I have a name (part 4 — fictional series of my life as a GFE escort)
Author’s note: when I began writing this fictional series it was born from an intention to write one story. As I wrote, character names began blurting out in my head and I merely went with the flow. I became attached. I decided I wanted to tell a story. We all have our skeletons. And I believe ‘Lana’ is doing what she needs to survive. There’s a story inside every book jacket. Do not let the cover and its title put an immediate idea in your head. Give everyone a chance to show you who they are. Read between the lines. Since I am sharing this with you, I decided to name this fictional series.
I have a name
I saw Joyce yesterday. We have a standing date on Black Friday, the tradition started when we were sophomores in high school. We protested shopping on this day because we believed it was a scam. Back then we had hearts. It’s not that we don’t today, but as life has shown us — we do what we can and make do with what we have. Joyce and I didn’t grow up poor, but we didn’t grow up spoiled either. Our parents made us earn everything we had. By the time we started high school, we were experts at saving our allowances. She just started getting 10 every week, but I was still stuck on seven. My parents hadn’t increased my allowance since 7th grade. It used to go up every year. It sounds corny but they matched it to the grade I was in. Then I stopped getting increases. I know it was hard on my parents then. My mom quit her receptionist job at the doctor’s office where she had worked for five years. They weren’t increasing her pay because she had no medical background or computer skills. She was good at what she did, but as computers and detailed programs began to take over medical offices — she needed to keep up with times changing and her computer knowledge consisted of reading emails and online shopping. Even then, she’d ask for my help on how to navigate the internet. It turned out to be the best thing that ever happened cause mom went back to school and earned an associate’s degree in computer science and later became a programmer. Turned out her math skills came in handy and she enjoyed learning about coding. I’m really proud of my mom for doing that. She seems genuinely happy.
Now, back to Joyce…
Joyce and I have been best friends for 12 years. We met in 8th grade. She’s a third grade teacher and has been dating her boyfriend Scott for five years. She lives a nice, non-drama life — and to protect her from what I do I hadn’t told her until last year. It was so hard for me. She didn’t understand initially. She kept telling me I should stop. I kept telling her that I didn’t want to. That I made good money. That I actually like fucking different men. I told her I thought I was good at it.
No, I didn’t say that. What kind of person would I be if I told her I thought I was great at sex and making men feel good? Rhetorical question, in case you were about to answer.
Regardless, what I love most about Joyce is that she still loves me and accepts me for who I am. (And I love her even more for trying to understand and ask questions.)
This year we met at Cafe Spiaggia for lunch. It was my treat and I was looking forward to seeing her. I arrived first and ordered a Aperol Spritz at the bar. While waiting, I saw two men having lunch in the dining room. They appeared deep in discussion. One of them received a phone call and excused himself from the table and walked over to the elevator foyer to take the call. As he walked by, I couldn’t help but check him out. He was dressed very casual with a dark sweater and pants that hugged him perfectly. And the boat shoes, can’t forget the boat shoes cause that was one part of his outfit that I wasn’t a fan of. They appeared worn out.
When he walked back in, he caught my glance and we held our stare briefly. He turned back to face the dining room and returned to his seat.
Next thing I knew, he walked back into the bar, gently brushed my arm so I would turn around and asked, “Excuse me, sorry to sound bold, but I have to catch a plane and I would regret it very much if I never asked you for your name?”
I wanted to tell him my real name, but I couldn’t take a chance. I knew I would regret it. ‘But would I regret telling him my stage name?’
“It’s Lana.” I extended my right hand and firmly shook his.
“Lana, I’m Michael. I’m from LA, but I travel to Chicago often for work. I hope I run into you the next time I’m in town. Sorry to disturb you. I believe in fate by the way.” with this he smiled, turned around and walked out with his friend who stood behind him, who was oblivious to our brief exchange.
Joyce showed up two minutes later. The next two hours were spent catching up with her. Every now and then, she snuck in a word about my secret life. She always knew how to be selective with her words, non-judgmental. I didn’t blame her for trying. I didn’t blame her for caring. I’d do the same.
But in the back of my mind, my thoughts were filled with Michael.
Would I ever see him again? If I did, would he be ok with my secret life? Furthermore, why was he occupying my mind right now?