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  It’s a miracle we survived. But survive we did…

  To slavishly worship those who most resemble us today.

  Kiss of X, Alive Contains a Lie

  12

  The wind is rising as Alice enters the black limo outside her home. The last of the sunset plays itself out as a somber greenish-yellow glow on the underside of a flat deck of clouds, interrupted only by the towers to the south.

  She has resigned herself to all the trip implies; what works within her now is self-justification mixed with her own patented formula for making diamonds out of soot, silk out of bug juice, and all the other metaphors for natural transformations she can think of. She has dressed in simple and powerful finery, trim gray and blue lounge jumper with a long darker gray coat; she is consummately professional and tasteful, letting her assets speak for themselves. Her short brown hair has been trained into a graceful row of ringlets across her brow and swirled lines down to her neck. Her skin has been fed from within by capsule supplements, the usual brew of all-purpose dermatological tailored cells and peptides, drawing color to her cheeks and putting little shadows of mystery along the upper eyelids and to each side of the bridge of her nose. It’s a time-honored ritual, changed only by the sophistication of the means.

  She does not use makeover, finds the crawling and adjusting skin-hugging little appliances and slips of color uncomfortable; nor has she made deep adjustments to her body. She is satisfied that she will please any man interested in a natural woman.

  As a professional, she has gauged male reactions to female enticements for many years, and knows that the concerns of most women with regard to male response are exaggerated. Men respond favorably and even passionately to a variety of female shapes and features, to women whom women do not among themselves regard as being in any feature beautiful. And of course, the attractiveness of a short-term partner is judged differently from the requirements for a mistress or a spouse.

  Women exercise the same width of reactions over their choices. The first step to a coming together, to giving in to the compelling lure of the tetragrammaton (which Alice spells L-O-V-E, unlike Minstrel) is to open wide the narrow gates of judgment, to enjoy what is offered, to find pleasure in what one sees and hears. Critical judgment must be suspended in some ways, for men and for women.

  She hums to herself in the back seat of the silent vehicle. She has never ridden in this kind of agency car. Nearly all her previous jobs, even when she was at her peak, required public transportation. The ride is a curiosity. She is not terribly impressed by it all.

  Mostly she tries not to think, but cutting back on thought has never been easy for her. From an early age, she has absorbed what comes to her with an enthusiasm that has often left her bruised and wary, but never blank.

  Twist has that particular grace, that after being bruised and worn out, she can cut her thinking down to nothing, like a cat curling up to sleep off its wounds.

  Alice chews on a knuckle, then on an edge of skin beside the carefully trimmed nail of her index finger. The windows are dark. She cannot see where she is going. She knows she places a lot of trust in the agency; but then they are legally obligated to look after her. And the dangers of the sex care professions have been much reduced in her lifetime. Still, she thinks of the women who have been hurt by their clients and their lovers; of the anger sex can arouse, and the fury love sometimes kindles.

  She says to herself several times along the ride, “I am a cow.” She does not know what that means. It comes from someplace below conscious thought; perhaps it means she has come to accept being brought to stud. She shakes her head and smiles at that. Big business bulls, managerial studs so stupid they can’t mount by themselves, they must be brought cows…

  Alice dismisses that and looks at her finger. She smoothes the small flap of skin and makes a face. She does not want to be less than immaculate. Perfection is a kind of control. The man will not be perfect; no call-in client is ever perfect, no matter how moneyed or powerful. They have to pay for her attentions, after all.

  The sex part is simple enough; it is all the other complexities that puzzle her, the trap-laden labyrinths of emotions.

  The limo slows. She feels it turn smoothly and then rise along an incline. She pats her small carrying case and inspects her outfit. Soon she will be on show. She will try to enjoy what she can, accept what is not enjoyable, and pass from this job with a clear conscience.

  The limo door opens beside a small circular lift enclosure. The lift door slides open silently, revealing a dimly lighted interior, parallel panels of maple and cherry, bars and rails of polished stainless steel, heavy non-metabolic carpet. All ostentation. No numbers, no names, no elevator manager to greet her. She steps from the limo and the door closes, but the limo does not move. It will wait for her. Behind her is the darkness of a large echoing space, probably a garage.

  Alice hesitates before the lift, closes her eyes. A whore is someone who cheats her customers.

  The lift swallows her. Three floors (she guesses) pass with gracious slowness. No hurry; the owner prefers thoughtful intervals between places. She draws her coat up to look at her shoes, leans to peer at her reflection in a steel bar. Nothing amiss. Alice is used to looking good, but she always checks.

  The lift door opens. Shadows beyond, then a series of spots switch on dramatically, painting the way to another room, marking a trail over carpet as resilient and luxurious as an English lawn. Alice follows the trail down a broad hallway lined with wooden statues and shields and framed lengths of patterned cloth, Polynesian she thinks, artifacts that might belong in a museum (and are almost certainly not replicas). She has never been impressed by money or power; she is not impressed now, but she would like to linger before the pieces, and that does not seem to be allowed.

  The spots behind her go out. She is herded into another room. Little lights glow all around, like big blurred stars. They spin to focus on a man standing beside a couch, table, and chair on a low, broad stone platform. The lights angle to reveal everything but his face.

  He holds out his hand. “Thanks for coming,” he says.

  She murmurs politely that she’s glad to be here, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Alice guesses his age, from his voice and the skin on his hand, as forty or forty-five, well-maintained, but probably not a chronovore—not receiving treatments to stay young. This relieves her a little. Chronovores spook her.

  “Have a seat, please. Let’s get acquainted.”

  The man wears a pair of loose reddish-brown lounging pajamas and a sleeveless vest. His muscles are adequately developed, shoulders broad, and he has the suggestion of a tummy roll, not uncomely. She focuses on that small imperfection. It gives her faceless client some character; everything else is more slippery than ice.

  “I hope you don’t mind not seeing my face.” The lights twist and re-focus, switch on and off, as he moves around the couch and takes her extended hand.

  “Your place is lovely,” Alice says.

  “Thank you. I don’t use it for this sort of thing very often, I assure you. Not specifically… for our arrangement, I mean.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can I get you anything? What’s your thirst?” he asks.

  “A glass of wine, please. Veriglos.”

  “No adjustments?”

  “No, thank you,” Alice says. Adjustments can cover a range from simple alcohol to complex intoxicants such as hyper-caff, amine flowers, neuromimes, and a broad number of things currently illegal. She prefers her own, natural reactions.

  “Good. That’s what I hoped you’d say.” The man orders an arbeiter to bring a glass of white Veriglos. She takes the glass from the arbeiter’s traytop and sips. “Very nice. You’ve picked my favorite—Zucker Vineyards, I think,”

  She cultivates a tone not overly familiar, expectant but relaxed and unhurried; as if they have been lovers in the past. To give value will be the saving of her self-opinion, her sense of honor.

  �
�I don’t know much about wine,” the man says. His voice is tense, though he hides it well enough. “Everything I’m served tastes pretty good.” He tries to conceal a nervous breath, making a small hup. “I didn’t know whether you were available… for private appearances.”

  She smiles in the direction of his face, which she can barely make out in outline. Something besides shadow obscures his features, not a mask—some technological trick, a projected blurring. She puts on her own kind of mask now, obscuring not features but intent. “I’m always available for kind-hearted strangers,” she says. “The question is, how available are you?”

  The man’s stance stiffens and his hand clutches the fabric covering one hip.

  Oops, too forward.

  “Not at all, unfortunately,” the man says. She wonders if the room alters his voice; and whether, in bed, the shape of his body and his mannerisms will be enhanced by some other wizardry. The artificial stranger…

  Actually, to her irritation, she finds this mildly interesting.

  “But for this evening,” he continues, “I’m yours, completely and absolutely. At your command… A final treat. I’ve done some good things in this life and I deserve something in return.” He steps to her right and sits beside her. Despite the following shadow and blur, she senses him inspecting her from this new angle.

  She mimes a little nervousness and looks away, to startle up his protective/possessive instincts. In these situations she has not been nervous for fifteen years; she knows exactly what is going on, but that is not sexy to many men.

  “I’m honored,” she says with a small catch. “This is a little overpowering. You must be very wealthy.”

  He ignores that. “I think all men hope for genuine passion in their women,” he says. “We like to imagine ourselves so handsome and devastating that we break down the hardest walls… don’t you agree?” His voice seems to smile, so she smiles in return.

  “That seems to be what most men want,” she says.

  “I won’t expect that of you,” he says softly.

  But you’re paying, so that’s what you’ll think you’re getting, she vows.

  “I am a gentle man, really,” he says. “I don’t get off on physical strength or… overpowering. Money, I mean. If these surroundings bother you, we can go somewhere else.”

  Alice stretches her arms, a little restless. “I hope there’s more furniture,” she says.

  “I’m referring to my situation,” he says. “I hope you’ll enjoy being here. I’m as concerned for how you feel—who and what you are… as I am for my own pleasure. My own feelings.”

  Now it is Alice’s turn to stiffen, though she hides it better. This man, whoever he is, is of the type dreaded by the sex care trade. He wants to get under Alice’s professional facade arid establish a deeper liaison. He wants to touch her emotions as if she were some lovesick young girl; perhaps that will be the only way he can get off. In her brief time doing call-ins, she heard other women talk about these types, yet she never encountered one. He hides, but he wants to know all about me.

  Well, she can mock that, too. “It’s always nice when that happens,” she says. She reaches out to touch his arm, puts on a small concerned expression. “How big is this place? I’d love to see more.” She wants to speed the process.

  “Certainly,” the man says. “I hope you don’t mind if I’m curious. I know that’s so common—the client wants to know everything, tells nothing about himself. But I feel as if I’ve known you for so long… from your vids. I really am a fan, and it would give me no end of pleasure to have you tell me, you know, what you’d like all of your fans to know, if you had the chance.”

  Alice broadens her smile. “Of course.”

  “What I’d really enjoy…” he says. “If I can… ask for such things… is to make love to you, as if we’d just met.”

  Alice cannot riddle this easily. He sounds unsure of himself, and this attempt to insinuate into her affections actually does have an awkward sweetness that could point to sincerity. Alice knows that the best men are those who remain boys in some heart-deep place, and keep some genuine naïveté as a kind of talisman against too much reality.

  The calculating, fully adult male, grimly certain of the way of the world, able to smell advantage and compelled to go for it, can make a selfish and distasteful partner, even for one evening.

  So, what is this male? A good actor, perhaps; as good as she is.

  “What I really need right now,” Alice says, “is a bathroom.”

  “Right,” the man says, and jumps from the couch. “Other rooms, other furniture.”

  She follows his shaded form into another hall, this one lined with antique black and white prints, covered with glass. She thinks they might be from Victorian times; men in stiff dark formal attire, festooned with ribbons and medals, standing around tables. Other men wearing turbans, fezzes, and robes, clearly at a disadvantage, are seated by the tables, and on the tables are pieces of paper and feather pens, and beyond the men and the tables, viewed through arches or windows, the tops of minarets or Eastern domes.

  As she passes, the prints come to life briefly, and the men nod and speak silently with each other. The effect disappoints her. Honest immobility is so unusual in art now.

  Wherever he goes, the male is still shrouded by lights and strategic blurs. This kind of camouflage must be terribly expensive.

  They enter a simple but elegant bedroom. The bed is square and flat and the pillows are arranged at the top, a very traditional sort of bed. The bedcover is a white embroidered down comforter. The floor is polished wood, spotlessly clean of course.

  No windows.

  “The bathroom is over there,” the man says. Alice follows his finger toward a door barely visible against the velvety grayness of a far wall. The door opens as she approaches and a light shines brightly within, white marble and gold fixtures, dazzling her eyes. She turns within the room to catch a glimpse of this uncontrolled light shining on the man, but he has his back to her, and the illumination does not seem to reach him anyway.

  The toilet is simple and elegant, gracefully curved like an upside down seashell, the seat low-slung, incorporating a bidet. It is a diagnostic toilet, common in many homes these days—and ubiquitous in public lavatories, where your deposits—though guaranteed anonymous—are quickly analyzed and become part of public health records.

  Her bladder is very full. She relieves herself—wondering if the rich male is recording all, even the analysis of her urine—, washes herself, and stands to adjust her clothing. The seams come together smoothly at her touch. She glances in the mirror, asks the door to open, and returns to the bedroom.

  The male has undressed and is standing naked beside the bed. His face is still obscured, but the lights do not hide his body. He must be proud of it, she thinks. He is about fifty, actually, in good condition, though not heavily muscled. His arms and upper torso are shapely but smooth, lacking the delineations and hollows that Alice personally favors His stomach is slightly plump, and there is a fair amount of chest hair and even hair on his abdomen. His penis is of ordinary size, circumcised. No surprises this far, no apparent projections to deceive her; he might hope for a genuine experience, not to use her as a higher sort of prosthetute.

  “I’d like to see all of you,” Alice says. “I’m very discreet.”

  “No,” the male says. He does not move.

  “Is there anything you’d like?” Alice asks. “I mean, specifically…”

  “Just be yourself,” the male says. “I like you the way you are. As I said, I appreciate real passion.”

  “The eyes make a big difference. To me.”

  “Sorry,” the male says.

  Alice walks forward, tugging at the top of her garment, fingers working along the hidden seams. First she reveals a shoulder. She keeps her eyes fixed approximately on his, and bites her lower lip for a moment before tossing her short hair and looking away, as if the intensity of looking at him is too much. S
he glances down again, first at his penis, pausing as if she finds it attractive, then at the floor. She has learned these techniques and measured their effects on men and practiced them for so long that she does not regard them as artful. She is simply good at what she does. The proof is in the male’s reaction as she draws closer.

  Well good then; he’s not too jaded.

  Before revealing her breasts, she reaches down and tugs open the legs of her pants, allowing a glimpse of crotch. Then she pulls the fabric down over her breasts, looking at him steadily as if concerned about his approval, she will be devastated if he does not approve; as men imagine a young woman new to sex might behave. She walks in seeming shreds now, only her abdomen and thighs still covered.

  “Very good,” he says, and clears his throat.

  She suspects he does not want her to say much at this point, but he does not want her to be silent, either. She comes closer, one finger tugging gently at the seam beneath her crotch, not enough to separate it. “Will you do this for me?” she asks. The male touches her wrist, follows her fingers up into the seam, and tugs. The seam separates.

  “Good,” Alice says throatily.

  He fingers her a little roughly, but she does not flinch away. This is not for her; the male is paying. He rubs and chuckles. “You’re not wet,” he says.

  “Maybe I need a little more attention,” Alice suggests. In fact, she feels no signs of impending wetness; there is nothing for her to focus on, nothing around which she can invoke a fantasy. The male’s body by itself is hardly inspiring. His reluctance to show his face irritates rather than intrigues. She is not impressed by his wealth and power because for all she knows he is borrowing someone else’s apt for the evening; he might be a poor friend of someone well-off. No reason for interest here.

  Alice has always been aware of her dreadful lack of nesting instincts. She has never reacted to wealth and power alone, nor been tempted to chase after partners with status. She trades sex for money, but never self. Self she has never given to anyone.