She No Longer Fears Him
Rochelle isn’t exactly sure where to start or what to Google. “Male prostitutes”? “Male escorts”? Do people still say “prostitutes” and “escorts”?
She types “male sex workers” in the search bar. The results include a Wikipedia page; an Out magazine interview series on stigma in the industry; and a National Institutes of Health article, “Male Sex Workers: Practices, Contexts, and Vulnerabilities for HIV Acquisition and Transmission.”
A little shaken but undaunted, Rochelle searches again: “Male escorts.” More fruitful results this time: Rent.men, not to be confused with Rentmen.com; Mintboys.com; MasseurFinder.com; and, for locally sourced options, MiamiGayMaleEscorts. The mens’ profiles similarly lack creativity. Gray sweats. Bare butt cheeks in every shade of brown and pale. Three-piece suits. Lots of pecs. Lots of tattoos. Bulging crotches in Speedos. Promises of discretion, toe-curling cunnilingus, big cocks (Rochelle hates the word “cock”). Not much different from the disappointing profiles on dating apps. Well, the wall-sized Pokémon banner is new. So is the overflowing clothes hamper in the background.
Could she enjoy (paid) sex with a man who can’t be bothered to pose somewhere other than next to his dirty laundry?
Rochelle had divorced a man who gave only the bare minimum rather than all he could. Fourteen years later, and she’s still holding out for someone’s best. Until then, sex is fine, but what she really wants is touch. Uncomplicated, non-platonic touch.
Rochelle stares at the escort profiles until they blur. She imagines the men, fully dressed, approaching her at one of her usual hangouts—the bookstore, the grocery store, the photography supply store, her favorite plant nursery. Far from aroused by the thought, she feels angry. And not because of the stigma explored in the Out interviews. These profiles anger her for the same reason the profiles on Bumble and OkCupid anger her. It’s a preemptive anger based on past wack experiences with men’s lack of curiosity, their inability to hold an intelligent conversation, their support for Trump (even the Black ones … especially the Black ones), their barely disguised misogyny and red-pill-swallowing. All of which make her pussy drier than a neglected black chokeberry bush.
No matter how little she asks for, men have always let her know it’s too much.
The sun kisses Rochelle’s back and ass as she lounges on her stomach, facing the ocean at Haulover, the nude beach. It’s her friend Lydia’s first time at a nude beach. Temperatures are in the mid-eighties, and there’s not a cloud in the sky. From behind oversized sunglasses, Lydia surveys the water and the shore. Her review: “An eclectic mix of asses, titties, and old people.” She finishes rubbing Black Girl Magic sunscreen onto her pendulous breasts, which are just a shade darker than the sand. She hands the tube back to Rochelle.
“Are we ‘old people?’” Rochelle asks.
“Girl, no. Fifty-two is not old.” Lydia pulls her micro-braids up into a messy bun, then leans back on her chaise. “He’s old.” She gestures toward an eighty-something man with deep creases in his dark brown face inching his way down the shore. The man wears khakis rolled up above his ankles, thick black socks, loafers, and a bright orange t-shirt with JOHNSON FAMILY REUNION in black letters—the same shirt worn by a large group of Black folks, ranging in age from toddler to elder, gathered beneath an orange tent further down shore. When she and Lydia arrived just before noon, Rochelle had wondered why, of all the beaches in Miami, the fully clothed Johnsons chose the clothing-optional one.
“He looks like Miss Jane Pittman’s older brother,” Rochelle says. She adjusts her floppy sun hat over her teeny-weeny afro.
Lydia sips her frozen mango margarita and nods. “He was definitely one of Harriet Tubman’s foot soldiers on the Underground Railroad.”
“If he walks any slower, he’ll be moving in reverse. And he’s going to die of heatstroke dressed like that.” Rochelle watches the man veer toward the water, then away before the gentle waves can reach him, over and over, like a slow-moving drunk. But something tells her it’s age and not alcohol that orders his steps. Rochelle worries that the man is wandering too far. She wonders why his family let him go off alone in the first place. Had her father or either of her grandfathers lived to see seventy, much less eighty-something, she would never have let them wander like this.
As a photographer, Rochelle has built a career on people-watching and a reputation for her black-and-white images of women and girls. She’s partial to hands and lips, as well as intergenerational connections. Mothers and daughters. Abuelitas y nietas. Her portrait of her own mother and then preschool-aged daughter Ashley was shortlisted for a prestigious Sony World Photography Award in the early aughts. But on occasion, Rochelle photographs boys and men. Her camera is in her beach tote. When the old man returns—she hopes he makes it back—maybe she’ll pull on her bathing suit and ask to shoot him.
Rochelle stands to stretch. She swipes at the sweat trickling down her cleavage that turns out not to be sweat. Just her skin crawling again. Between the skin crawling and moments when her entire mouth feels like it’s on fire, Rochelle initially thought she was dying of some mysterious disease. But her doctor assured her these were just some of the more unusual symptoms of perimenopause and menopause, the gifts that keep on giving.
The upside of her weird symptoms was being able to warn Lydia to expect more than hot flashes, up to and including a surging libido, when she entered perimenopause a year after Rochelle. Their friendship had only been a few months old back then, but it was the kind of fast friendship where no topic was off-limits.
They’d met at the peer-led divorce support group Rochelle’s therapist had recommended. As her divorce grew more and more contentious, her loneliness grew like a weed, choking her spirit and creativity. The women in her life, halves of the couple friends she and Evan had made over the years, were the last people she’d vent to. These women already had one foot out the door of their friendships with Rochelle, afraid of her divorce cooties infecting the marriages they chose to grin and bear.
Lydia facilitated the peer support group and was the first person to give Rochelle a glimpse of the peace that awaited her on the other side of divorce. On her first night in the group, Rochelle shared with the dozen or so women how hard it was not to speak ill of Evan to nine-year-old Ashley, to not defend herself as he poisoned the child against her with lies. He’d even told Ashley that Rochelle abandoned them by filing for divorce, choosing her career over being a wife and mother.
Later, over martinis after the group meeting, Lydia asked, “Has that foolish ex of yours always had some bitch-nigga in him?”
Rochelle admitted she not only saw Evan’s red flags from day one, she wrapped herself up and made a tube dress out of them. “But you know how it is,” she said, “when you’re thinking about spending the rest of your life with somebody. Divorce and how they’ll behave as a co-parent is the furthest thing from your mind. You think it’s going to last forever.”
Lydia nodded. “Well, these hard times won’t last forever. And you’re doing the right thing by not putting your babygirl in the middle.”
For all the good it had done.
Rochelle watches two nearby sandpipers share a crust of sandwich bread in the sand, then take flight over the ocean. She lowers herself back onto the chaise. Time to get some sun on her belly. She cups the generous flesh around her middle.
“Here comes your boyfriend,” Lydia teases. She holds the frosty margarita cup against her hot cheek with one hand and points with the other.
Sure enough, the khaki-wearing slowpoke is once again in view, his face slick and shiny with sweat. But this time, he shuffles away from the ocean, making a beeline for Rochelle and Lydia. At first, Rochelle thinks nothing of it. A few creeps aside, most people at Haulover keep their distance and don’t stare.
But this geezer is full-on gawking as he approaches.
“What … is he doing?” Lydia grabs her towel and covers up.
When the old man comes within a foot of their chairs, Rochelle lets her thighs fall in opposite directions until she is spread-eagle. As the sun warms the delicate places she’s laid bare, the old man stumbles and face-plants into the sand at her feet.
Sixteen years earlier, Rochelle knelt in the dirt among her snow hydrangeas, Shasta daisies, Queen Anne’s lace, and lamb’s ears in the backyard garden of her four million dollar home on Key Biscayne. It was a Sunday, three weeks before she would file for divorce, two weeks before she was due in Germany to exhibit her photographs at the Berlin Biennale. Evan, her husband of eleven years, towered over her in the garden, his arms folded. He’d followed her outside, where she’d tried to escape yet another circular argument about who was to blame for her unhappiness. Evan blamed Rochelle’s “commitment to misery.” Rochelle blamed her misery on Evan’s constant pressure to plaster a smile on her face for the sake of appearances, without any concern for her actual feelings. Chicken. Egg.
Then Evan brought up sex, patting himself on the back for being able to locate her clit and give her multiple orgasms. Why didn’t that make her happy? Didn’t women complain about men being selfish lovers? Ignoring him, Rochelle pulled a few weeds and dropped them in a bucket. She routinely gave Evan blowjobs, and it took him exactly twelve minutes to come, every time. She knew because she watched the clock radio on the nightstand. Orgasms weren’t their problem. The fact that she was watching the clock was. Because somewhere between Evan being promoted to managing director at the bank and his failure to acknowledge her photography as more than a hobby, they had lost their connection. The wi-fi signal in their relationship had dropped. If their marriage was a car, they had failed to do the routine maintenance. You can’t draw from an empty well. While Rochelle had no shortage of analogies for what went wrong between them, she didn’t know why. In the end, though, the why didn’t matter. Evan didn’t care to address the real issues in their marriage, and she was done waiting for him to care.
Rochelle crouched back down to pluck some yellowing leaves from her sweet alyssum. She asked Evan if he thought all she needed from him were orgasms and the things his investment banker’s salary could buy. He mulled over Rochelle’s question, poking at her sweet alyssum with the toe of his leather boat shoes. Rochelle nudged his foot away with her gardening spade.
“No,” Evan finally said, “I know that’s not all you need.”
Rochelle sighed, relieved. This admission could be the fertile soil from which their marriage could grow, heal.
“But,” Evan continued, “that’s all I feel I’m obligated to give.”
His words took Rochelle’s breath. So when he kept speaking, she couldn’t beg him to stop. All she could do was stab at the earth with her spade and listen to his itemized list of all the things she should be grateful for:
He let her buy whatever she wanted.
He let her be a stay-at-home mom to Ashley.
Sure, she’d married her way out of the middle class, but that’s not why she married Evan. She married him because she loved him, because he chose her, and all she’d ever wanted was to be chosen, to bask and bathe in a light as bright as Evan’s. A light that is warm before it becomes blinding. She married Evan because she had no clue how little love mattered between two fundamentally incompatible people, especially when one of those people treated the other like an accessory.
Evan continued citing evidence of his spousal altruism, noting that he also let Rochelle do her photography.
Let her.
Do her little photography. The “little” was silent.
Also, Evan continued, Rochelle was Black, and not just Black but dark-skinned, while all his other Black male colleagues had married white, Asian, biracial, or Latinx women. “I had my pick,” he said, “but I’m a firm believer in ‘the blacker the berry’—”
“I don’t want to do this anymore.” Rochelle picked up her bucket as she stood. “This …” she said, gesturing at the big house, the acres surrounding it, him. “Life with you.”
“What are you talking about? This is our dream.”
“This is your dream. My dream life doesn’t include being grateful that you chose me over a white woman.”
Later, but before she left for Berlin, and on the advice of her attorney, Rochelle gave Evan a courtesy heads up that she had filed for divorce and he would be served. She proposed that, once she returned from Germany, they could discuss how to break the news to Ashley. Reluctantly, Evan agreed.
Loneliness is a specific kind of hunger. Sometimes sex fed it, other times all Rochelle needed was to give a friend a really good belly laugh, or to nerd out together about ’80s trivia, or to feel seen or held by someone like Lydia, who knew all she had lost. These days, though, this hunger manifests specifically as intense cravings for touch.
Rochelle had dated men and women in about equal numbers before marrying Evan. Post-divorce, she enjoyed a small rotation of women lovers, fuckbuddies, friends with benefits, whatever they wanted to call themselves. For Rochelle, the encounters satisfied her desire for companionship, but “companion” brought to mind a golden retriever or some other dog. She kept things casual, while still vetting the women enough to know they wouldn’t punish her when it came time to part ways. And it always seemed to come to that, a parting of ways. Because to the women, “casual” was Point A, not a destination. Rochelle never wanted to string anyone along or make them feel used. But inevitably, they wanted more than she could give—more time, more attention, more commitment.
At one point, she dipped her toe back into the shallow dating pool of men, then quickly snatched it out. She had no qualms about using men; she just couldn’t stomach their bullshit long enough to use them. When Rochelle said, “I’m looking for something casual,” men heard, “You don’t have to make any effort. I don’t require common courtesy, decency, or respect.”
Which begged the question: Why hadn’t she searched for women sex workers first? Perhaps, despite all the empowered sex worker accounts she followed and learned from on Twitter, when it came right down to it, she still associated sex work with exploitation. And she only hesitated when it came to exploiting women.
Googling “women sex workers” gets her a slew of think pieces and books. “Women escorts” yields a plethora of sites that either scream, “Trafficking!” or that the women’s enormous breast implants look painful.
“Women sensual massage” results in a bunch of how-to articles, but “women sensual massage Miami” opens up a whole new world. Websites with professional-quality photos and excellent lighting feature individual women, their faces blurred or shown only from the nose down, offering a range of services. Blisswithbianca.com, templeoftantra.com, slowdownwithcrystal.com …
According to her About Me, Crystal is a certified massage therapist, as well as an intimacy and pleasure coach, “trained in tantra yoga and human sexuality.” Her coaching clients can work on “lasting longer,” “driving her wild,” “releasing shame and unlearning the dysfunction caused by excessive consumption of pornography,” and much more. A Black woman in her early thirties, if Rochelle had to guess, Crystal wears her auburn hair in a layered bob with long, angled bangs. In her photos, she’s in an assortment of lingerie, stockings and garters, skimpy cocktail dresses, and metallic heels. Her teeth are perfect; she smiles broadly rather than pouting.
Crystal’s menu of sensual services—all genders welcome—promises heaven. For the session packages, with names like Dazzle, Heat, and Starstruck, she charges anywhere from $300 to $900 an hour, with slight discounts for hour-and-a-half and two-hour sessions. The Luxe session—“My most decadent, most blissful experience will have you floating on cloud nine long after we say goodbye”—catches Rochelle’s eye.
She copies the email address on the Book Me page and opens her Gmail:
Dear Crystal:
I hope you’re doing well. I’m looking for …
What was she looking for?
I’m looking for touch …
No, that sounds creepy.
I’d like to hire you to …
Too formal.
I’m looking for a transaction that doesn’t feel like a transaction.
She decides to keep it simple, direct:
I’m writing to request a two-hour Luxe session with you. A little about me: I’m a photographer and an empty nester living in Brickell.
Sincerely,
Rochelle
Rochelle’s nest had been empty long before Ashley left for college. The fall she’d filed for divorce, she came back home from exhibiting her work in Berlin and found all the locks changed. Ashley stared at her through the picture window in the living room, their fingers touching the glass between them. Then Evan appeared. He shut off the Tiffany lamp behind Ashley and ushered her out of the room.
A judge’s emergency order allowed Rochelle to return to the house, but Evan’s reign of terror persisted throughout their divorce proceedings. In the backyard, Rochelle found her snow hydrangeas, Shasta daisies, Queen Anne’s lace, sweet alyssum, and lamb’s ears dug up, crushed, and stomped on.
She was too devastated to think about replanting her garden, about starting over. Plus, her new place wouldn’t have the space. She knew no matter how hefty the divorce settlement, the money wouldn’t last forever, especially the longer the case dragged on. And if Evan had his druthers, they’d still be in court today. He’d tried to hide assets, but the forensic accountant the court made them both pay for found everything—or at least, she found enough to convince Rochelle that she’d found everything. Not that Rochelle cared about the money, only what it represented—yet another way Evan tried to dictate what should be enough for her. Rochelle needed to save. Her income depended on grants, fellowships, and prizes. Her professional star was rising, but nothing was guaranteed. So, a hydroponic garden in a two-bedroom condo in Brickell it was.
But for Ashley, the condo never became a true second home. Through legal and non-legal means, Evan eroded Rochelle’s parenting time from every other week, as stipulated in their divorce decree, to two weekends a month by the time Ashley was in middle school. By high school, Ashley outright refused to go to Rochelle’s place. Rochelle knew Evan had bad-mouthed her to Ashley, leaving the girl feeling trapped, forced to reject her mother to keep his love.
Rochelle had used the language that the divorce self-help books prescribed to get Ashley to understand that while she and Evan were no longer husband and wife, they would—both of them—always be her parents. “You don’t have to choose between us,” she told her. “And the best part of my life is being your mother.” Ashley allowed Rochelle to hug her, but the damage had been done.
Lydia named what happened to Rochelle and Ashley: parental alienation. She explained that like all emotional abuse, parental alienation was nearly impossible to prove. “These judges do not give one single damn,” she said. “In a custody battle, they think everybody’s lying. Now I know you might be thinking the answer to all of this is to hire somebody to beat Evan’s ass”—Rochelle had not, in fact, been thinking about that—“but you can’t risk that coming back on you. Then you really will lose your babygirl.”
His ass unbeaten, Evan continued to lie to the judge and interfere with Rochelle’s parenting time. Ashley refused to speak to her therapist, or Rochelle, Rochelle’s mother, or the court-appointed guardian ad litem. Determined, Rochelle filed motion after motion. She lost count of how many times Evan got slapped with contempt and fined. He’d pay the fines and keep on violating the court order, refusing to honor her parenting time.
Lydia warned Rochelle that continuing to file motions could backfire. And that’s exactly what happened. “Ms. Woods,” the judge said, “if I had a dollar for every co-parent that told me their ex was lying or abusing the kids, I’d be retired, sunning myself on a private beach in Coral Gables. And at this point, what you’re doing to Mr. Lewis is bordering on harassment.”
“Give her time,” Lydia said. When Ashley got older, she’d see who the problem parent was. She’d see the truth. And she’d come back. “Because Black girls love their mamas,” Lydia assured her. “Even when they’re toxic, we still cling to them. Ask me how I know.”
But the same words Lydia used to assure Rochelle also haunted her. Black girls did love their mamas, come hell or high water, so what did it say about her that Ashley didn’t want to stay with her, didn’t even acknowledge her at her soccer games?
“Whatchu mean he turned her against you?” Rochelle’s mother asked. “Take him to court! Fight for your baby!” Her mother and most of the world believed only unfit mothers lose their children. Drug addicts. Abusers.
A month after the soccer game heartbreak, Rochelle met Lydia for lunch, a copy of her latest motion in hand. Lydia shook her head but didn’t say anything.
“What?” Rochelle asked. “My lawyer isn’t ready to give up yet.”
“At $450 an hour, of course he’s not,” Lydia said. “Look, I always tell women in these situations, you have two choices: You can pay for your kid to go to college or for your lawyer’s kid to go to college.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Girl, I know you not broke-broke. But if you keep this up, you’re going to be.”
“I will never stop fighting for my baby. And if my money runs out, I’ll represent myself.”
“Okay, let’s say you win, and Ashley comes back.” Lydia pushed salad greens around on her plate. “Where are y’all gonna live if you’ve spent all your money fighting in court? Honey, you’ve got to maintain a home that she can come back to.”
The truth of Lydia’s words cracked Rochelle open; she wailed. The other diners turned to stare, but fuck them. The idea of her baby not having a home to come back to was more than Rochelle could bear. She was the home Ashley had always come back to. Her body had been her first shelter, her breasts had provided her first food. But Rochelle sobbed even louder then, surrendering to the other truth of her body: It could not bridge the gap between their lives as they were and their lives as they should be.
Ashley went on to graduate high school and college. Rochelle attended both ceremonies. Ashley posed stiffly next to her for photos taken by willing strangers because Evan and his new, Japanese wife, Miyako, refused.
Bit by bit, Rochelle managed to move on with her life as well. In the last few years, she’d resumed going to the city’s main arts and food festivals, approaching happy families to ask if she could take their pictures. She’s also taken on some commissioned work for individuals and magazines.
Occasionally, Rochelle texts Ashley, and they make small talk. About new restaurant openings, TV shows, the weather. It’s always a reach. Rochelle has not seen Ashley in person since her college graduation, four years ago. According to Ashley’s Facebook page, she currently teaches high school English at a local private school. She still lives at home with Evan, Miyako, and their children.
Brickell is no Key Biscayne, but it has a 100% walkability rating. Rochelle takes a daily walk over the Miami River, past an endless stream of yoga-pants-and-sports-bra-clad Latinx women pushing strollers that cost as much as the rent on her condo. She makes a game of guessing what the women are ferrying in those strollers, pugs or babies—the former as likely as the latter. She doesn’t look away or cry when she sees the (human) babies, anymore. Not that she needs reminding, but each baby feels like an affirmation that she too is a mother, present tense.
On today’s river walk, Rochelle notes that in two weeks, it will be twenty-five years since she became a mother. Every year, for Ashley’s birthday, Rochelle asks to take her to dinner, or even just coffee. And every year, Ashley leaves Rochelle’s text message on “read.”
As Rochelle cuts through Brickell City Centre on her way back home, she runs into one of the hollowed-out women who feared her divorce cooties all those years ago. What’s her name? Helene? Helena? Her husband is Evan’s attorney. She talks too close in Rochelle’s face, calling her “brave” and “resilient” while absent-mindedly spinning her four-carat wedding ring set around her bony finger. Rochelle wants to scream. Men who make women resilient are monsters. No girl ever says, “I want to be resilient when I grow up. I want to survive a man’s worst.”
Rochelle escapes the woman before either of them can lie about keeping in touch.
That night, in bed, Rochelle stares up at the prints on her wall. Some of her favorites. Toddler Ashley’s chubby fist holding a dandelion as she blows on it. Two church mothers, holding hands, crossing a busy street. Lydia’s wide mouth, laughing, her head thrown back.
Rochelle’s phone dings with an email alert.
Hi, Rochelle:
Thanks for reaching out. I currently have openings this Friday, Monday the 9th, Sunday the 22nd (evening), Monday the 26th, and Thursday the 29th.
Do any of those work for you?
Most importantly, I look forward to slowing down with you.
Warmly,
Crystal, CMT
In the introduction to Working It: Sex Workers on the Work of Sex (one of Rochelle’s inadvertent Google finds), the anthology’s editor writes about the reality of sex work as tedious, as performance. Performance of attraction, performance of physical labor. Mindful of this on the day of her Luxe session, Rochelle resolves to be as low maintenance as possible. She arrives on time, freshly showered, and hoping she looks safe. Did Crystal worry that she might be violent? Or a cop? No, she probably Googled Rochelle (based on her full name in her email address), found her website and the profiles in Hyperallergic and the New York Times. Had she looked at her work? Had she liked it?
Stop it, she chides herself. This is a transaction.
“Welcome,” Crystal says at the door of her studio apartment—or someone’s studio apartment. Her kimono is loosely tied; her feet are bare. “Are you a hugger?”
Rochelle nods. Crystal takes Rochelle’s hand in hers, gently pulls her inside and into a hug that feels more familial than sensual. She smells incredible, like lemongrass.
“Can I get you some water? Or tea?”
“No, thank you,” Rochelle whispers. She has no idea why she’s whispering.
“Okay,” Crystal whispers back, before flashing a smile, her plump lips tinted red with lipgloss. She takes Rochelle’s hand and guides her to a massage table across the room, which is dim aside from a few candles and swaths of sunlight coming from a window toward the rear of the apartment.
Crystal disrobes. She wears a black push-up bra and lace panties. She gestures toward the table. “Climb on whenever you’re ready, beautiful.”
Naked, Rochelle lies on her back on the table. Crystal stands behind her head and leans forward, her small breasts hovering above Rochelle’s face. She kneads Rochelle’s shoulders with a light touch, moving from her shoulders to her upper arms and back, kind of half-heartedly. Rochelle relaxes into Crystal’s hands and wonders when she’ll increase the pressure. Then she remembers: This isn’t really a massage. Crystal is waiting for her cue.
Rochelle raises one hand over her head, reaching back until she feels Crystal’s thigh. She strokes it. Crystal leans over further until her nipple is in Rochelle’s mouth, until her hand reaches Rochelle’s thighs and she parts them.
When Rochelle gasps, Crystal gasps. When Rochelle moans, Crystal moans, matching her pitch and intensity. Rochelle finds this sexual pantomime, this synchronicity, odd at first, then oddly satisfying. A shared rhythm, a shared breath. Crystal knows just when to pause, when to linger, when to lick, how to send Rochelle soaring, again.
When Crystal positions Rochelle on her hands and knees and pleasures her from behind, her cries of release become a full-throated howl, blurring the line between lust and sorrow. Crystal drapes her body over Rochelle’s back, which heaves with sobs. She wraps her arms around Rochelle’s middle and cups her breasts. Perhaps sensing Rochelle’s instinct to apologize for her tears, she slides her tongue in her ear before she can.
“You’re allowed to,” Crystal murmurs. “Let go. Whatever it is. Just let go.”
And for the next hour, she does.
After they are both panting and slick with sweat, they spend the last thirty minutes of the session sitting on the table facing each other, Crystal with her feet crossed at the ankle and Rochelle hugging her knees to her chest. They talk about everything from Crystal’s intimacy coaching clients—“They’re literally paying me to teach them but hate that I know more than they do. The male ego is a fragile thing.”—to intersectional feminism. She’s in grad school.
The post-coital air between them smells vaguely of cinnamon, not at all unpleasant, and Rochelle’s last bit of self-consciousness evaporates. She smiles to herself, imagining Lydia’s reaction to this detail. But then she realizes she hasn’t decided if she’ll tell Lydia any of it. She’s not worried about judgment, but there’s still something about this encounter that feels like maybe it should just be hers.
Once upon a time, this would’ve been the kind of thing Evan would’ve used against her in court, had he found out. She no longer fears him. But mostly because there’s nothing left for him to destroy.
Rochelle and Crystal are all business when it’s time to say goodbye, swapping Venmo info. Rochelle enters the payment amount, $750. Should she add a tip? Do you tip your sex worker? Not knowing the etiquette, she asks if people tip.
“Men, sometimes. Women, always,” Crystal says. She tightens the belt on her kimono. Rochelle imagines she’s already moved on to the next client in her mind. Or maybe she’s got a paper to write for school.
After paying, Rochelle grabs her tote bag and heads for the door. She stops short and decides to go for it.
“I’ve got my camera in my bag,” she says. “May I take a few quick photos of you? I’m really interested in your smile. And also a few of your hands? They’re small but so strong.”
Rochelle sees a flicker of concern, uncertainty, on Crystal’s face, wondering perhaps if she’s missed the signs of danger.
But the flicker passes. Crystal offers her brilliant smile. Rochelle lifts her camera and shoots.
Back in the condo, she curls up on the bed in Ashley’s old room. The Cheetah Girls comforter soaks up her tears. She calls Lydia to talk about Ashley, not Crystal. “Remember,” Lydia says, “Ashley has lost something too. It may not look like it, but she’s also grieving. She may not know how to make her way back to you. It may take her some more time, but she’ll figure it out.”
Rochelle decides. For this year’s birthday text—no, call—to Ashley, she won’t propose coffee or dinner. She won’t propose anything. She’ll simply remind her that the door is always open and the pathway home is lit.
