In & Out
Prologue: Anticipation
Fuck, I thought, as I felt a few drops of anxious sweat pool on my back.
I might need to shower again.
I checked my phone. It’s a quarter to six. Fifteen minutes away from the first of many appointments I had set up.
Not enough time, she’ll be here soon.
A jolt of excitement ran through me.
The wait might be the most exciting part of this whole process, I contemplated as I neurotically drummed my fingers on the desk, attempting to recall different situations in my life where I had felt the same way.
Public speaking? Music recitals? Big exams in college?
From the outside, the task at hand could have easily been misconstrued to be far less demanding than any of those ordeals. All I needed to do was to wait in the comfort of my own hotel room. On the inside, however, I was a restless wreck, a nervous novice trying something that I had never done before, that I had never imagined doing up until a few months ago. I wanted everything to go right despite not knowing exactly what “right” meant.
It’s too late to turn back now.
Bored and frantic at the same time, I glanced around the room again. Like most London hotel rooms, the place was a shoebox. Much smaller than the deceptively angled pictures on the hotel website.
These scam artists really made a proper tourist out of me, I lamented.
The space didn’t have much. A tiny two-door closet with a mirror, a small square desk where I had set my laptop, and a brown square ottoman, which was the only place to sit aside from the toilet and the bed. The bed itself was the only redeeming aspect of the entire room. It was king-sized and looked quite comfortable. I had yet to sleep in it as I had only arrived by plane a few hours earlier. The size was obviously chosen for a very specific reason: It was meant for two. Temporarily at least.
In a few minutes, I’m going to be in that bed with an incredibly attractive woman on top of me, one voice in my head mused.
Snap out of it! Go through your checks again, another voice scolded me back to discipline.
My eyes began darting around, locating important objects around the room.
Blinds closed? They were in their shut position with only a hint of light peeking through.
Bed made? Clean pillows were arranged nicely by the headboard and the covers were pulled back, folded neatly to one side.
Cash ready? It was in the white envelope on the nightstand, just like in the movies. It was already counted and recounted. Fifteen hundred pounds for two hours of alleged bliss. Expensive.
Too bad the bank gave out so many small notes. This poor girl is going to have to count a bunch of fives and tens. Hopefully she won’t be mad at me for that.
I sighed into nothingness, then ruminated on the impending possibility of a wild-eyed call girl angrily waving a bunch of bills and a calculator in my face.
The idea was horrifying, so I began to daydream about something else.
Running through the checklist again reminded me of how much the experience so far had felt like I was living in a Cold War thriller. I might as well have been a Soviet defector waiting at a safe house for his MI6 handler to drop by and brief for the next mission. Except this British agent probably had some beautiful lingerie hidden underneath her cold demeanor, and her only mission, which she had already chosen to accept, was to bed me, and ideally bed me well.
This has to be the plotline of an ‘80s parody porno. Some fat, hairy, man with a mustache plays the Soviet spy and some large-bosomed Englishwoman serves as his “handler.”
A quick scene played in my head:
“I will show you how we make love in Soviet Russia,” the man exclaimed in an impeccable Russian accent.
“My legs will open for you like Glasnost,” the Englishwoman replied, spreading her legs to reveal the classic ‘80s muff.
Sex commenced. The lines basically wrote themselves.
The tiny TV in my mind shut off with the male talent in mid-thrust. I checked the time on my phone again. Unfortunately, my ridiculous musings had only brought me slightly forward. I was still more than ten minutes away from the beginning of my own adult film, minus the film.
I sighed deeply once again. Time was moving unbearably slow. It was as if my body had launched off at light speed, but the time passing through the rest of the room was dilated to the point of stopping. I crawled through the temporal sludge second by second, getting nowhere.
Are you missing anything? My mind vacillated once more from boredom to panic.
I looked down at the ottoman I was sitting on. Do I sit here, and she sits on the bed, or vice versa?
I peeked into the bathroom. Do I have a spare towel if she wants to shower?
I stared down at my feet. Should I be wearing my shoes or slippers? Socks or no socks?
I gazed at my phone. Did I give her the proper directions to the room?
An hour ago, I had sent an overly detailed set of instructions to the escort agency:
Enter through the main doors and walk straight down the hall. This will lead to a space filled with dining tables. Turn right and walk all the way through this space, past a blue glass table. Make sure to avoid taking the first right but take the second right. There should now be a set of stairs to the left and elevators to the right. Elevator is easier. Head to the 3rd floor. My room number is 312, which is directly to the left once you step out.
The only text I got back was:
Thanks.
They probably think I’m crazy, but what if she gets lost? What if one of the hotel staff brings her up here? They’ll totally know what we’re up to—what I’m up to!
Ugh, fuck! Why didn’t I book a better hotel? One that wasn’t the goddamn Labyrinth of Crete.
Half convinced that I was about to get kicked out of my subpar lodgings before ever spending the night, my heart started to beat faster. Suddenly, I heard footsteps loudly pounding up the stairs.
That can’t be her, she’s too early. I also told her to take the elevator.
As if in response to my unheard thoughts, two female voices rang out from the nearby stairwell. They were arguing in a foreign language. The sound of a squeaky cart accompanied the litany of unrecognizable words they hurled at one another.
Cleaning ladies, I thought.
Well, if I can hear them…I’m guessing anyone out there will probably hear whatever is about to go down in here.
Damn! There’s really no soundproofing in this place. Half this wing is going to complain about our loud fucking. So much for privacy.
The echoing of their voices faded as I heard the elevator in the hall open and close. I took a deep breath, seeking an ounce of tranquility—I received less than I expected, but even a small amount of calm satisfied me. I was agonizing over everything; every minor detail was thought through twice and three times over. Hours of planning and effort went into this meeting, this project, this reckless pursuit. Turning back now would be cowardly. Going forward, perhaps similarly cowardly, but of a different sort.
How did I get here?
The thought appeared out of nowhere. However, the faint, fleeting feeling of nostalgia brushed my mind. I had asked this question before, but not recently. My eyes slowly surveyed the room again as if I’d find the answers there.
How did I get here, to this point in my life?
The weight behind the question felt stronger this time. My thoughts scattered. Scenes of my life flashed through my mind like a flipbook arranged out of order. I caught glimpses of my childhood home, a brief vision of the last girl I slept with, the shrill sound of my mother scolding me over bad grades, the dull feeling of tedium as coworkers gave a presentation, the warm sensation of relief as I looked out the window on the plane ride into London.
Unrelated. Random.
It wasn’t the right question, so I didn’t think of the right answer.
Not finding my responses satisfactory, my conscience decided to be more specific and slid one final inquiry across the table: How did I get to this point in my life, where I’m losing my mind, waiting to have sex with a prostitute?
The thought came like an uppercut to the chin. I reeled back, as if I had been struck physically, and stared at the ceiling. I chuckled at myself quietly—laughing because I felt embarrassed, because I knew the answer to the question and didn’t at the same time. However, this was not a question doused with shame, it was a question of wonder, of curiosity. I was a puzzle to myself, and the pieces ached to come together. How? And why?
I paused and gathered my thoughts.
I came here to find myself. I came here to find what I really want in life, was one opinion that formed. It felt genuine. Perhaps it was the truth.
Well, you certainly picked a strange method for self-discovery, a competing voice chimed in, playing devil’s advocate.
Touché. A strong counterpoint.
I’m just here to have fun and have the best sex of my life, a third voice confessed.
The other two metaphysical talking heads turned and looked at the third one suspiciously. Did you really just admit that? Yet, this answer too felt real.
None of them are true. All of them are true. I couldn’t decide.
My ears perked up to the mechanical humming of the elevator. It was on the move. My finger tapped the surface of my phone. It was now two past six.
Fuck.
My heart began to pound through my chest and my body started to glow with fire. Every nerve of my being burst out and crackled with piercing electricity. In the swirling maelstrom of sensation and emotion, I attempted to calm myself within the void of my mind, and the world gradually went silent and still.
The sound of the lift doors sliding sideways interrupted my brief meditation. My eyes shot open wide. The rest of my body froze, paralyzed in nervous anticipation.
Deep breaths, deep breaths, just relax.
Suddenly, the muffled shuffling of clothes and the muted thumping of shoes striking carpet boomed like thunder in the silence.
My breath stopped. My vision narrowed. My body tensed like a rope stretched beyond its limits.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
I inhaled sharply and steeled myself, attempting to temper the hot wave of terror and excitement that roared through me.
It didn’t work.
Months of preparation had finally led to this.
She’s no different than any other girl you’ve talked to in your life, I reassured myself.
Are you really going to go through with this? I questioned myself.
Ohhhh, hell yeah! Time to get some! Two other versions of myself high-fived each other.
With legs that wobbled like jelly, I raised my body off the ottoman. I turned toward the white hotel door and methodically placed one foot in front of the other until I stood before it.
Fuck.
With one final deep breath, my shaking right hand grasped the cold steel of the doorknob.
How did I get here?
I turned and pulled.