Free Calling Maggie May by Anonymous

guess it didn’t really matter, because he just grunted and turned his back on me. He didn’t tell me his name or offer me a drink or tell me to take a seat or anything. So I just stood there. Eventually, he said, “What are you waiting for?” He was probably in his fifties, kind of fat, and wearing a nice collared shirt with gym shorts underneath, which was weird. He definitely did not turn me on.
    At that moment, with everything so different from what I was expecting, I nearly turned around and walked out the door. But I knew if I did that, Irma would never book me for another date at all. I thought, this has to be a test. I don’t even know if that’s true, or if this guy was just the luck of the draw, but somehow it helped me to think of it that way. If there’s onething I know how to deal with, it’s tests. Just focus and take deep breaths and do your best.
    I did what he told me to, and I tried to do it well, though there was some stuff he wanted that was, well, more difficult than it looks in movies and stuff. But I think the worst thing is that through the whole thing, I had no idea if I was doing a good job or what I did well and what I did badly. The man was totally expressionless the whole time. It kind of hurt my feelings.
    God, what a stupid thing to say. As if this is about my feelings! It doesn’t matter what I want. It’s about the client, not me.
    Anyway, I guess it must not have been too terrible, because when I was done, he gave me a tip. Twenty bucks. I used it to get a cab home, because Irma’s cars only take you to the appointment; they don’t pick you up at the other end. We’re on our own for that.
    Now I’m pretty sore. But at least I’ll get paid soon. It’s funny. Now I can’t remember why I was so eager for money.

Mon, Dec 1, later
    I feel a lot better. Dumb, but so relieved. I just spoke to Ada. I hadn’t planned to, but she called me, knowing that today was my first time. My first time for real. At first she just congratulatedme, but I guess something in my voice must have given away how I was feeling, because she asked how I was and sounded really concerned.
    I didn’t mean to tell her. I didn’t want her to feel responsible. But before I even knew what was happening, it was all spilling out of me, and I was sobbing into the phone. I told her I hated it. That I felt gross and used and like I wasn’t even human. I asked her if that was normal and she laughed, though I don’t think it was very funny. She said yes, that’s normal. It’s part of the gig.
    I asked her how she put up with that, and she sighed and didn’t say anything right away. Then, just as I was beginning to think we’d lost our connection, she said, “It isn’t always like that.”
    â€œYou mean like with Damon?” I said.
    â€œDamon’s great,” she said. “But no, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is, sometimes what gets you through is . . . human connection. Even with someone who is gross-looking and kind of rude, sometimes you get just a moment, a brief glimpse of the person as a person. And you think, I have a chance to make this person feel good right now. And it might be the only good feeling he has in the next month.”
    â€œBut how do you know . . . ?”
    â€œYou don’t. You never know. And maybe it’s all a fantasy. Maybe the men are a fantasy to us as much as we are to them. Maybe there’s no decent person under it all who needs you.Maybe they are all dickbags. But you have to tell yourself something. I mean, there has to be something that gets you through it, week after week.”
    I thought about that for a while . . . tried to picture telling myself that story and believing it because I had to.
    â€œAda,” I said after a while.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œI don’t think I want to do it again.”
    I cringed as I said it,