Page 25 of Once a Month

“Her,” I say.

“Who?” my friend asks.

“Her, babe,” her wife tells her.

“The woman from the party?”

“Yes,” I say.

“She’s a member,” my friend replies.

“I know.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, okay? You can totally leave now and come back for dinner or to watch us have sex anytime you want without this ever happening again.” She points between all three of us. “This doesn’t have to do with what just happened.”

“What doesn’t?” I ask.

“She’s a member,” her wife says. “You’re… not.”

“She’s there to have sex with an anonymous person she pays for, and you’re there to work. So, the sex might be great, but it’s only once a month, and she could leave at any time. We’d just hate for you to get all tied up in her. Besides, while regulars are common, the longer you work the events, the more likely it’ll be that you have to sleep with someone else.”

“Plus,” my friend’s wife begins. “We want you to be happy. This is a temporary thing because you need money. What happens when you meet someone for real? She’s not real. She’s… fleeting.”

I know they’re right. Everything they say is right, but I know I can’t do this – at least, not tonight.

“Can we revisit this a little later? I’m just all mixed up with everything going on right now,” I say. “I promise, it’s not you guys. I love you, guys. You know that, right?”

“We love you, too. It’s why we want you like this,” my friend says. “It not just the sex. If it were, we could get that at any event. We know you. We trust you.”

“I know. And I’m sorry I let it go a little far tonight. I probably should have said no so we could talk more first.”

“I’m not sorry – your fingers were amazing,” she tells me, closing her eyes and smiling.

“They were?” her wife asks, not in a jealous way, but in an inquisitive one. “Can you show me what they did?” she asks.

“Of course,” she replies.

I lean back against the wall in the kitchen and watch them as they speak no more. Clothing is tossed aside. Lips meet lips. Hands play and roam. Bodies lower to the floor. Moans begin. I stand there, hovering over them and thinking about how I know I could make this work with them – whatever it would turn into – but that I want her. I want to see her on Saturday and have her beneath me, above me, in front of and behind me. I know it’s wrong. I know it’s not real, and it can’t go anywhere, but I can’t stop myself from licking my lips thinking about how I sucked on her clit while she watched these two on the bed and got so wet, I worried there would be a wet spot on her dress.

I watch them until they both come, and I don’t touch myself this time, wanting the next time I get off to be because I’m with her. Then, I watch them walk naked upstairs, and I leave. It’s a strange friendship we have that most people probably wouldn’t understand, but it works for us.

When I get home, I head to my room for a shower first. After I clean up, I hit my bed and pull out my computer. My day job pays enough for just me, but not for what I need right now. Being an escort was never part of my life plan, and I know I can’t and won’t want to do it forever, so I’ve been checking for second jobs that would pay enough. None of them do, though. It’s a futile exercise, but it gives me something to do, so I do it in the morning and at night every day.

Finally, I close the computer an hour later and decide to try to get some sleep. On Saturday, she’ll be mine again. I plan to get there and wait by the damn door – I’m not taking a chance that I’ll miss her or that she’ll meet someone else and take them to bed instead. I know it’s wrong and makes no sense given what my job is, but I don’t want anyone I work with touching her.

???

I was even more excited for this event than I was for last one, and that’s saying something. Now, that excitement is gone – I can’t go to the party. I can’t see her… I can’t touch her… I know how wrong it is to be thinking about her when my life is in shambles, but I can’t help it. Thinking about her gives me a break from thinking about everything else. And I can’t even have that now because thinking about her makes me realize I won’t get to see her, after all.

“Hey, we’re here,” my friend says, taking my hand as she sits down next to me.

“You guys didn’t have to come here,” I reply.

Her wife sits on the other side of me in uncomfortable waiting room chairs.

“Of course, we did.”

“How bad?”

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