Wherever the Dandelion Falls (4 page)

That night I went home and found Justine on the couch in her
Legalize Love
t-shirt, eating cruelty-free jellybeans.

"How was the interview?" she garbled, not taking her eyes off whatever documentary she was watching.

"It was
nice
," I said, realizing too late I put too much emphasis on the last word.

"Nice?" Justine asked, twisting to look at me.

I paused to take off my coat and hang it up before I offered, "I'm having coffee with the lady again."

"Oh yeah? More interview stuff?"

"No, just to hang out."

Justine seemed intrigued by my statement. "Is she hot?"

I frowned at Justine, but didn't answer the question.

"She's hot," Justine decided.

"So?" I said, defensive.

Justine wiggled her eyebrows. "Maybe if you brought your hot girlfriend to the office Dr. Turner would notice and suggest a ménage à trois. Guys like him dig lesbians."

I blushed crimson. "I'm not a lesbian."

"But Faye is."

I froze. "She is?"

Justine paused her chewing and gave me an amused expression.

I looked around, feeling as though I had missed something obvious.

"Oh, Riley..." Justine cooed. "Are you ever going to learn to use Google?"

I felt foolish.

"Have you read anything she's written?" Justine asked.

I shook my head, embarrassed. "Does she only interview lesbians?"

Justine burst out laughing. "Don't worry, she can't trick someone into liking pussy just because they sat for an interview."

The word
pussy
made me cringe, but I tried not to show it. I'd briefly dated a girl in college, but that had been my rebellious phase. I still found women attractive – Faye Nguyen especially — but I had long since written off relationships with women. I always pictured my future with a man. It was the easiest thing to fit into my life.

Seconds later I realized something: Faye Nguyen and I had plans to go out for coffee this weekend. I had inadvertently agreed to go on a date with her.

I thought of Dr. Turner and his sexy swirling lab coat and how he never gave me more than stiff nod, and on Friday, he'd wish me a nice weekend. That was the closest thing I had to a boyfriend, which Justine told me was an absolute crime. I was in my prime, physically and sexually, and according to Justine, I was wallowing it away lusting after Dr. Turner, who thought I was as interesting as upholstery swatches.

It's funny, how other people's views of us shape who we are. Perhaps if I had been in a different job surrounded by different people, I would have seen myself differently. But I thought of myself as a carpet swatch, and a beige one at that. Beige without an interesting texture. Something that would compliment a nice piece of art or distract from dirt: purely functional, never decorative or exciting. Just like my underwear: plain cotton, white, nude, or black.

But then it dawned on me: if I went out with Faye, I wouldn't be beige. I wouldn't even be an upholstery swatch. And that thought appealed to me very much.

I have no idea why I lied about name. I knew it was a bad idea to give a fake name to someone I was going on a date with. Maybe it was because he made me feel like a new version of myself: someone powerful and in charge. I gave that person a name, and the only one I could think of at the time was Violet.

Dr. Turner arrived at my apartment right on time and took me to a dive in the Castro. We had just been served our drinks when I felt him losing interest. When he was turned away, I surreptitiously unbuttoned the top of my blouse, knowing I had worn my best push-up. I leaned forward and made intense eye contact with him. For the rest of the meal, no matter if we were talking about neuroscience, baseball, or the weather, he didn't take his eyes off me.

When he invited me back to his place after, I decided to go with him. He was charming and handsome and, for most of the night, had been eying me as though I was a steak he wanted to eat. I was used to it. Most of my graduate classmates were guys, and whenever I wore tight-fitting yoga pants or a low-cut shirt, I got looked at a lot. But getting those looks from Dr. Turner was very different. My classmates were in the same boat I was in: homework, tests, loans, papers, and stress. Dr. Turner had moved past all of that. He owned his own research company, guest lectured at UCSF, and had money.

So when he invited me back to his place, I said yes. I wanted to see what my life could look like someday if I made it big like him. Was his furniture leather? Did he have valuable art around his apartment? Did he have a walk-in closet with rows of perfectly starched shirts and shined loafers? I couldn't wait to see. The promise of getting laid by someone who wasn't going to have leftover pizza for breakfast was enticing.

His apartment was spacious, with large floor to ceiling windows on both sides overlooking Nob Hill. His bedroom was neat and clean. His bed was square and perfectly made. There was a single leather chair in the corner and a dresser with nothing on top. It was minimalist and elegant. The hue of the wood was a deep burgundy, almost black. The room smelled clean and dark and sexy. I loved it.

"You seem like a nice girl, Violet,” Dr. Turner said with a quirk of his eyebrow.

"Oh, I am," I said, giving him my best wicked grin.

"Hopefully not too good," he smirked.

"Only when I need to be," I flirted back.

"Do you want music or something?" he asked.

"That's okay, I don't need any."

"How'd you get into this?" he asked, taking a seat in his chair and leaning down to remove his shoes.

I wasn't sure what he meant, but he was eying my waist, so I figured he was talking about my skirt or something. Feeling awkward, I made a Saturday Night Live reference. "Same as anyone. One leg at a time."

He sat up and gave me an amused smirk. "Care to show me what you've got?"

It wasn't exactly romantic, but I supposed it was better than playing a stupid game about when and how we were going to have sex. Obviously he wanted to, and it had been a long time since I'd gotten laid. If he wanted me to get naked first, that was fine by me.

I kept my playful expression on as I reached down to lift my shirt. I lifted it over my head, letting my hair fall down onto my shoulders as I locked my eyes with his again.

His grin grew wicked again and he leaned back.

I knew lots of men liked watching stripteases. I didn't mind watching them myself. My high school boyfriend, Damon, loved to watch me undress, and had encouraged me to dance a little as I did. For his eighteenth birthday, I'd given him a lap dance while I stripped. It was sexy and playful and one of the best nights of our five-year relationship.

Dr. Turner was nothing like Damon. We were about to have sex on our first date, and he was asking me to give him a show. It was presumptuous of him, but I was proud I could deliver. Hopefully he'd deliver in other areas in return.

I found the zipper in my skirt and pulled it down, pressing my palms against my sides under the fabric as I slicked it down. I closed my eyes and imagined music playing, setting a rhythm.

Once my skirt was on the floor, I turned around and unsnapped my bra. It was a nice bra, the cups were seriously enhanced. I dropped it on the ground and shimmied out of my panties. I was glad I'd waxed recently. I was groomed and about to get laid by the hottest professor I'd ever had.

I heard Dr. Turner rustling behind me and smiled to myself. He must have liked what he saw. I pumped my knees a few times, knowing it made my ass look amazing, especially in my heels, and turned to see Dr. Turner leaning back with a lazy, fascinated expression on his face.

He licked his lips and tilted his head back before saying, "C'mere."

I walked over to him and bent over, letting my tits come near his face. "What did you have in mind?"

Dr. Turner looked my body up and down for a moment before saying, "Lie on the bed and touch yourself for me."

I was a bit surprised at that. He wasn't even going to kiss me?

But I figured this night was different from most dates I'd been on already, so why not make sex different too?

I turned back to his bed, noting its starched, square perfection. I felt almost guilty as I sank onto it. I was messing it up.

But then again, nothing about sex is clean and square and poised. Sex is sweaty and unchoreographed. So I scooted back, taking a moment to kick off my heels, and gave him a playful scrunch of my nose as I fisted the sheets, ruining the placidness of the bed.

Then I spread my legs. The cool air felt good, and the way his eyes flew right to my center made me feel powerful. I had something he wanted, but he wanted me to tease him with it before anything else happened. Soon, Dr. Turner was hovering over me, slipping on a condom.

It wasn't any better or worse than sex usually was for me. Somehow I thought that sleeping with a man who had a PhD and research lab meant that the sex would be better than it usually was. But Dr. Turner just pumped in and out, grunting, and closing his eyes most of the time.

I could only sigh in disappointment when he came before I did. I should have made sure I got what I needed first. I could have done more than lie there and pant beneath him, taking a few turns on top. So when he came, I just sighed. That was that. It didn't occur to me to ask him to finish me or to take care of myself. It was just one of those things, and maybe if he wanted to see me again, it would be different.

So my first time with Dr. Turner wasn't memorable. I suppose most sex on the first date isn't memorable.

But I distinctly remember what happened afterwards. He slipped out of me, pulling the condom off and knotting it, disappearing behind the wall that I assume concealed the bathroom. Then he came out and opened his dresser drawer, rummaging around for a moment before putting on boxers. I lay on the bed, still on top of the white covers, breathing and looking at the ceiling, wondering why I'd gotten my expectations worked up and what I was doing here in the first place. Then he swaggered over the bed and tossed something next to my head.

"Thanks, doll. I'll give you a call soon."

I nodded, tilting my head to see what he'd tossed at me, but it was concealed by the wrinkled duvet. Without making eye contact, Dr. Turner walked out of the room with that I-just-got-laid swagger, leaving me alone with my slowing breath and the stark quietness.

I propped myself up on my elbows so I could see what was next to me on the bed. When I saw the roll of crisp twenties, I was dumbstruck.

Dr. Turner had given me money.

Dr. Turner had just paid me for sex.

I wracked my brain, thinking of all the things I had said and done that might have led him to believe I was interesting in something besides dating. Sex, sure, but being
paid
for sex? That had never crossed my mind.

Then I realized -- Dr Turner had just paid me for
sex
.

Dr. Turner thought I was a prostitute.

I sat up, pulling my knees to my chest. What had I gotten myself into?

Where I came from in Michigan, only desperate women sold their bodies, and that was usually at a club with a pole or in a dingy motel next to a Denny's or Waffle House. There were no wads of money tossed on nice sheets like this.

I felt so young and so naive and so, so stupid. I closed my eyes and felt tears start to sting.

Dr. Turner had never been interested in dating me. He'd only wanted to sleep with me, and going out for a drink had just been a pretense. It was degrading and horrible and I wanted to shrink into my own sweaty, dirty skin and hide.

But I wasn't going to cry in his house. I wasn't going to leave any more of my dignity here than I'd entered with. If I had to cry, I'd wait until I was home with the door to my room closed.

But then I looked down at the money and got curious. How much did this pretentious asshole think I deserved for sleeping with him? I looked at the money, still appalled, but also intrigued.

I had to know what I was worth.

I poked at the thick fold of twenties. It looked threatening, like a small animal playing dead until I was close enough to attack, when it would spear me with its razor claws and fangs. But it didn't spring to life. It rested against the sheets, lifeless.