Free Wherever the Dandelion Falls by Lily R. Mason Page B

him. I learned to simulate my usual movements of pleasure; the way I arched my back and curled my feet. I learned choreography in order to earn a bigger payout. And though some people would have shaken their heads, ashamed of me, I couldn't help but think that I was resourceful. Who else could get paid for something she had originally agreed to do for free?
    I had, after all, agreed to go home with Dr. Turner that first time, knowing we would probably sleep together, without knowing he would pay me. I wasn't revolted by his appearance. He was an attractive man. The fact that he wasn't someone I'd picked up on the street made a big difference to me. I couldn't imagine sleeping with various strangers for money. I didn't have the acting ability to convince unattractive people they were turning me on.
    But knowing him in the way I did, knowing the price he was willing to pay to feel as though he was turning a woman on made him less attractive. Not so unattractive that I couldn't stand his presence, especially when I knew that I had a planned exit time. He paid me by the hour, and I was firm about enforcing the time limits. A few times he had lagged and I'd offered to extend his time by half an hour, and once by a full hour, which he took me up on. But our interactions were finite and generally predictable.
    I began to wonder what it was inside Dr. Turner that was so afraid of connecting with a real woman that he was willing to pay me thousands of dollars a month to stand in her place. When I was feeling particularly sorry for him, I'd even have imaginary conversations in my head with a future girlfriend of his, telling her things to watch out for and where the tender spots on his heart might be. Mostly, I wished her luck.
    My biggest problem was coming up with activities to fill the hundred and sixty-seven hours a week I wasn't with Dr. Turner. I felt like all the days watercolor-bled together, and I sometimes found myself asking Justine what day it was.
    I'd told Justine that I'd gotten a job modeling for classes at the Academy of Art University. She hadn't asked many questions, other than if it was nude. Testing the waters, I told her it was. She'd given me a playful lift of her eyebrows and told me to have fun and see if there were any cute artists who wanted to chat afterwards. I rolled my eyes and didn't bring up my fake work again. She was working so many hours a week at the nonprofit and so many hours a week as a nanny, she didn't know that I was home all the time. I was home more hours than I knew what to do with. I cleaned every crevice of our apartment, save Justine's room.
    It became apparent I needed more to do with my time.
    While I'd been on the message boards looking up tricks of the prostitution trade, I'd seen plenty of posts written by strippers, many of whom worked in San Francisco. I began to wonder how many of these girls I'd run into without knowing it. Was the girl in line in front of me at the grocery co-op also the busty brunette who advised new strippers to regularly wipe their asses with antibacterial wipes so they didn't get "dirty stripper butt"? Was the girl at the laundromat the same girl who swore on her life that strippers made more money when they wore white shoes? I started imagining that everyone around me had a secret double life. Maybe I needed to do that to feel better about my own.
    I knew I was going to have to find something to do with my time. I didn't want to go back to academia, and I certainly didn't want to work in a stuffy lab. I wanted as little to do with neuroscience as possible. When scouring Craigslist for possible new career endeavors and being subsequently depressed by the pitiful number of jobs I was qualified for, my mind flickered back to the message boards. The girls who posted there had raved about being able to set their own schedules, feel empowered while making good money, and work in any city in the country.
    I knew I had to try it or spend years wondering why I