The New Economy

(Alright sexy people, this one's sex to blah-blah ratio is about 70/30. Hope you enjoy it!)

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Chapter 1 - The Crash

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"I'm afraid that's right ma'am," the mechanic was saying on my phone. "Seven hundred and forty eight dollars. And 57 cents."

Well, shit! That was about 700 more dollars than I had in my checking account. And, I'm a 'Miss' goddammit, not a 'Ma'am'!

"Please!" I begged. "Are you sure? Isn't there something else that can be done, some cheaper part?"

After begging for a few more minutes, he knocked the price down to an even $700. That was nice, but it really didn't help me much at all. My asshole landlord just jacked up my rent this month. My two credit cards were nearly maxed out; I think I had about 250 left on those, combined.

I don't want to cry, I thought. Not here at work! Just don't cry. Maintain, deep breath.

But it didn't do any good. I was tired, my car was dead, and I was out of money. I cried. Right there in my cubicle. I mean, not big loud girlie cries. But my shoulders jumped as I tried to keep it in, tears rolled down my face and onto my blouse before I could grab a Kleenex. To make matters worse, I just knew my face was getting all blotchy, of course.

At least it was late in the day and Joanne and Tracy had gone home. I tried to think of alternatives. Mom, no. I was already into her for $1,500 and she denied my last borrowing attempt. My sister Kate, no. I wouldn't borrow money from that bitch except to buy a gun to shoot her with.

Jesus, I thought, what can I do? I know those 1-800-Cash things are a huge rip-off, but I didn't seem to have much of a choice.

Just then, Mark came in. "Patience, I know it's last minute but can you make a few changes to these orders? Barney didn't like the way they were set up... oh, hey, are you crying? Did I... was it me? Is it these changes?"

"Sorry Mark," I began explaining. "It's not you. (Sniff) I just got some bad news on my car."

"The Beemer? I told you not to buy that junker from Evans! Oh, sorry, not what you want to hear right now. Can I, um, do anything?"

"I know, I know, you told me not to buy that hunk of junk," I whined in between sobs. "You're right. I should have listened to you. (Sniff) You're always so nice to me! Why are you already married?"

Oh shit I couldn't believe I just said that! Like he would really be interested in me? I mean, nobody else been has for the last two years, why would he? And he's married! What the fuck am I even thinking about!

Mark sighed and looked at me. "Are you short? How much?"

"The bill is about $700. I'm short like, I don't know, 500 or so." I was so ashamed. "But, Mark, I'm not asking you for the money! This isn't your problem--"

"Aww just hush up, kiddo." Mark always called me Kiddo. He was like, maybe 20 years older than me, I guess he had the right. "I'm gonna go talk to that shmuck Evans for a few minutes. Hey, you probably need a ride to the dealer?" I nodded. "Okay, get these changes done for me, I'll be back in 15 and we'll go get your car. Don't worry about a thing."

I sniffled and snuffled my way through the order changes, trying not to think about anything else but that was impossible. But I didn't want to mess up Mark's orders, either. I got 'em done, correctly.

But I just didn't know what the hell I was going to do. As much as I needed the money, I didn't want to borrow it because it would be so hard to pay it back. $500 would take me five months of starving myself! And I already had credit cards, auto loan, Mom loan, rent, christ. But then, I thought that starving myself might not be a bad idea. Ever since the divorce, I'd been steadily gaining weight. I just cracked the 180 barrier last week.

I started crying again. 180 pounds, what the fuck is wrong with me? FML!

Mark texted me to meet him down at the front of the office, he was ready to go. I dried my face, looked at my mirror and said fuck it, and went on down.

"So I shook down Evans for being such an asshole and selling you that lemon. I got $500 from him--"

"Oh my god!" I shrieked. "Look, I'll pay him back--"

"No no no!" exclaimed Mark. "Call it a 'rebate', if you will. It's yours."

"Well I don't know how you did it, but thank you!" I was so surprised. I didn't know what to say. We chatted a little more till we got to the dealer, where, much to my amazement, Mark not only paid the $500 from Bill Evans, but he threw the rest on his own credit card.

I just stood there, overwhelmed by his generosity. At the same time, I wondered if he expected something in return. I mean, I would have done anything he wanted, I guess, but he didn't seem like the type to do that. I was afraid to speak for fear of breaking down into tears again.

They brought my car around, it was running fine. Mark then surprised me again.

"You know the Applebee's, over on Bristol?"

I nodded my head.

"Let's go there. I'm buying you dinner. And we're going to talk."

- - -

Mark ordered some darkish craft beer and got me a margarita. Cadillac, of course.

"So Patience," he said as we waited for the bevvies. "How did you get here? And by that, I mean, how did you get to the point of not being able to afford a car repair? You're what, 26?"

"You're sweet. I'm 29, almost 30. And thank you so much for getting the money from Evans 'the shitbird' and for paying the rest of it off."

"Don't thank me yet, sweetie. That was a loan. Keep going."

The drinks came and we 'Salud'-ed our glasses.

"Well, I was getting tired of my fucking husband cheating on me. Then he was stealing from me. And I was getting real tired of him hitting me... Anyways... Caught him with my sister and that was the last straw. The divorce was finalized two years ago, I got screwed over because he can't keep a job, and I've just been struggling ever since."

"Holy shit," replied Mark. "I had no idea. What a fucking dirtbag. And, pardon me for being forward, but any boyfriends now?"

"Nope. Can't get more than one date. Those dating websites, Jesus Christ! They are just full of one-night wonders! Bang and run, that's all they want. I mean, okay, so I need a bang once in awhile, but Jesus! I'd like a second date sometime. But I'm sure my weight has something to do with it. I used to be 140. But that was years ago. Look at me now."

"Don't worry about it. You're, what do they call it? Height/Weight Proportionate?"

"You mean, my big boobs balance out my huge ass?"

He chuckled, a little embarrassed. How cute!

We talked more about options for me, ways to cut back. He had some great ideas, I mean he's some computer whiz-bang old man for sure. So he should be smart. But even with selling the Beemer and getting a Civic or a little Hyundai, I would just barely break even.

"You need to be loading up your 401-k, and utilizing the stock purchase plan! Christ I made 30 grand last year just with the stock plan. It's based on your salary, but you could've made probably 6 or 7 thousand if you participated."

I shrugged my shoulders. I was in retail before this job. I didn't go to college. Frankly, the stock market scared me. I can't get ahead in this world.

I was about to order a second drink but Mark stopped me. After the waitress left, he explained why.

"First of all, the last thing you need is a Drunk Driving arrest. Second, I know you want to lose weight, and drinking won't help that. And third, well hell. I don't know how to say it. But you need a clear head to think about... well, I've got an idea but you probably won't like it."

"What do you mean, Mark? What idea? Tell me!" I was desperate.

"There's ways to make some money in your spare time. But... no. It's, too stupid. You wouldn't like it."

"Mark, please. As long as it isn't any of that multi-leveling-marketing bullshit. And I don't want to work at a hardware store on the weekends. I need something, I'll do anything!"

"There's this funny thing about human nature," Mark said. "When someone says 'I will do anything', they almost never mean it."

I thought about that for a few moments. "Okay then. I will *consider* anything! How about that! But you're right, I won't sell drugs or whatever."

"No. It's not drugs. It's, holy shit it's hard to explain. And embarrassing. Okay, you have to swear complete confidentiality with me. On your honor. If you repeat what I tell you, you could get me fired, and probably divorced also."

"Oh, well, Mark," I began, suddenly worried. "Like, I'm not going to embezzle anything either, or rob a bank--"

"Whoa baby, it's nothing like that. It has to do with... sex."

I picked up my glass and drained the margarita remnants. Great, I thought. He wants me to be a prostitute.

"Thanks, Mark. I'll return the money as soon as I can." I began to collect my phone and purse.

"Patience. Sit. You need to hear me out. You owe me that much."

Fucker. I do owe him, I thought. I slumped back down.

"Ok Mark. Go ahead. Tell me your sex plan that isn't prostitution."

Mark finished his beer and signalled for another one. I guess he still has me on a diet, though. Whatever. We waited in silence for the beer, I pretended to read my e-mails.

Finally, it arrived and he chugged half of it. Burped quietly, and wiped his mouth.

"Ok. Here it is. But you can't hit me with any of that sexual harassment shit, okay? Here goes: Married men, say, someone such as myself, sometimes we get, oh shit this is harder to admit than I thought."

I knew what he was trying to say. "You get horny and you want to fuck someone other than your wife. I get it. That happened to me, remember?"

"Yeah, well sort of. Sometimes, though, we just need a little spice. We don't want to necessarily 'cheat', but there are alternatives. Some guys go to strip clubs, but that gets very expensive and there's no payoff. So then other guys may go to massage parlors."

He wants me to work in a massage parlor? I guess I should mention at this point I'm not asian. Not being racist, but 99% of them are Asian massage parlors.

"Now hang on, Patience. There's another thing. See, some women run 'massages' out of their homes or hotels. It's *not* prostitution. You give the guy a nice back rub. Soft music, candles, hot oils..."

"And that's it?" I asked.

"Well, then there's the obligatory hand-job at the end. So yeah, that's it."

I asked the waitress for another margie. Weight-loss be damned at this point.

"And, so, Mark, you've done this before I take it?"

He blushed. He actually blushed! "Yeah, I have a few different girls. I go about once a month or so. Look, I've talked to them. They can make an easy six to eight hundred a day."

Well, shit, I thought. That got my attention. Mark kept talking.

"I mean, you wouldn't quit your day job. You could work weeknights from like, six to ten. Get one client a day for five days and you could be making an extra grand a week."

"So wait a minute," I enquired. "How much is it for an hour?"

"Well typical is about 160 an hour. But I figure you could do 180 or 200 an hour."

"Ha!" I laughed in his face. "I can barely get a date, and you're telling me men will pay $200 for an hour with me?" This sounded absurd. I mean, I'm not ugly or anything. Really, I'm not. But I'm not that classic little Barbie doll that everyone seems to want, either. Two hundred bucks, yeah right.

"Patience. Pardon me for being upfront, but you've got an awesome rack! Plenty of guys would love to uh, well in the business it's called 'Mutual Touching'."

"Huh?" I asked, flabbergasted. "How is that not prostitution? They do, what, touch my tits?"

Naturally, the waitress happened to come by with my margarita right at that moment. She awkwardly placed it in front of me and vanished, rather quickly.

"Sweetie," Mark implored. "Keep your voice down okay? It's part of the game. You can be topless, or naked. You make the rules, but there's gotta to be some payoff for the guy. Usually, playing with and sucking of the boobs is standard. You don't have to let anyone touch you... uh..." He blushed again. I didn't help, and watched him struggle. "... uh... down there. You know what I mean right?"

"Let me get this straight. I massage a guy, he sucks my boobs, and I jerk him off, and he pays me $200?"

"Well, yeah. Except that, um, you can probably only ask $150 or so for just topless. $200 assumes nudity and some, uh, touching. But you can say 'just on the outside' if you want to. It's up to you. Some girls do go farther and offer options like kissing, prostate massage."

"Prostate massage?" I said, too loudly, again. Heads turned. I started again quieter. "You mean I stick my finger up his ass? You men are fucking weird!"

"You wear a glove. You charge more for it. I tried it once, but it wasn't for me. My gal Tina tells me of a guy who buys a big black dildo each and every time. They aren't cheap! But he can't keep it anywhere in the house because his wife would kill him. So he gets one, has her anally rape him, and then he throws it in her trash can. She charges him an extra hundo just for that. But, again, it's what you want to do, what you're comfortable with."

Mark sat back in his chair. "Look, I'm sorry to offend you. I just, well, it struck me that you have a great way with people, you're always smiling, you're a 'pleaser' personality type which is probably why your ex took advantage of you. But there's a lot of gals in this business who don't enjoy it, and the guys can tell. Trust me, when the chick isn't into it, it's hard for us to get into it. Okay not all guys, of course. Some guys don't need much stimulation at all. But you, if you act all sweet, pretend you like them, share a little intimacy with them, you'll get repeat customers. Probably so many you'll have to turn them away."

I looked at my margarita. It was half empty, somehow. I don't remember drinking it. Mark was still going on about stuff.

"There's an initial outlay, though. You'll have to get a massage table, towel warmer, sheets and towels, lotions and oils. You'll have to get some spiffy underwear, too. I can help you with all that but..." He didn't finished and looked expectantly at me.

"But, what?"

"It's hard for me to say this," he began. He shifted in his seat. "Well, it's like this. I can front you the money, but only if, well, only if you're really into it, and not just maybe. And I'll need to see for myself."

"Well I haven't decided just yet. I'm thinking it over, ya know? But if I decide to do it, I will be the best masseuse this town has ever seen!"

"I'm sure you will. But I'm talking about another outlay of maybe a thousand or so. I'll need to make sure it's a good investment, for me. I don't want you to find out you don't like it and pay me back ten bucks a month. Know what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, I get it." I didn't know what else to say.

Mark drained his beer. "Okay, here it is. Think it over good and hard. Today's what, Monday? If you think you're into it, then we'll have a trial run on Thursday. Get yourself a good Brazilian. You know what that is, right? And you can pay for that with a credit card, yeah? Good. Then I'll come to your place Thursday. I'll show you how it's done, what to do, what to say, everything. Then we'll see what you think. If you do well, then I'll put up the grand and get you on your way. Deal?"

I finished my drink. Sat back a for a few moments. Jerking guys off for money. This sounds ridiculous. It also makes me damp, I could feel it already. I thought about my future prospects, or rather, the lack thereof.

"Deal!"

I shook his hand. At the very least, I thought, I'll get some spiffy underwear. And a Brazilian!

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Chapter 2 - Training the Workforce

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I texted Mark on Wednesday.

Me: Let's do it

Mark: Great! what time do you get out thurs?

Me: 430. I can prolly b ready by 530.

Mark: I'll see you then shoot me an address

As I lay there naked on the waxing table, the little Chinese gal slathered the wax around my pubes. This should be fun, I thought to myself. I've shaved, but never waxed. I heard it was painful, I mean they just JESUS CHRIST OUCH! BRAZILIAN MOTHERFUCKERS!

I panted like a woman giving birth, trying to blow off the pain. Tears ran down my face, into my hair. Good God that hurts!. And then, of course, that was just the front. Now gotta do the ass also. I won't bore you with the details, but holy shit this is much less fun than I thought it would be!

- - -

Thursday. My thoughts whirled around me and I could barely concentrate on getting my work done. I'm pretty sure Mark is going to get naked and I'll have to jerk him off. I mean, he's old and shit! I think 50? He looks pretty good though. Most everyone here has a gut, some pretty big. He looks trim, has hair with a little gray in it. He actually looks younger than the 40 year old guys in the office. I'll admit it, I got a little turned on at the thought of it.

Time is a weird thing. 5:30 couldn't get here soon enough, and yet simultaneously I dreaded Mark's arrival. How fucked up is that? What's he gonna make me do? How's this going to play out? He did say he likes my rack, maybe he's into me? But he's married, but that's why he does this... fuck, my brain won't shut up!

- - -

5:45 and the doorbell rang. I sighed and opened it, and invited Mark in. He had a paper bag with him.

"Hey sweetie! You look nice, ready to go? Show me around the place."

"Yeah," I responded, nervously. I was just wearing a robe, with the only matching bra and panties I owned. "Well this is the living room. Also it's the family room, office, and sports bar. Kitchen, excuse the mess. And the bedroom is back here. Again, yeah, little messy. Bathroom, oops, just old underwear." I snatched up the dirty bra and threw it in the closet.

Mark led me back to the kitchen. He pulled out two airline bottles of Fireball, that cinnamon whiskey. And two tall Bud Lights.

"Okay. First, let's down these two puppies."

"Uh," I started. "I don't really like Fireball. Too sweet."

He looked at me, then held it out for me. "Right. Down the hatch!"

"Alright" he continued. "Second. We've gotta clean this place up. Too much clutter. Doesn't have to be perfect, but it's gotta be fairly neat. Third, I'm thinking the massage table could fit here if we move this table a little bit. Let's get it darker in here, yeah, pretty good. You want it dark. They'll look better and so will you."

"You need a place for them to lay down the money," he continued. "You do that first and foremost. Nothing happens till then. Do NOT discuss what you will do until AFTER the donation has been laid down."

"Now, I need a shower. Just a quick rinse. I'm assuming you had one already? Good. You need to be soft, smooth, and clean at all times. But no perfumes, remember these guys are going home to momma after this. So I'll need a towel, then we'll start in the bedroom. Smooth out the bed and lay a couple towels across the foot of your bed."

Great, I thought. He's insulted my apartment already, told me this and ordered that... but it's kind of okay, I guess. He seems to know what he's talking about.

I started to find the towels, and he started taking off his shirt! Right there in front of me!

"Oh!" I exclaimed. "I'll, uh, give you some privacy!"

"No sweetie," Mark said. "Don't ever let these guys be alone in your house. Don't give them any opportunities to do anything. This is good for you too... eyeball them, make sure they don't have any skin diseases or whatever. If they do, keep a twenty and give them the rest of their money back. They should also shower, all of them. They'll have been working all day. And you don't want any, uh, 'remnants' if you know what I mean. You're going to be playing with their, um, asses, ya know."