« Bonjour, peux je parler avec Kristopher ? »

« C'est elle, » je dis, attendant l'habituel

Le « OH ! Oh… J'ai pensé »

« Ce j'étais un homme gai ? »

« Heh de Heh ! Bien, » il dit, « je scie votre emplacement et la photo et moi ai figuré que c'était la photographie courante, et puis, vous savez, cette partie de votre emplacement qui indique, SEXE de `' dans des tous les chapeaux, celui n'avez pas semblé comme quelque chose typiquement qu'une fille écrirait. »

« Je ne suis pas typique. Et bien que je te sois flatté aie pensé j'étais un modèle aléatoire, fait ce moyen que vous avez également pensé que le Kristopher derrière tous ces mots sales était un gros homme qui l'aime sur son estomac ? »

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Moi entendons mon iPhone glacé faire son vieil anneau d'école, et moi sourions au nombre bloqué appelle, et je réponds : « Ce qui sont toi portant, garçon de piscine?”

« Comment passionnan'êtes vous au sujet de ces jouets vous avez obtenu dans le courrier ? » demande au garçon.

Doigt I l'empaquetage rougir-rose de Salon de butin, se trouvant sur mon bureau. « Pas comme passionnant pendant que j'étais avant que je les aie employés. »

« Déjà ? » demande au garçon. « Vous avez allumé des bougies et avez eu un verre de vin ? »

« Naturellement, » je dis. « Mais dans un délai de cinq minutes j'ai saisi mes mésanges. Tellement alors je me suis giflé. J'ai dit, le `que la baise vous vous pensent sont ?'

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« J'ai juste obtenu un soutien-gorge qui rendra mes mésanges par tasse entière plus grande ! » Je chante dans mon iPhone, parlant au garçon, mon garçon. « C'est ainsi patron ! »

“How many times did you go to Starbucks today?” he asks.

“Only three,” I say. “Anyway, this bra will satisfy me until I break into my IRA to fund my future Botox addiction.” I watch my face in a mirror, and my brows wrinkle at a shadow of a crease I find framing my smile. “That’s really what my retirement stash is for, because the motherfucking Lord knows I’ll be in my death bed, working, wordsmithing dirty stories while giving you a blow job.”

“I’ve always admired your ambition.”

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Skimming over writing gig ads — no, thank you, no, thanks, no fucking thank you — I recognize a listing by The Boy’s company, The Boy, Inc. I click the email address and apply:

From: K @ KRiSTOPHER DUKES .com
Subject: Applying for Position On Top, As a Sexy Secretary
Date: October 23, 2007 4:40:56 PM PST

Dear Sir:

I can type the opposite-of-dry business plans at 69 words per minute, while performing what is commonly referred to as a “lap dance.”

I prefer really, really big things, but I can also pay mind to details; I am ready to observe your office’s dress code. I have black “fuck me” “fuck you” pumps which are standard attire for secretaries in classic pornography, and I’ve also a white, business class buttondown with a formal black bra peeking out. Should my dress be deemed inappropriate, I am very open to disciplinary action involving being bound to a bed post with an Hermes tie.

Very personal references are available by requests written on my stomach with your tongue.

I look forward to hearing (moans) from you,
K
___________________
Senior Pole Dancer
KRiSTOPHER DUKES, LLC

» Paul Smith “Naked Lady” cufflinks $125, eLUXURY

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I’m lying in my dentist’s chair, and from my lofty vinyl seat Hollywood’s hills look like the rolling green of a miniature golf course–until my eyes slide wide shut to soft black, and my mouth opens to take in The Doctor’s hands. He numbs the bottom half of my face so it’s virtually paralyzed, while my mind frolics free.

I dream up a bow-shaped fanny pack that can fit an iPhone and keys and a book, maybe The Great American Novel I must birth, whose theme might be luck, same as my conversation with The Boy last night:

“I’m getting my gums done tomorrow,” I said. “My entire front lower mouth. So I’ll be living off soy lattes for a couple weeks, and no blow jobs for a few days.”

“I guess I’ll be busy for a few days,” said The Boy.

I echo his laughter with a giggle only interrupted by The Boy’s crackling voice:

“Fuck,” he said. “I want a streak of good luck.”

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The Boy and I catwalk down a super market aisle, looking at food, the opposite scene of me sitting at the L.A. fashion show I’ve ditched, where I’d be watching underfed sticks runway–instead of eying models, we’re modeling suburban bliss.

Only we act like children instead of have them, The Boy’s almost old enough to be my father, and I’ve my hand down the back of his pants.

“Am I anything but a sex object to you?” he asks, his voice perfect pitched so that a shopping mother looks over.

“Of course you aren’t,” I say. “As soon as your body goes, so do I. Forget your brain and accomplishments–you’re nothing but a piece of lean meat to me.”

“That’s rather sexy.”

“You’re sexy,” I coo, squeezing his ass as he grabs a can of cookie dough.

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I splash my gaze on The Boy over the champagne fizz of his jacuzzi, watching him walk ’round his patio, backgrounded by a moving postcard view of Los Angeles’ coast. Spotlighted by the sunshine is his house with empty servants’ quarters 25% bigger than my shoe box home, is his groomed grass, is almost everything he’s earned–

Including the pool he’s cleaning.

I pull my topless top half out of the hot bubbly, so he can hear me when I ask, “What if we play out a pool boy porno?”

The Boy laughs, not looking up from the baby blue water he’s skimming. “So that’s what you’re thinking about, little fucker, while I work? That’s–”

“Pool boy,” I interrupt. “Pool boy, when are you coming into the jacuzzi?”

Under his surface seriousness I see a smile. “Soon, miss.”

“I’d prefer immediately, Pool Boy.” I slap wet the Italian tiles of his hot tub, with authoritative impatience. “Please strip, right now.”

“You know I prefer to pretend that I do you voluntarily, miss.”

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A quick call, and I haul ass to Beverly Hills–it’s my second date, with my new hair stylist. Since I moved back to the left coast, I’ve been a salon slut of one appointment stands, doing it all over L.A., trading up from my Santa Monica stand-by to 90210 salons. And now I’ve met Sally, a Japanese middle-aged girl with a face rounded like my mother’s. Her nose is gently balled at the tip like my mom’s, her eyebrows her same soft arches, and I see the powder puffs of skin under her earthy eyes and think of the trust of paying someone to do with your head whatever they like.

“Yes, I think you go slightly red, just with a glaze,” she says. She fingers my hair, a convincing caress like her soft sales pitch that I de-virginize my brown bob with a popping cherry color.

“How much maintenance?” I ask, already overbooked.

“It fades and grows out if you don’t like it. You won’t see any roots.”

Life’s short, like my skirt. Fuck it, “let’s do it.”

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I pat on porcelain powder, brighten eyes with smudges of black, crimp and coat my lashes–thrice–, gloss my lips nude, smooth my bangs with a second blow (dry) job, dab on Chanel’s liquid gold, survey my closet and decide a blue wool tank is now a dress, then strap on red light-district suede, peepshow peep toes. And I always skip a bra–

I realized years ago it saved some time.

Sometimes the Kristopher in me hates the prissy Krissy I doll up daily as, but grooming gorgeous is only one more thing you should always do right: looking your best opens wider a window–and maybe your legs–to opportunity, it polishes your pride, it–

Makes you late to a last minute doctor’s appointment. I speed to Beverly Hills, screech into a parking space, and stroll to the office. I loop signatures on paperwork probably okaying selling my kidneys in Tijuana, and finally meet a mediocre M.D.

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I often joke I dress like an expensive hooker: the airbrushed black eye shadow, the four-inch (at least) heels, a triple-tiered, peacock-print silk dress I slip on as other girls wear their fav T.

But it’s just jest–

At least the “expensive” part.

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“So how much do you want me to lick you when you’re back in town?” My fingers tickle my keyboard, and I giggle as I press SEND.

“Almost as much as I want you to fix the dent you made in my truck,” flashes in reply on my MacBook’s screen, a message much too instant from my boy, The Boy.

“Triple exciting,” I pound back, so hard the strap on my black sheer cami slips off, floating over lacy boy-cut panties.

My home office dress code is business casual.

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“Bye– Wait.”

My finger hangs above the END CALL button.

“Can you wear something kind of normal for the cocktail party?” asks The Boy.

“You mean a Beyonce-grade, sequined flapper frock cut up to my crotch, with leopard platforms?”

“The guests will be 80 years old. You’ll send them to their death if you come in your Betty Boop shit.”

“Have faith, friend. I’ll look lovely. I have to go now and put on my face.”

“All that eye shadow?”

“Tah, tah.” I hang up on The Boy, and carefully create my face: I pat on porcelain powder, I super-size my eyes with charcoal shadow, I smudge beams of bright on the bone of my cheeks. Then I blend all my makeup together so my paint-by-features face softens into play of light and shadow. I smooth down my bobbed hair, I spritz on a shower of Juicy Couture perfume, I–

Am amazed I can do this in less than an hour. Finally I step into wedding-white mary janes, I slip on a cotton and crinkled chiffon frock that’s a cloud of vanilla, the flavor of the lives of guests at the party The Boy invited me to.

It was his dressy-casual, SoCal social scene debut in expensive suburbia on the coast, a mini village of McMansions owned by the retired or near retired, and The Boy’s inviting me to his new neighborhood mixer came with his request I lighten my use of mascara and the word “fuck.” “Hmm. I can do social scripting,” I reassured The Boy. “I’m rusty on that ‘And how do you do’ bull shit, but I can handle it. You mostly see my Hyde, but I can play Dr. Jekyll, too. All Prozac pretty smiles and cliche conversation.”

“Perfect,” he said.

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“Stop,” says The Boy. “I’ve got to work.”

I (teddy)bear hug him, struggling to pull him back into bed, and even though I work out 13 girly push-ups a day, he gets an edge on my fed-on-salads frame. “Just five minutes!”

“Are you trying to rape me, fucker?” He rolls out of my grasp, and hits his floor on all fours, and starts sorting his private landfill of Wall Street Journals and bills and unopened envelops.

“You’re begging for it, in that tight little shirt, you pussy-tease. So come back to bed,” I beg, barely audible. “Only for a few minutes.”

“No, you temptress. I’ve got too much to do today.”

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I dial The Boy and I get his voice mail: he must be jetting to his brief biz trip.

I sigh, fingering the studs in my ear, sliding the posts in and out, and say, low: “Good afternoon, The Boy, of The Boy, LLC. This is Satan calling, from Hell, Inc. I just want to confirm your appointment for eternity. If you have any questions, call me back at 1, 666, 666, 666, 0. We look forward to seeing you.”

It’s the little things we do for each other.

» Me&Ro earrings of skull studs with diamonds, $645 via Barney’s

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Most people are surprised when I tell them I’ve never snorted coke off a model’s stomach in Brazil, that I haven’t puffed pot, that I barely, rarely drink ____tinis. They don’t understand how I’ve kept my D.A.R.E. promise but say things in public that make people look at me like I speak French.

So when I considered generic Prozac — the essence of doctor-prescribed Fancy Pink Pills for Chicks™ — to kill my PMDD (short for “Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder,” short for motherfucking bad PMS that turns my Porsche ‘07 911 brain into an ‘89 Honda Civic), I questioned how the drug would do me.

But after months of capping six soy lattes with twenty Red Bulls without denting my mental fatigue, I cash in my prescription. I scan the tiny print Rite Aid provided: “Pills may lessen sexual desire,” — I laugh, I doubt it — “may cause anxiety, may cause suicidal thoughts, may cause depression. If you hear ringing in your ears and want to stab someone with your five-inch stiletto, call your physician.”

Fascinating.

I swallow a baby blue pill for breakfast. And I still feel tired after 2 p.m., after three trips to Starbucks, after a designer energy drink, I still–

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