Chapter 9

I swallowed my pride and began pounding the pavement looking for a job... any job. But I had no luck, despite the modesty of my ambitions.

Jason had been wrong about potential employers lining up for my services because I'd worked for S.E.X. On the contrary, the minute anybody heard about my background as a sex researcher, they immediately decided I wasn't appropriate for their company, and crossed me off their list.

Finally I asked a guy who seemed more honest than some of the others what my problem was.

"It's simple," he said frankly. "A business can't take a chance on somebody as controversial as you. When word got out that you were supposed to know everything about sex, all the other employees would start coming to you with their problems. Either that, or trying to proposition you so they could brag they'd balled the sex expert. You might be able to fight it at first, but once the lid was off the ultimate results would be inevitable. It would turn the place upside down." After that, I swallowed an even greater hunk of pride, and tried to conceal that I'd ever worked at S.E.X. However, that ploy proved to be even more of a disaster than the truth, since it left me with no previous job experience to point to. And nobody's willing to hire some dumb housewife who doesn't know how to do anything.

Then, one day when I was at the end of my rope, I saw something in the Help Wanted section that made me wonder if I was dreaming. Just as I'd originally seen the ad for S.E.X. in the newspaper, I now saw one that said, "Attractive women under 35 with professional background in sex needed. Ability to communicate absolutely necessary.

This seemed like the break I needed. The ad seemed to have been written with me specifically in mind. This was one job I was certain I could get. Changing into my smartest outfit, I jumped in the car and headed into town for the address given in the paper. I was surprised that the place was located in such a tacky part of the city, but went inside anyway with my optimism still brimming.

There was no receptionist, or any other of the usual professional trappings. The guy I was supposed to talk to was the only one around, and he was parked in the middle of a dingy office that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in months.

When I told him I'd come about the ad, he told me to sit down. Then, while I waited, he handled about six calls in a row as the phone practically rang off the hook At least, I hopefully concluded, despite the modest surroundings, he seemed to be running a going concern.

"Shit," he finally spat after the half-dozenth call, "I'll have to take the goddamn phone off the hook if I'm ever gonna talk to you. Fucking customers'll drive you nuts in this, business-wanting this, wanting that." Needless to say, he was about as far from Jason Evans as he could be.

His name was Mike DeLucca, and he told me he was in charge of everything. After I'd introduced myself, I carefully inquired what "everything" might be.

"You read my ad, didn't you, honey?" "Yes." "Then you ought to know the story."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd explain in your own words," I quietly insisted.

"Sex, honey, sex," he said as though he were addressing a retarded child. "Do you want me to spell it out for you? S-E-X." "DO you mean like research?" I asked hopefully. "Something scientific?" That pole-axed him with laughter. I couldn't have been more astonished if he'd pulled a gun on me.

Finally I reclaimed my wits sufficiently to say, "I beg your pardon?" He stopped laughing and looked at me like I'd just stepped out of a flying saucer. "Say, you're really on the level, aren't you?" he asked incredulously.

"Of course." "Okay, then," he said. "There's no point in wasting any more of my time or yours. I'll give it to you straight, and it's up to you to take it from there. If you want the job, I'll tell you in advance it's yours." I was suddenly tlinging with a combination of anticipation and fear. At last somebody was offering me work, but I was afraid to hear what it was.

"I'm running a hooker-shop here," he bluntly informed me. "The world's oldest profession. Whores. You interested, baby? It pays two bills every week." Now the meaning of the ad in the paper became clear.

Mike DeLucca made it even clearer. "I can tell even through those clothes you're wearing that you got a body a lot of men will pay plenty to fuck. All you'll have to do is show up where you're told, talk nice to them, and spread your legs when they show you the long green." My mind reeled from his proposition. From sex researcher to hooker had been about the last thing on my mind. Yet, it was the only opportunity for gainful employment presented to me since I'd left S.E.X.