Chapter Fourteen

Loncey

We talk for longer than I expect. We talk about social media and working with brands and how to best protect our privacy online. We talk about other influencers we both vaguely know and we talk about the weirdest and creepiest DMs we've ever received. We talk for so long that I forget the time and it's only when I feel my phone vibrate with a text message that I look at my device and see the time.

"Shit, I gotta go. I'm late."

"Oh yeah, your meeting." Maeve yawns.

"Yeah, but wait, don't you have a plane to catch?"

"Shite, yeah. My car will be here in ten minutes." She sits up and looks around the room. I feel an instant wave of disappointment. I was enjoying looking at her relaxed in the white pillows, her hair a golden yellow halo around her face.

"Your car? Jesus, Maeve, you're living the dream."

"It's a fecking taxi, isn't it? Nothing special." She narrows her eyes at me and pouts.

"I was just teasing," I say. "But I'm sorry for doing so."

Her expression softens. "Sorry. I get pre-travel anxiety." She gets up and starts moving around the room, presumably getting ready for her taxi.

"And yet you travel so much. That can't be fun," I say.

"You do what you gotta do," she says. "I bet there's parts of your job you don't like that you do anyway."

I think about it, pulling the inside of my cheek between my teeth. "Honestly, Maeve. I like nearly all parts of my job."

Her eyes widen and she stops moving. "Really?"

"Yes," I say, and I think I'm telling the truth. I'm pretty sure I am. I mean, I get to sleep with beautiful people for a living. Nearly everyone I meet doing so is kind and fun and positive. And I love sex. I love talking about sex. I love talking about pleasure. I love sharing my pleasure with other people, knowing that it gives them pleasure too.

Sure, there are lots of downsides. The stigma. The strange looks when you tell people what you do, or they recognize you on the street, and let's not forget the abuse and harassment that lands in my inbox, but for the most part, it's a good job.

"But surely, you can't love, you know, every single minute of every single fuck you've had with… every single person you've fucked?" Maeve's voice is blunt and heavy with disbelief and a deep frown creases her brow.

As Maeve asks this question, I feel something shift. By the time it's my turn to speak, I realize it feels like she's not asking a question about me, but rather trying to communicate, or more simply than that, understand something about herself. I want to ask her a thousand questions. I want to dive under her skin and pull out the meat of the real issue that has somehow needled its way into her heart, causing clear discomfort or pain.

But I can't do that. This may not be about me, but she still asked me a question and it's one I deem important enough to answer in full.

"I'm very selective about who I work with," I explain. "Just because I fuck for my job, doesn't mean I'll fuck anyone and everyone. I still have boundaries and limits. As do other sex workers. And we talk a lot about what we're going to do in a scene before we do it. We don't just dive in without proper communication, establishing safe words and having a shared understanding of what our expectations are."

"I didn't mean that you fucked just anyone… or that you didn't… I just…" Her mouth falls shut. "Nothing. I've got to go."

"Maeve, I—"

"It's fine! I was an eejit. Forget I said anything!" she snaps.

I brave a smile. "I was just going to say, thanks for calling. I liked talking with you."

Her lips part and I see her chest rise and fall with some slightly strained breaths. "It was nice to talk to you too," she says eventually. "I'm sorry if I just made that conversation go weird."

"There was nothing weird about it," I say, holding onto my smile so determinedly it takes a moment to realize why. I'm trying to make Maeve smile. Suddenly, I don't want to let her go without seeing her smile again. "I mean, apart from when you said that Grease 2 is better than the original."

The tension in her face cracks. "Are you fucking kidding me? There is no competition there. Not to mention the fact that both John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John were practically collecting their pensions when they were cast in Grease."

I crack up at this comment, holding my stomach and closing my eyes as I laugh. When I finally sit up and open my eyes again I am rewarded with her smile. Her real smile.

"That's better," I say quietly.

"What?" she asks, the smile melting into a small frown.

"Nothing," I say. "You should go. And so should I."

"Okay," she says in a soft voice. "Goodbye, Loncey."

"Goodbye, Maeve."

And then neither of us move. We just stay where we are, looking at the image of the other on our phones. It's a pause long enough that I'm about to ask Maeve if I can call her again, if we can make the time difference work, but before I can, I hear a soft "Fuck this," and her face disappears.

"See you later, Maeve," I say to the black screen with a light chuckle. And then I rush to grab everything I need and haul ass out of there for my meeting.

*****

Britney Blue is a beautiful trans woman with bright blue eyes that glitter under impossibly long fake eyelashes that are as black as the bobbed wig she wears. Every time she blinks, it seems to take great effort and yet that adds to her doe-eyed, shy-girl aesthetic. That and the way she sits in a matching baby blue two-piece, legs crossed neatly and her feet in cute low-heeled pink pumps.

"So, I just make an appointment online after I register?" she's asking as she peruses a website on her phone.

"Yep," I explain, putting my phone and laptop away. I need to get home as I promised my mom, Jessica and Taylor dinner. Jessica specifically asked me to make my chicken wings with rice and peas. Besides, I've spent a good hour with Britney Blue, answering her questions, giving her contact details for some creators I trust, and that I know would love to work with her and giving her more editing tips than I know she's going to remember. But that's okay. Next time we can pick up where we left off and I can show her the same things again. "As long as you've registered and paid the first monthly fee you can get a test pretty much whenever you want."

"And you get tested every week?"

"Depending on my schedule, yes. It's basically after every new partner. So sometimes it's every few days and other times it's a week or two. They can also fill your PrEP prescriptions there."

Britney nods. This isn't new to her. It's one of the first things I talked about when we started these monthly meetings, but until now she hasn't been doing collaborations and so it was important that I reminded her and told her about the service I use that gets me unlimited tests once I pay a monthly subscription.

"And don't be surprised if you meet people who may approach you for a collab at the clinic," I say with a half-smile. "It's pretty much only used by sex workers so some use it as a networking opportunity. Don't feel any pressure to give your number to anyone. Tell them you'll find them online and then send me their names and I'll look into them."

"You don't have to do that," Britney says and a little color perks up her milky white complexion. "You already do enough."

"It's a pleasure," I say. "Well, I gotta get going. Do you have any other questions for me?"

"Well, yes, there is something I wanted to ask." Britney shifts in her chair, leaning a little closer. "I'm going to… I'm going to tell my parents about my new… career. Soon. I want to be honest with them. What was it like when you told your mom and dad?"

My eyebrows lift as I smile. "Well, I may not be the best person to answer this. My mom, she's very liberal and forward-thinking. She has been supportive from day one."

"Really?" Britney's eyes are so big. "And what about your dad?"

I clear my throat. "That was also easy. I didn't tell him because I have no idea where he is. Haven't for a long time. He left my mom and me when I was a toddler. I have no clue where he is."

"Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't know." Britney looks down.

"Hey, no worries," I say. "I don't talk about him because there is nothing to talk about. He was a piece of shit and we're better off without him."

I feel the flinch more than I move my features to accommodate it. I still have visceral reactions talking about my father and the way he left us. Not because I remember it or him – I don't – but more because of how it impacted my mom who had to work around the clock to make ends meet. And yes, okay, also because his absence didn't shrink as I aged; it grew. Whenever I saw other kids with their fathers, it stung. When Father's Day rolled around year after year, it was a reminder that something was missing, no matter how much I used the day to praise and thank my mom. And the absence reached epic proportions when Kevin, Jessica's father and the man who lived with my mom and me for years left after he decided having a sick kid was too difficult for him.

I may not be a man, and I definitely don't want kids, but I will never be someone who turns their back on their family. Never.

Britney nods. "I can see how that would maybe make it easier but my parents… They've been so supportive of my transition and my wanting to come to Nevada for college. I just don't want them to feel like I'm letting them down."

"You know," I say, thinking on the spot. "You don't have to show your face to do this work. There are lots of anonymous sex workers. They do POV camera angles or they wear masks. You could think about that."

Britney pulls a face. "I've already started with showing my face. And I'm not stupid. I know it's one of my best features." She bats her thick eyelashes before giggling at herself. "And I just don't like keeping secrets. I kept my true gender a secret for so long, I refuse to go back in any boxes or hide who I really am again."

I nod, understanding on a cellular level. "I feel that," I say and we share a long moment of eye contact. "Your parents sound like they love you very much and I'm sure this won't change that. It may take some adjusting for them, but give them time and space to do so."

Britney nods. "I will. And I hope so."

"Okay, I really need to head home. I'm on cooking duties for my sister and mom." I pull my bag onto my back and make it clear I'm about to stand.

"You're too cute, El," Britney says. "And would it be okay if I texted before I called my parents? I just know I'll be all nervous and in my head and—"

"Of course you can," I say and put my hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you!" she says, her smile stretching her whole face.

"Oh, I think it will be a bit more than a month before our next hangout," I say. "I have XXXCon."

"Oh, yeah, should I be going to that? I looked at tickets. They seemed really expensive."

"No," I shake my head, "it's really not necessary for anyone, but especially if you're just starting out like you are. It will overwhelm you. Next year. That will be a better time to go, and if there is anything really interesting this year, I'll tell you about it."

Another face-stretching beam of a smile. "You're the best."

"You're welcome." I nod and gesture for her to lead the way toward the door. As she turns and I follow her out of the coffee shop, I feel a jolt of guilt settle clumsily in my stomach. A series of clear but disturbing thoughts fill my mind.

You shouldn't be helping her work in this industry. She's young – only twenty – and she's going to be opening herself up to so much abuse and transphobia. She's going to be fetishized and dehumanized. She's going to see the very worst of humankind. And she's going to do all of this while navigating the other challenges and struggles of online sex work – the stigma, the problematic creators, the exhaustion that can come from doing scene after scene with people who aren't good matches. Why am I helping her walk further down this path?

I push these thoughts aside as I hold the door open for Britney. She's going to do this work with or without my help. I may as well be somebody she can turn to when it gets hard. Because it will get hard.

"You know, you can call me any time you need to. This isn't easy work. It's not an easy life, even if the money is good and the flexibility is unrivaled. We still have to put up with a lot of shit."

Britney turns to me now we're outside. There's a cool, dry breeze in the air despite the sun shining brightly above us. "You think I haven't experienced a lot of shit in my life so far?" Her smile is still there, still broad and dazzling, but it's got an edge to it now. "You think I don't already put up with all sorts of crap? The way I see it, I may as well get paid to do it."

"But some things are worth more than money," I say pointedly. "Like your mental health."

"You're right," she says but then, still smiling, she shrugs. "But why do you think I'm doing this? If I don't get my gender reassignment surgery soon, I don't know what I'll do."

She sounds almost cheery saying it, but the light has faded in her eyes.

"And your parents, if they are so supportive, is there no way they could help you out financially? With the costs of your surgery?" I have to ask.

What shine was in her eyes fades completely. "My dad's right hand was crushed in a work accident three years ago. Their savings went on his medical bills. Well, some of them. They're still in a lot of debt. He can't do the work he used to do anymore and my mom is a teaching assistant. She barely makes enough to cover their mortgage and bills. I plan on helping them out by doing this too."

I absorb her words, her story and feel a heaviness settle in my gut. It's too relatable – that struggle, that difficulty at the hands of our healthcare system and capitalist society. Who am I to try and tell her she's doing the wrong thing when it's exactly the path I chose for my family, and have walked with great success. But before I can say anything, a little shimmer returns to her gaze along with a small smile and she's leaning over, leaving a kiss on my cheek and saying goodbye.

"Keep in touch," I say, and I watch her get to her car.

That sinking feeling in my stomach has only intensified as I watch her drive off, waving at me. I stand there for a long time, long after Britney has driven away, feeling rooted to the spot. I don't know what to do to shake the heaviness. I don't know who I can talk to.

I pull out my phone to message Maeve. Not to tell her about Britney or about the conflict I feel at helping her start a career in online sex work, but just to… just to make contact with her.

I pull out my phone, open up the app, and type.

Hey Maeve, hope you have a safe flight. I just wanted to say, talking with you was the highlight of my day. I'm looking forward to seeing you in Vegas.>

After I press Send I find my feet are still heavy, but I can move them. So I do. I walk to my car and drive home to my family, my very own reason for doing what I do.