nice guys sometimes finish first

I’m glad he keeps requesting me. He’s a nice guy, not that it matters. Asshole money spends the same as nice-guy money, and I’m not being paid to care whether he’s nice or not, I’m being paid to get him off. But it’s nice that he’s nice. When I was balancing hot plates of pancakes and endless cups of coffee as a waitress, it did make a difference whether I set them in front of a gentleman who thanked me nicely and asked how my evening classes were going, or in front of an asshole who, no matter what I did, I could tell from his scowl, was going to leave me a meager tip in a puddle of syrup.

It does make a difference, that he’s nice and that he likes what I do. We’ve gotten into a comfortable routine, too: a little bit of pain and a whole lot of begging on my part. Occasionally he brings in a second girl or sets me in the doctor’s office, but usually it’s just pain and begging, and sometimes me comforting him afterward, if he mentions the shame I know he always feels. It’s a routine. A hot, nasty routine. As hot and nasty as it is, it’s easy to settle into it.

But this is totally not a face-to-face unpaid relationship, right? If he wants to try something else, he doesn’t have to ask me to change, we don’t have to have that awkward conversation if he doesn’t want to or if I’m not doing the new thing right. He could just find someone else. But he doesn’t, and I’m glad, because it lets us play.

His most recent kick is to have me put on a Slavic accent and talk about the factory back in the “old country” and how he used to be my supervisor and I fled the country and he tracked me down here and I still Owe Him.

Disclaimer: my Russian accent in English sucks. Bad. He could almost assuredly find a Eastern European phone sex operator somewhere else, who could probably give better details than I can about gritty factory work and oppressive supervisors. But he’s a nice guy, and he doesn’t care about the details that much. He doesn’t care that my accent fades in and out like a bad henna dye job. He puts on his own bad accent and we play.

Accuracy, in fact, is a little distracting when we only have 10 minutes. Yesterday, when he asked me who I had given head to first as a teenager, I instantly popped out with “Sasha”. That’s a diminutive for Aleksandr, TOTALLY a common boy’s name in Russia, and if I were going to be doling out blow jobs to neighbors in cramped, cabbage-smelling coop housing, Sasha—any number of Sashas—would very likely be a top contender. So I said, “Sasha.” And he said, in a voice that was a little out of scene, “that’s kind of a girly name.” “Aleksandr,” I amended hastily, and we got back into it.

Now, if he were an impatient, hypercritical bastard—phone sex’s maple-syrup-tip-dipping equivalent—he might have dropped me then, or at any point these last few months, for not getting it exactly right. But he’s not that guy. He knows I understand the dynamic he’s looking for, he likes my polyglot whimpering, and he knows that whatever thing he’s bringing to the table for this call, I’ll go right along with it. Because I’m that girl.

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