Virtue

CHAPTER ONE

CANDICE: PREPARING FOR THE INTERVIEW

1983

New York City

No, I’m not a virgin, and no, I’m not a prude, but I have slept with only three men. The first was my husband. The second was the private investigator I hired to see if my husband was cheating. The third was my first one-night stand to see how it felt to have sex with a stranger. Anyway, that paltry number will most likely soar to three men a day as if it were a toothbrushing or vitamin regimen.

So here I sit, despite my weak résumé, doing research for my interviews reading Penthouse Forum articles, if you can call them articles, along with a slew of other magazines wrapped in cellophane. My mouth is slack-jawed with astonishment; I feel like I just fell off the sexual hay truck. What the hell is infantilism?

My first interview is tonight with André. He’s the concierge at The Regal, a renowned five-star hotel in Manhattan. André will be in charge of all of my appointments if I get the job as the in-house call girl. If all goes well, I get passed on to Robert, the owner of The Regal, the following evening. And if he approves, I proceed to the final interview with a regular client named Conner whose turn-on is humiliation. He masochist, me sadist.

The girl I’ll be replacing has been a patient teacher and friend encouraging me with a You can do this mantra and having me respond with I think I can, I think I can optimism. She even took me shopping for the get-ups I would need for each interview. For André, she picked lingerie a bride would wear on her wedding night. Sexy, yet classic. For Robert, she chose a French maid outfit complete with black fishnet stockings and patent leather stilettos. I was fine with both ensembles.

Now comes the juicy part. My outfit for the masochist. Head to toe leather. Even the leash is leather. My thigh-high black boots have four-inch heels and I’ll be lucky if I can pass the hour without falling on my face made up with smoky eyes and burgundy lips. The only time I dressed up was on Halloween or when I would sneak my brother’s little league uniform out of the Salvation Army bag and pretend I was a baseball player, which I would’ve preferred to the tutu I wore as a ballerina enduring the first, second and third positions of torture.

My mentor offered advice for each interview: André is a gentleman. He’s going to study you the way an art collector would appraise a painting. (Translation: Would men be willing to spend five Benjamins for an hour of your time?) If he likes the painting, he’ll pass it on to Robert. Now Robert is a man’s man. On the outside he seems like John Wayne, rough and tough around the edges, but he’s really no different than the average Joe wanting worship and adoration. Just behave in awe at all of his Dale Carnegie accomplishments and you’ll have him wrapped around your finger in a New York minute, which is exactly how long it will take him to climax. Both André and Robert are vanilla ice cream sex. Conner’s a different story. Treat him like a dog who just chewed up your designer stilettos.

I felt confident about André and Robert, but Conner had me anxious, no, terrified. What in God’s name was I thinking? It’s not like I announced at the family dinner table, When I grow up, I want to be a prostitute. I remember wanting to be a princess, perhaps a teacher, and most of all, just like Mommy. I took the high road. It just didn’t work out.

CHAPTER TWO

SUSAN: CHARM SCHOOL

Neither of my parents were dentists, yet I was molded as a child to make a perfect impression. Even my name made a statement: Susan Rose Wendall Dixon, born August 19, 1960. You didn’t need the proverbial pot to pee in if your descendants had a pot at any given time. Our family did have the pot and we were considered wealthy and privileged amongst the society in Atlanta and Richmond.

I was the perfect little girl expected to keep her knees crossed and reputation unscathed. My physical characteristics were WASP storybook: blond hair, blue eyes, long legs, porcelain skin, and an upturned nose. Every childhood photo is picture perfect with a bow in my straight hair, a dainty dress, and white lacey anklets above black patent leather Mary Janes. I looked like my mother who was the spitting image of Grace Kelly, but I was my father on the inside.

Thomas Dixon was shrewd, into power, and you never knew what he was thinking, a poker player without any tells. You could see people respected him and were even a little intimidated by his quiet but resolved demeanor. My father inherited his father’s business, basically acquiring as much land as possible and waiting for all the right moments to buy, sell, or build, ensuring tidy profits. My grandfather did most of the acquiring and my father sat back, collected the rent, played golf, poker, and drank his three fingers of bourbon. My mother joined, or should I say was asked to be in all the right clubs making her the Brooke Astor of Atlanta.

I was raised with a formula requiring me to stay inside the lines at all times. Charm school, private schools, exclusive country clubs, an introduction to society, tennis, horseback riding, golf, and mixing with the right people were the staples of the formula.

Emily Post wrote the bible on proper manners and behavior, and all future debutantes took classes teaching them etiquette and charm. Debutantes know the right fork to use and would never be caught speaking in a loud manner. To ensure this, we would hold a lit candle six inches in front of our lips. Our teachers prodded, Now girls, when you speak you should do so in a controlled manner. Not too loud, not too quiet. The flame should not even flicker if you are controlling your air flow. Think Jackie Kennedy with that soft-spoken, almost whispered way of talking, as if she were inhaling instead of exhaling each word. Foul language or as they say in the South, cussing, was forbidden, no exceptions.

When you sit down, you should approach the seat, whether it is a sofa, chair, or tree stump, in a slow-motion maneuver so you don’t plop down. Once you’re seated, don’t get too comfortable and lean back into the cushions. Instead, sit closer to the edge so you can either cross your legs at the knee or the ankles.

My favorite charm school subject was how to be a lady when it came to the opposite sex. Young ladies were permitted to smile, but not ear to ear, at a potential beau to show her interest. Calling a boy, making a first move, or any other form of aggression was considered crass. Quite simply, the ball is never in the girl’s court and men control every shot. Any form of flirtation should be subtle and only after the boy has shown an interest in you, and if you are not interested, don’t give him false hope. It seems like our persnickety instructor must have said, "Never forget, a lady’s reputation precedes her," a thousand times followed by pursed lips and raised brows.

I was allowed to start dating when I turned sixteen, and the boys I went out with knew their limits with our station of girls. There was an unspoken code of nothing below the neck and no hickies. So if a girl was at all curious and sexually adventurous, she had to sneak out with a boy from the wrong side of town, like Jimmy. Of course, I was caught by my parents and lectured with, "We know nothing about this boy, who his family is, and for all we know he doesn’t have your best intentions in mind," and the worst was, He is not in your class. You would’ve thought I went out with Charles Manson.

My grandmother would present me to society in my seventeenth year. Debutante balls started in England with families of aristocracy, where young women suitable for marriage were presented to the court for families with young men to observe. Kind of like going to car dealerships and taking the one you like out for a spin. It’s more than just an evening of dining and dancing, but rather the culmination of years of training to be refined, cultured, well spoken, and graceful. The young men in attendance were in my class.

My experience with boys was extremely limited and I never did sneak out with Jimmy for more kisses. There were no dates ending up in the back seat, no proverbial rolls in the hay at the stables, and the only erection I’d ever seen was on a horse. Imagine my disappointment down the road with Homo sapiens. My mother had the same talk with me that her mother had with her. I remember her telling me never to sit on a boy’s lap, never to sit on a public toilet, never to use a tampon until after I was married (implying one could lose their virginity to absorbent packed cotton), and boys only wanted one thing and would say anything to get it. Once girls gave in, the boy never called again, and then they told all their friends. Before you knew it, everyone would start looking at you differently with sideway glances and whispers. It would be just like the Amish shunning one of their own.

Only bad girls, common girls, or white trash gave their most prized possession away for free. The worst part were the guys at my school who openly bragged about their promiscuity with the girls from the public high school. They had no problem climbing into the back seat of a Cutlass Supreme or a GTO. This made them cool and would never tarnish their reputations. Not all girls stayed the course. The Weston’s daughter was sent away to an all girls' boarding school up north as if that would allow her to escape the shame of succumbing to teenage lust. She may be away from home, but her reputation stayed behind and mothers loved to use her saga as a harsh reminder of the importance of virtue.

One piece of advice has stayed with me to this day: I have never sat on a public toilet.

CHAPTER THREE

CANDICE: MARATHON MAN

It’s hard to believe an entire year has gone by, yet the cash and clients keep coming. The most interesting part is the diversity. I juggle many hats meeting the needs of my clients because believe it or not, the psychological side of prostitution proves way more demanding than the physical. I don’t know what most people think when they imagine the life of a prostitute, but it’s probably closer to my former perception: a teenaged junkie walking the streets in a slutty getup looking for her next john to come along so she can jump in his car for a quick blow job and earn enough for her fix. How ironic that the oldest profession started the convenience of drive-thru.

Unfortunately, there are girls like that walking the streets, but my career is on a separate plane, sometimes even on a plane. I reside in the luxurious penthouse suite at The Regal with maid service, gourmet meals, a clothing allowance, medical and dental insurance, and my own car and driver. Uncle Sam thinks I’m the in-house decorator, so I get to screw him, too. My next client is due in ten minutes and like a girl scout, I am prepared. He is a regular.

Brian is a coked out rock star…an exhausting client because he goes at it for hours before climaxing. My nickname for him is Marathon Man, but he pays extremely well and thinks nothing of tipping five grand in addition to his fee of two grand. He would love me to join him in his hundred-dollar-bill-straw-habit, but I’ve never been tempted to even sample a drug that leads to addiction. He goes on binges where he doesn’t sleep or eat for days and the bags under his eyes look like dark plump pillows for his eyeballs. He also slurps down vodka martinis and swears there’s no better combination than cocaine and alcohol as if it were the yin and the yang.

Our sessions remind me of kindergarten. First you finger paint, wash up, and take a little snack break before moving on to the next activity. Then you have music time followed by a fifteen-minute rest period with the lights dimmed clutching your favorite blankie. Brian has a few lines, gets undressed, screws for twenty minutes, takes a martini break, rambles on about his band mates, screws for another twenty minutes, snorts a few more lines, and the process repeats until he finally climaxes.

He likes me to play the innocent, gullible virgin. That makes me stand apart from his typical punk-rock female fans. I wear a white silk charmeuse gown edged in lace that a nervous bride-to-be would wear on her wedding night. My demeanor is shy and star struck. Brian prefers to coax me into sleeping with him after years of women frantically throwing themselves at him in a frenzied state. His world is like feeding time in a fish tank; as soon as the fish see the sprinkled food hit the water, they come rushing up like it was the last supper. So far, I’ve had front row seats for two of his concerts, which I must say, have been fantastic. With Brian, I wear the hat of lost innocence.

CHAPTER FOUR

SUSAN: HARVARD MEN

It was time for me to leave for college and my parents chose Smith, an all women’s school in Massachusetts. Like every other aspect of my life, I was entering a world of privilege, elitism, and would be surrounded by girls of the same caliber. There was not much discussion about what I wanted to achieve academically, but my parents did point out Harvard was nearby and it was very common for those ivy-leagued men to seek out Smith girls. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to major in, but I knew I wanted a successful career that would earn me independence. I wanted to conquer the world and show everyone I wasn’t just looking for a Mrs. degree. I even considered becoming an airline pilot, but who was I kidding. I barely made a C in high school physics.

My roommate, Abigail Holden White, was arranged by my parents. Abby was from Richmond, Virginia, and my maternal grandmother said she came from a very nice family, very nice meaning pedigree and buckets of money. She arrived before me and when I walked into the dorm room, she immediately started laughing at my preppy clothes. I stank of preppy from head to toe with my button-down shirt, khaki skirt, and espadrilles. She had on a pair of well-faded blue jeans and a tie dye t-shirt with strappy sandals. Abby said to me, It’s okay to change clothes now, Susan. Your parents have left the premises, or even better, the state of Massachusetts.

My suitcases only have more packed ‘preppy,’ sorry to say. Button-downs in every color of the rainbow and I think my panties have the days of the week. Pretty pathetic, hah? It was instant friendship and off we went shopping for jeans and T-shirts followed by greasy pizza and beer. And then came the Harvard Boys.

I was ready to break out of my virginity mold. There was only one problem. Every guy reminded me of the same jerks I grew up with: preppy, stuck-up, arrogant, cocky, entitled, and better looking than most of the women. I wanted someone different. I would know it when I saw it, but in the meantime, I wasn’t hopping into bed with Mr. Big Man on Campus. He would have to be charismatic, but not the loudest one in the room. He needed a sense of humor but not at the expense of others. And he needed to respect me as his equal in every department.

I was getting asked out and it seemed like my dates all fell into the same category. You went out to breakfast, tailgated before the game, watched your date become inebriated sipping from his sterling silver monogrammed flask, took a nap before the evening party, and then watched your date get even further intoxicated while trying to get you drunk enough to go all the way with no recollections when you woke up the next morning. That was not how I had envisioned losing my virginity. It’s not like I was waiting for a knight to come riding up on a white horse, but it would be nice if he knew the color of my eyes, my favorite movie, and that I was scared of horses, so nix the whole white horse idea anyway.

During my junior year, I was fixed up on a blind date with a senior from Harvard named Jeff Walker. My grandmother made the arrangements and made it seem like I was doing this young man a favor, for he’d recently lost his father and was feeling blue. So I reluctantly agreed to my first blind date. I would do anything for my grandmother.

My first impression of Jeff was that he had a nice smile and one of those faces oozing with sincerity. He was tall, about 6’2, with dark-brown wavy hair and a lean but muscular build. His deep-set green eyes held an intensity when he looked at you, but when he smiled or laughed, his eyes would take on this playful twinkle.

On our first date, Jeff took me to dinner to a seafood restaurant known for its great oysters, chowder, and beer. I couldn’t believe I was having such a good time, expecting him to be like all the others. I felt an immediate physical attraction and if I hadn’t been raised with so many rules, I could easily have seen myself making the first move. I would catch myself staring at his lips imagining what type of kisser he would be, and I think Jeff noticed to my embarrassment. This guy was not an open book and I felt like I was going to have to get to know him one chapter at a time, but so far I liked the cover. We went for a walk after dinner and then he drove me back to my sorority house and walked me to the door. He said he would like to call me again and I said I would like that very much. Then he leaned over and gave me a soft peck on the cheek. I felt like Mary Tyler Moore. (Her dates never made it past the door after the brotherly peck.) I ran into the house looking for Abby, who was my Rhoda, to tell her all about my blind date.

Jeff did call, three days later, and it took everything to keep my composure. I had jumped every time the phone rang hoping it was him, and when it finally was, trying to act nonchalant was no easy task. He invited me out again; this time to a party one of his friends was giving Saturday night. I spent the next two days agonizing over what to wear, how to do my hair, and basically acting like a teenybopper going on her first date. What was the matter with me? Where was the girl that made most men shake in their boots? Was that a pimple on my cheek?

Now I knew I was falling apart and Abby came to my rescue. She practically shook me to death and told me to get a hold of myself. She reminded me I was the ice queen who never wore her heart on her sleeve, that I could handle any guy, even if he was a future king, senator, or the wealthiest man in the world. Then she gave me the simple advice of, Just be yourself, and if you want him to fall in love with you, he will. Guys drool over you, Susan. Remember, you’re in control. Easy for Abby to say; she had met her Don Juan and was totally in lust and love. This was the first guy I really liked and Saturday night couldn’t come sooner.

The party centered around the crew team members and now I understood the muscles on my Popeye. We really hadn’t touched on the subject of his father passing in any detail on our first date, other than me offering my condolences, so I asked him how his mother was faring. Jeff didn’t answer me right away, and sensing I’d touched a nerve made me sorry to have asked such an invasive question. When he finally did respond, he acted somewhat blasé.

I guess she’s okay, but I’m sure she has her difficult moments. They were married for 25 years, but they each had their own interests and led separate lives. What could I say? Jeff was pretty much telling me his parents didn’t have a great marriage. I didn’t ask any more questions.

He introduced me around and his teammates seemed to be very respectful to me as well as to Jeff. I noticed he stood back just a little, didn’t really look for attention, yet people seemed drawn to Jeff, almost like they wanted his seal of approval. Usually I’m not a big drinker, especially the hard stuff, but I wanted to take the edge off and welcomed a few shots of Jack Daniels trying to mask the flush and bite of tossing one back. I knew to be careful, because with my upbringing, girls didn’t get sloppy drunk. It was okay to get tight, as Hemingway referred to the initial stages of inebriation.

Jeff and I mingled at the party, somehow sensing we didn’t need to be joined at the hip and could hold our own, but when I would search the room for Jeff’s presence, I would find him looking over at me with a slight smile and I loved the fact he was keeping an eye on me even though he seemed deeply engaged in conversation. Bottom line, I had fun and thought he did, too. He drove me home and this time he embraced me at the door with gingerly kisses leaving me longing for more. His lips felt so soft and his kiss was gentle and caressing, unlike the guys who tried to force their tongues down your throat as if they were taking a culture. I didn’t realize the guy could be a tease.

Jeff phoned early Sunday morning suggesting a bike ride and picnic. He brought a backpack filled with turkey sandwiches, apples, and white wine. The cherry blossoms and dogwoods were just starting to bloom along with the tulips and paper whites. Everyone was out and about, playing Frisbee, studying on blankets, and showing all the signs of spring fever. We bicycled for an hour to a small park off campus that wasn’t as crowded and spread out a blanket in a sunny spot with some privacy. Jeff uncorked the wine and made a toast, To eternal spring, and to a perfect day with a perfect girl.

I think Adam made the same toast to Eve, and look what happened to them, I teased.

Well, I bought the apples from the market which means they were picked by somebody else. I think we’re safe. Jeff drank from his wine and changed from sitting Indian style to lying down on his side facing me. I was still sitting up and Jeff took my hand and said, Come down here with me. My wine glass was shaking in my hand. Jeff must have noticed because he took the glass from me and set it on the grass and then he pulled me closer to him. He was silent, staring into my eyes and rubbing my back. Finally, he began kissing me and it was me that showed my desire by kissing him more deeply and opening my mouth to welcome his tongue and gently tease him with mine. He was a kissing artist, thank God, because there are some things that can’t be taught, not even at Harvard.

You’re an amazing woman, Suzie. Do your family and friends call you Susan or Suzie?

My dad calls me Suzie sometimes, usually when he’s in a playful mood. My Mom only calls me Susan. But I like you calling me Suzie. Who was I kidding? He could call me George if he wanted as long as he kept calling.

So Suzie, tell me a story about you. Where did you learn to kiss so well?

Believe me, it wasn’t at charm school. I practiced on my pillow every night after I said my prayers and promised to be a good girl. What about you, how did you learn to kiss like a prince?

Jennifer Dalton taught me every trick in the book in the first grade. I would walk her home from school and we’d hide behind this really big oak tree on her front lawn and she’d say to me, ‘No, Jeff, not like that. You have to pucker your lips up like this and it has to make a smacking sound.’ I think Jennifer gets all the credit. With that, Jeff puckered up and laid a smacker on my equally puckered up lips. Then we gave into our other hunger and devoured the turkey sandwiches. We both had exams coming up, so we rode back and found a big tree to hide behind for a kiss good-bye that would’ve taken Mary Tyler Moore off the air.

I felt like I was walking on a cloud with a perpetual smile on my face. Abby teased me and said the world could end tomorrow and I’d still be glowing. It was really hard to get my head into studying and I would read and reread the same page without an ounce of comprehension. I kept thinking about not whether I’d lose my virginity to Jeff, but when? I mean, what were the rules? Was it okay to go ahead after three dates, or did you have to wait for the exchange of I love you’s? Would I lose my status as a nice girl if I let him have me this soon? In the meantime, Jeff went silent.

I agonized for two lengthy weeks for his call. Did I do something wrong? I replayed our last date over in my head looking for some clue to cause his sudden disinterest and came up empty. I was head over heels and it never occurred to me it could be one-sided, but perhaps I was falling too fast and scaring Jeff away. When he finally did call, I wasn’t even sure how to act. If I acted annoyed, it would show him I cared and I didn’t want to give him that power. If I acted excited to hear from him, then I was acting like a doormat and basically giving him permission to ignore me again. So I stayed somewhere in the middle, remembering Abby’s advice about being in control.

He asked me how I’d been and my only response was, Good, but busy. I didn’t ask how he had been. After an awkward silence, Jeff said he needed to see me tomorrow evening. We agreed on a time and that was that. I don’t think I slept a wink that night. I just kept playing out one imagined scenario after the next until it was time to get up for classes. I zombied through the day and rushed home to prepare for his arrival.

He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek, a controlled smile, and suggested we go for a walk. I grabbed a sweater and changed into tennis shoes. At first we were quiet and then Jeff opened up about why he didn’t call. He went home to Richmond to help settle his father’s affairs and it was very difficult and emotional. Jeff didn’t have the greatest relationship with his father who was extremely overbearing and his mother never helped matters because she was afraid to stand up to him. It didn’t matter Jeff was the captain of the crew team and a straight A student at Harvard. He told me he thought it would bring closure packing up his father’s belongings.

I remember thinking I’d feel better with my father out of my life and putting his shit in boxes would help me realize the asshole was actually dead, but I found myself getting more hostile with each shirt, tie, basically everything he wore on his bully-of-a-body. It felt like I was having a temper tantrum at twenty-one that had been brewing since I was five. The only thing that calmed me down was thinking about you. I wasn’t even sure how to deal with my hatred for him and falling in love with you. I didn’t call because I was afraid I’d scare you off, and here I just spilled my guts so I’m probably scaring you off anyway.

On one hand I was relieved because Jeff did feel the same way I felt for him. On the other hand, I felt sorry for Jeff and was a little taken aback by his intensity, but at the same time, I wanted to grab him and never let go. If he needed my strength, he could have it. So I didn’t say anything. Instead, I took Jeff into my arms and held him close enough to feel his heart beating through his chest. I whispered into his ear, Jeff, I want to make love with you. He pulled back and looked at me with focused unblinking eyes and then looked around the area.

Jeff silently took my hand and walked us off the path into a more privately wooded area where he made a bed with his jacket and shirt. It all seemed so natural, so meant to be, as we slowly undressed each other, eager to explore for the first time. I’d thought I was going to be more nervous, but it was Jeff who was trembling. He treated my body like a treasure map, exploring and following a path so sensual, I found myself quivering at his touch, before he had even entered me.

The pain was similar to getting slapped in the face where you have the instant shock of a sharp pain followed by stinging sensations. I must have grimaced when Jeff penetrated me, and I could tell he realized I was a virgin because he hesitated ever so slightly and gave me this intense look before asking if I was okay. I answered with a smile, reached to kiss away his concerns and pulled him back to me. When it was over, Jeff told me he wished he’d known because he would’ve been gentler. I told him I never expected it to happen this way and there wasn’t really a moment to say anything. I let it happen because it felt right.

Jeff held me close and whispered, I never want to forget this moment. You’ve made me the happiest and luckiest man in the world and I don’t think I can ever let go of you. Jeff didn’t let