Dirty Daddy

Serves me right.

59

Ashley

I bite into the honey almond croissant, wiping a few flaky pastry bits from my lips. I watch as Yasmine sips her medium roast coffee. She ordered a chocolate croissant, which is an indulgence for her, and instead of biting into it, she's eyeing it suspiciously. She's one of those women who refuses to eat anything with sugar and butter 99% of the time in fear her ass will start ballooning out, but come on, we're both having brunch at Balthazar—one of those places where it's as if you've been transported to Montmartre at the turn of the century, yet it's still 2016, and it's still SoHo. In other words, you don't skip the pastries at this place. Besides, Yasmine had the body of a Victoria's Secret Angel from a young age, and she still maintains it. One pastry isn't going to do her in.

"You're lucky you weren't at the club last night," she says. "Some guy tried to pick me up like a bowling ball right on the stage. I lost my shit—like, really lost it, Ash."

"What happened?" I ask, my eyes going wide. And then I do a double take. “And what were you even doing on stage? You’re a house mom!”

Yasmine laughs.

“Just because I’m 35 doesn’t mean that I can’t dance from time to time, baby,” she says with an arched eyebrow. “Besides it makes me feel sexy.”

Oh wow. Now this is just what I need to get my mind off of missing Arsen.

“Feel sexy, Yasmine?” I ask, and lean in. “Who is he? Don’t tell me it’s one of the bouncers again!”

Again, Yasmine laughs and takes a sip of her champagne.

“Hardly,” she says. “And I can’t tell you. Call it attorney-client confidentiality.”

“So, he’s a lawyer?” I ask. She just smiles at me and stays silent. After a moment, I move on. “So what happened to the guy who tried to pick you up literally?”

"I hit him. Repeatedly. And then the bouncers showed up and asked me what the hell was going on. I had to recount the whole thing to them, and they asked me if I hit him open palmed—like a slap—or close fisted. Do I look like I'd slap someone?"

I watch as she balls her fist in reenactment. She has a point. Despite her small size, she's got a hard exterior. Cross her or her dancers, and she’ll come after you with the power of a MAC truck.

"No, you're right. I could picture you close fisting that asshole."

"It's like letting a dog piss in the middle of your living room, you know? Sure, I could've let the bouncer take care of him, but then he'd never learn. He'd do it again to some other girl, in some other club, and the cycle would never end."

"I guess you've got a point."

"I swear I need to get out of that place. The money's good, except on Mondays. Can you believe I danced for a solid 45 minutes and only made $25 on Monday? If that were a Friday night, I'd have made $500. My family keeps asking me when I'm going to get a real job—they know what I do, but they pretend like they don't. It's always awkward."

I nod my head in agreement. I can understand where she's coming from. I couldn't even tell my family about it. They still think I'm serving coffee somewhere while I try finding a place to put my Art History degree from Yale to use. But let's be real—serving coffee won't pay NYC rents.

"Anyways, enough about me," she continues. "You're lucky you got out when you did. It was a smart move. Sit in bed all day at talk dirty on the phone. I’m glad one of my girls got out."

"I'm not so sure," I say, shaking my head and looking down at the last bits of my pastry. I don't even want to look Yasmine in the eyes, in fear she'll recognize something in me that I haven't even admitted to myself.

"What's that supposed to mean? I thought you were doing great at Simulated Pleasures? Aren't you one of the highest grossing operators?"

"I am, but it's complicated."

"How complicated can it be? You take a call, act as part seductress and part therapist for as long as possible, and get them off. Voila!"

"It's been a crazy last couple of days."

"So what—you have some crazy stalker now calling at all hours of the night? Keep him on the line and rack up those minutes, girl."

"It's not a stalker. I'm falling for one of my clients."

"You can't be serious?"

"Serious as a heart attack."