taste of alternative before they went home to normal.
    Daphne showed up four hours late to her shift almost every day. I assumed she was high, mainly because we all were. She’d stomp through the door in boots, growling about the train being late, and then she’d transform into a girl right there in front of me. Boots off, slippers on. Hair tied back in a knot. Lip gloss. Lingerie. From Kali to Venus. Just like magic.

    Most of those girls made pretty good cash. I’d have done it, too, but I have a problem with jism. Well, that and the fact that half the time, the johns called me “sir” anyway. Plus, you really had to give the creeps a massage. I don’t want to work that hard for my money. So I just answered the phones for a straight-up $15 an hour.
    Guys would call and say things like, “So, what kinds of masseuses are in today?” and I’d describe the girls in a sexy way, like, “We have Brandy. She’s a redhead and very buxom; I’m sure you’ll like her.” Sometimes they’d ask for girls by name, but usually they would just show up and all the girls would put down their Diet Cokes and pretend to be super horny—like rubbing down a goofy businessman is gonna make them cream all over the place. The guys were almost thankful, just regular guys who wanted a hand job before they got home. They worked in banks and insurance firms and whatever. Just like guys do. I never talked to any of them, but sometimes I’d overhear the girls talking with them. They all looked like my dad. Well, they all looked like dads of some kind.
    It was like prostitution lite. Most of the johns were looking for what they liked to think was “class.” They didn’t realize they could get a hand job for five bucks on Capp Street. This place was a nice penthouse apartment on the Embarcadero, where they could easily stop off after work. For $125 they could get a full-body massage from one of the lingerie-clad girls, and then they could turn over for a yank. The girls got to keep $80, plus whatever tips the johns gave them for extras, like taking off their tops and stuff.
    I always liked Daphne. And now that I think about it, she never wanted any of the bag of coke I kept in my desk drawer for long shifts. She said she preferred pot, and that coke would make her vibrate on a totally different frequency.

    I walk up to where she’s standing, talking to Nat, and say hi. Nat looks a little mad, like maybe she thinks I’m moving in. I see her straighten up, kind of flex her muscles. She’s a tall girl, too. Handsome, well built. She keeps her hair long, though. It’s about shoulder length, which cracks me up. “Why don’t you cut that shit off?” I asked her once. “You trying to pass for a girl?” But she brushed me off.
    â€œThe ladies love this hair,” she said.
    Soon as she realizes I’m just making conversation, she drops the flexing bit. Nat gets uptight sometimes and can be a bully when she drinks. She’ll yell at you if she thinks you aren’t being respectful, but I’ve never seen her punch anyone. I’m pretty good at calming her down. Isn’t that the thing about us guys, though? We push and shove and puff up and there’s a lot of dancing around, but no one really wants to get hit. Chicks are the ones that