By Christopher Brower

Dear Mother,

Congratulations! Remember how when I was a child you used to tell anybody who would listen about how badly you wanted me to grow up to write a sex column for a free weekly newspaper that people read , mostly, for the escort ads in the back? Well, your dream came true! But, don’t get too excited. I’m just a guest columnist. Unless you can figure out how to manipulate click-through rates. (I’ll explain what those are some other time.)
  
Anyhow, I have an embarrassing admission to make. Remember last summer when I told you about the blond girl from Texas that I dated? And I told you she was a photographer? Well, as it turns out, she wasn’t so much a “photographer” as she was a “professional dominatrix.” I know you were wondering what happened to her. I mentioned her once before our date, and then, seemingly out of the blue, I never brought her up again. Well, here’s what happened. . .

We met, randomly, at an open house for a shitty little railroad apartment in Greenpoint. There had to have been a couple dozen people in there, and the rooms were so narrow that as I walked through I was forced to squeeze past people so closely that our crotches touched. Well, one of those people turned out to be Katrina. I won’t say exactly what about her I found to be attractive, because you’ll begin to doubt your parenting abilities. But I will say that Katrina was a very attractive girl. Attractive enough, in fact, that I decided to check out the bathroom (which a week earlier, the landlord explained, had been a closet) at the same time she did. I did this strictly because, well, the bathroom used to be a closet, and I like being in tight spaces with very attractive girls. When we were in there, she stepped into the shower stall; and in a drawl so thick that it practically dripped on the floor, she asked me to join her. You see, apparently Katrina was interested to see if the shower could fit two.

Believe me, Mother, when I tell you that for a second I was conflicted. I know you taught me to be wary of strangers as a child, and as I got a bit older, to be wary of sluts. But you also taught me the importance of helping people out. And Katrina needed help. How else would she have figured that out? It’s not the sort of thing you trust the eye to gauge. I mean, it’s not like we showered together. We just squeezed awkwardly into a tiny little shower stall, fully clothed, and she said, with her face very close to mine, “This could definitely work.” And I have to admit, I agreed with her assessment.

Things calmed significantly from there, which is to say, they became less overtly sexual. I feigned nonchalance for a bit (rather convincingly actually) and took a final look around the apartment before leaving, knowing that she’d follow. You see, the trick with a girl like Katrina is to act as though 5-foot-10 Texan blondes with flawless bodies are constantly asking you to squeeze into shower stalls with them. So I left, and as predicted, she followed. When she caught up to me a half block away, we had a pleasant conversation about our housing searches while we walked to the G train; and like a gentleman, I asked for her phone number. Because I look like you and not Dad, she even gave it to me.

I waited a couple of days to call her, because that’s what people do to pretend they aren’t desperate. We chatted briefly and made plans to meet in a park by her place. Before she hung up, she said, “Be there at 6 p.m., don’t be late and bring me an Iced Mocha Frappuccino from Starbucks.”

In retrospect, I admit that was a pretty obvious red flag. But at the time, I distinctly remember thinking to myself, “That’s a bit odd, normally girls don’t. . .” and then losing my train of thought when my mind wandered back to the fact that she apparently enjoyed showering with other people enough that she took it into consideration before she would consider moving into an apartment. And by the time I stopped thinking about that, I realized that I was sitting on a park bench near the East River with an Iced Mocha Frappuccino perspiring in my hand. 

Our first date was pretty basic. We sat in the park and talked. We had a late dinner. We drank until 4 a.m. And then, as we walked back to her apartment, she took off her belt without explanation, and used it to tie me, hands above my head, to the chain-link fence lining a construction site. I know that doesn’t sound safe, or particularly legal, but then she did something with her mouth that I’m only going to describe as “comforting,” and it put me at ease so quickly that within seconds I didn’t much care that I was tied to a fence with my pants around my ankles in the middle of the largest city in the country. Midtown’s pretty deserted at night, anyhow.

When we finally made it back to her apartment (she untied me when she saw a cop turn down the next block), things started to become a little odd. For starters, she lived in a three-bedroom luxury apartment, with a doorman, but she didn’t have any roommates. She also had an eat-in kitchen, a study that she’d converted into a dark room, and so many electronics that I’m pretty certain she can’t invite epileptic friends over to hang out. I’m not an expert on the subject, but I’m fairly certain that talented, well-known photographers (people like Sally Mann) don’t even live that well. And I’d seen Katrina’s photography. It wasn’t paying for her apartment. It probably wasn’t even paying for dinner, realistically.

I know it’s not polite to ask people about money, but I couldn’t resist. The whole thing was very confusing. Not only was I curious as to how she afforded her place, but I was also wondering why she had been looking at that dreary little place in Greenpoint.

Casually, she answered, explaining to me that she didn’t pay for her apartment. “I have a fulltime slave that pays my rent,” she explained, and the place in Greenpoint was just gonna be my studio space.”
I responded sarcastically, as I’m apt to do when I’m at a loss, and I said something along the lines of “Oh, right, of course.”

“I love taking pictures,” she went on. “You can really capture moments that way, and even feelings. But I work at a dungeon in Tribeca for money on the side. And Craig was a client of mine that really started liking me. He’s so loaded, so he helps me out a bit and sometimes goes a bit overboard, because he’s always trying to impress me. You can understand that though, right?”  

The saddest part, which doubles as the funniest part, is that she talks like she’s 16. She has that accent, which doesn’t help, and when you couple it with her diction, it makes her sound like she might have, at some point, been a defendant on The People’s Court. And at this point, I’m sitting on her sofa—which is leather, of course—and I’m equal parts repulsed and amused. I think I was silent long enough to make her feel obligated to speak up again.

“It’s not like I’m a whore or anything. There’s never any sex.”

Technically, she’s right, I suppose. But when I’m deciding whether or not a girl I’m dating is a whore or not, I tend to prefer her situation to be so clear-cut that technicalities aren’t really necessary. So I politely explained that it was late and that I should probably head home. At the door, we hugged awkwardly and then she stopped me.
“Listen, it’s real tough to find guys to date me cause of this. Please try and understand. I think you’d feel better about it if you went to my website. You’ll see it’s all very professional,” she said, not realizing that was the problem. She wrote the URL on the palm of my hand, which, let’s be honest, is pretty whorish. 

When I got home, I pulled my laptop onto my bed and typed the URL into the browser. It was a hideous, amateurish flash website, and the first picture that came up was of Katrina.

She was standing next to an overweight, middle-aged man. He was naked except for a leather mask and was sprawled on his back across a stainless steel table. His eyes were closed, and the muscles in his neck were strained, suggesting that he was in pain—which made sense, because half of Katrina’s forearm was in his ass. She was smiling, and looking at her, I realized it was the only time I’d seen her smile.

You’ll be happy to know, Mother, that I never called her again. Sure, I made a poor decision or two during the course of that evening, and you’re probably not going to print out this column and hang it on the refrigerator, or show your friends when they’re over for tea, but at least I draw the line at dating sex workers (long term, anyway).

And, that’s got to count for something, right?

I hope all is well down in Virginia. Pet Bonnie Blue for me.

Your Favorite Son,
Christopher