Secrets of a Webcam Girl by Annabelle T. Baxter

Author:Annabelle T. Baxter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Inc.
Published: 2013-04-22T00:00:00+00:00

31

HIS SOULMATE

I had a client who said I reminded him of his wife. His dead wife. And I assumed, because he was in his mid-sixties and she had just passed, that my similarity was to her in her younger days. Perhaps he remembered her that way.

After he retired, they fulfilled a life-long desire to buy a home in Mexico to spend the winters. His wife developed a liver disease and swiftly declined. Getting clearance from her doctors to go to Mexico with family, her condition took a sudden turn and she died there. He subsequently sold the Mexican home.

“She was conservative, but she had her navel pierced,” he said as he looked at my pierced belly button while I massaged his legs. Body rubs seemed a new thing for him because he was bashful at first, leaving his underwear on, until encouraged otherwise. “I used to buy really nice ones for her. Nice jewels. It was our thing,” he said, now staring at the ceiling.

It had been less than a year since his wife passed away. He said he wasn’t ready to date and, with his daughter moving on, things at home were awfully quiet.

He was an easy client, one whose session went by quickly, one who seemed appreciative of any level of contact. He touched me tentatively, like one approaching a jellyfish with a stick.

He generally came to see me every month or so. Then, one day, he booked again after seeing me just a week prior, on short notice—very unlike him.

He hugged me for longer than usual. Then he gave me the money and, instead of undressing, he paused and said, “I have an unusual request.”

“Go ahead. I get a lot of those,” I said.

“Instead of a massage, can we get a drink? Perhaps an appetizer if you’re hungry? It won’t take any longer than an hour. I promise.”

I don’t drink with clients. But this was the Sweet Widower. He didn’t want me, he wanted his wife. Given that, I agreed. Besides, the thought of going out for a drink was more appealing after a long day of appointments.

We drove to one of my favorite restaurants, a wine bar with amazing tapas, located a few minutes from my studio. It was his anniversary and he was having a hard time. He barely drank his wine and picked at the bacon-wrapped apricots.

I listened to him talk about his wife and realized how lucky he was to have had such a love. I haven’t come close to that type of relationship. I often am privy to the disgruntled end of marriages. Growing up gave me a myopic—and torturous—view of “staying together for the kids.” Still married, separate bedrooms, now just torturing themselves.

When the hour was more than up, I really had to leave. I had plans with a new Boy Friday and wanted to clock out as Body Rub Girl. Sweet Widower got up and I told him I could walk back to the studio. He still hadn’t finished his drink or food and looked rather comfy relaxing in an overstuffed leather chair.

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