Crisis Management

She was in the bathroom for quite a while it seemed. When she came out, she looked more composed. It was also immediately apparent what the meant by a treat--she was dressed in a smoldering hot French maid costume. It was dancewear of the kind they sell in adult bookstores intended to spice up marriages, but it was better quality than some and so it didn't look like a cheap Halloween costume. It was black with a squared-off neckline that showed ample cleavage, a very short skirt puffed out with a very visible white ruffle-thing, and silk stockings--real ones, with the line up the back and held up with straps by an as-yet unseen garter belt. I sprang an instant woody.

"Wow," I said slowly.

"I thought you might like it. My ex always did."

As she moved to start the boom box, my head was spinning. Ex? Ex-what? Again, she was wearing no ring--one might have assumed she meant ex-boyfriend, but perhaps she really meant ex-husband.

The music started in and she started to perform. I say perform and not dance, because she made no effort to keep in time with the music. Instead, she was just trying to tease me; slinking in front of me, giving me peeks of this and that then snatching them away from view. She seemed much more natural just teasing me with her considerable assets rather than trying to be a stripper. This was a hundred times hotter than that canned routine she had been doing.

She bent over, shoving the ruffled ass in my face, and pretended to dust my shoes. She squeezed her cheeks alternately, and the insides of her thighs tensed with each pulse. I could just imagine her sitting herself down on my erection. Oh, man.

She put down the duster and slapped her cheeks playfully. Then still bent over, but looking back at me sideways, she undid one of the snaps holding up her stockings, then the other. My dick felt like it was going to burst through my fly. Then she turned to face me and bent her right leg, planting her black pump right next to my thigh. Then she sensually unsnapped the other garter and slowly ran the stockings down her leg, gathering them as she went until they were neatly rolled up at her ankle. She ran her fingers up the leg and back down again, as if the lovely, shapely stalk wasn't able to call enough attention to itself. Then she lifted the leg and hovered it right in front of my face, pointing the toe down. And she held it there. Or at least, it felt like she was holding it there. In fact, it seemed like she was waiting for something--what? I glanced up at her; she was watching me--another noticeable change from prior performances. It felt even more like she was waiting for me to do...something. What?

My heart was thumping. I'm sure it made the passage of time feel even that much slower than it was. But I felt like I was being expected to do something, and she was waving the leg in my face until I did it. So I did the only thing I could think to do. I gently kissed the inside of her calf.

Maybe that was it, because she started moving again. She planted the other leg, and put the left up next to me. She unsnapped the garter, but in my peripheral vision I could see her lips pursed tightly. She reached for the stocking and started to gather it, but no sooner had she started than I heard a sniffle. A split second later, the floodgates opened. She bolted for the bathroom, trying to hide the fact that she was bawling her eyes out.

My dick got soft faster than a pricked balloon (sorry about the pun). I really blew it, I thought. I'm no strip club aficionado, but even I know you're not supposed to touch the talent. I remembered how concerned for her safety she'd been the first time she came; I'd finally gotten her to feel comfortable and really give me a memorable show, and now I'd blown it by kissing her leg. Now the girl that starred in every single one of my fantasies was bawling in my bathroom. Nice going.

I sat there for a few minutes, berating myself. I expected to see her fly out of there like a bat out of hell, but she didn't; she seemed to be holed up in my bathroom instead.Do something, you idiot, I yelled at myself. What?I dunno, but don't just sit there like a dumb-ass doing nothing and then regret it forever. She's still here... this is your only chance. And so with absolutely no idea what I was going to do, I got up and headed towards the bathroom.

I paused outside the door. I could hear sobbing coming from inside. The door was closed, or at least as far as my bathroom door closes. The lock hasn't lined up for years; since I live alone and work all the time, I've never made any attempt to fix it. Maybe she had tried to lock it and maybe she hadn't, but either way when I gently touched the door it opened easily.

Slowly, deliberately, I eased the door open. I made noise to make sure that she knew the door was opening. When it was half open, I peeked my head in gingerly. She was sitting in a ball at the foot of the john, with her left leg tucked under her chin and gripped firmly with both arms as she wept. She was so miserable still wasn't sure she knew I was there. In slow motion, I eased the door open the rest of the way, then crept in with an exaggerated tiptoe. I stopped about halfway in, where I leaned against the sink. Her bawling scaled back to sobs; I felt like she was attending to my being there without wanting to lift her head.

"I'm sorry," I said softly, eyes to the ground. "I shouldn't have done that."

"Don't apologize," she sniffed at length, "you didn't do anything. I'm the one that should be apologizing."

"I...I kissed your leg," I protested, "I'm not supposed to touch you..."

"Pfft," she interrupted. "I don't have a problem with you kissing my leg. But I was stupid...I shouldn't have worn this outfit. I...I used wear this and dance for my husband. When you kissed my leg..." there was a pause as a fresh wave of tears welled up "it was exactly the way HE used to..."

I waited, letting her cry. "I take it you recently separated, or divorced?" I asked gently.

"If only it were that simple," she complained bitterly. I remained silent, hoping she would elaborate. After a time, she added "the last three months have been hell. I knew my life was pretty good, but I didn't know how good until it all started falling apart. It's unbelievable how quickly it's all unraveled."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Brianna," I blurted, trying to imagine what she might all be referring to.

She whirled toward me, black mascara streaks down her cheeks. "What did you say?" she demanded.

I was caught off guard. What DID I say? What, was she some kind of psycho? "I said I'm sorry?" I said defensively.

"No," she persisted with a tone approaching panic, "you said I'm sorry, BRIANNA. How did you know my real name?"

Oops. Lost in my thoughts, I had slipped and called her Brianna instead of Tiffany. "Ah. Yes, well...you don't remember me, do you? Well, I used to work out over lunch hour at that gym over on 53rd. I used to see you there almost every day. Then all of a sudden you just stopped coming."

"Yeah, that was me," she snorted sarcastically, burying her face again. "That was one of the first things to go. God, that gym seems like a million years ago now."

"What happened?" I asked.

"Let's see..." she answered savagely, "what happened. Well, first I lost my job. I was an account manager at Layman Financial. When the mortgage market crashed, all of us doing investment banking were suddenly billions in debt. The government stepped in to save all the other investment banks, but for some reason they just let us go down in flames. Five thousand employees just in my office, and all of us out of work overnight."

"Oh," I said sympathetically.

"At first I wasn't too worried. I figured I was one of the lucky ones. My husband was a vice president at a major hedge fund, I was sure we could live on his income at least for a while and barely notice the difference. I thought maybe it was even a sign, that maybe it was time to start a family or something. And then one day he just didn't come home from work. He sent a courier to the house with a message--I can still remember exactly that it said:

Dearest Brianna:

I'm sorry that it has to end this way. I shall always love you, and believe me that I really didn't want this to end, especially like this. But with today's economic crisis, many things have suddenly changed. I must leave this country at once; I will be returning to Brazil, starting over. I wish that I could bring you with me, but I am afraid it cannot be so. I shall always cherish the time we had together. I hope that you will find someone else that will love you as much as I did.

Love and sadness,

Paolo

"Ouch," I added.

"I was devastated. What the hell was he talking about? He had a green card, why did he suddenly have to leave the country? He hadn't given me any indication that there were even any problems. In the next few days the pieces of the puzzle started filling in. Eventually it was all over the news: the company he worked for was a giant lie, the biggest Ponzi scheme in history. Criminal and civil charges were filed against company officers, including Paolo. Since he was probably going to be on the hook for recouping some of what investors lost, I was informed that all of our assets were frozen. They said I could keep living in our house, but I couldn't sell any of the furnishings or access our savings. Not that there was much savings left, mind you. He left most of his stuff, maybe packed like he would for a business trip, but he DID manage to withdraw most of the money we had in the bank. " she spat. " A lot of that was MINE!"

"Wow," I said.

"So my dearest husband turned out to be a coward that skipped the country rather than face the music, leaving me with all these bills and no way to pay. I sold my wedding rings to pay the first month's mortgage but with no job and our assets frozen I had nothing else I could sell to pay the bills. And the bills kept coming, and coming, and coming. I had no idea how much we had in credit card debt. I had to make minimum payments or the interest rate would triple. I was desperate--I applied to a hundred jobs in a week. Useless--everyone was laying off, nobody was hiring! It got so bad that one day I actually clicked on the banner ad on the job site that said 'Ladies, make $3,000 a week exotic dancing.' That's how I ended up with City Deluxe. I thought, I'm in good shape, I can probably handle doing a little dancing. But when they sent me to observe this other girl--it wasn't just dancing, it was like prostitution. Officially it was just dancing, but in reality if the girl wasn't following that up by giving blowjobs on the side, the customers would complain." She sniffled. "I did three gigs. The first two were for you. Then I did a bachelor party last Saturday--I could tell they weren't too excited about my show, and really weren't too happy when I wouldn't suck them off. I guess they must have complained, because in Tuesday's mail I received a letter saying I had been terminated."

"I used to think I was a hotshot account manager," she wailed, unable to hold back the tears much longer, "instead I'm not even good enough to keep a job whose only requirement taking off my clothes! I don't have the money for the mortgage, and so it's only a matter of time before the bank starts foreclosing andI end up out on the street..." She broke down into full-scale crying.

It was no wonder she was so upset. It broke my heart to hear her story, and yet at the same time it made my heart leap just because she was telling it to ME, up until now a stranger. I guess there's a lot to be said about being at the right place at the right time. "You don't have the right attitude to be a stripper," I said quietly, "...and that's a good thing."

When she was able to choke out words, she said "how do you figure?"

"Strippers," I declared, "I think they view men as pathetic. They think like, all you need to do is a little of this and a little of that and we fall over ourselves to give you all of our money. To be successful as an escort, you have to view men as your own stupid little playthings. You can't think of it like, I'm sucking dicks for money; you have to think of it like, men are dumb Neanderthals that can be led around by the little head, and if you played with our penises long enough we'll do anything you want." She was silent. "You don't think like that; you don't depersonalize men, and you don't want to be objectified yourself. Being an escort was never going to be a good fit for you."

"Great," she said sarcastically, "so I'm not cynical enough to be a stripper. Fat lot of good that does me."

"So what do you need right now?"

"What do I need?" she replied in near hysterics, "whatdon't I need? Someplace to live might be a good place to start..."

"No, I mean, RIGHT now," I said calmly, "what do you need to get through this week."

"This week..." her sobs grew quieter as she thought, "I need $500 for the minimum payment on one of my Visas. That's the only reason I'm here --I wasn't going to return your call until I looked back over the bills and saw that one was coming due on Tuesday. Turns out THAT wasn't such a good idea, now was it?"

I reached in my pocket for the $500 I was planning to pay her for the show. I pressed it into her palm, saying "all right...this will get you to Friday..."

She looked at the money, but then tossed it down on the ground. "I can't take this. I didn't do my job, I don't deserve to be paid. And I'm sorry, I'm just not in any mood to finish the job right now."

"An escort," I said gently, "is legally paid for her time only. What is done with that time...is subject to negotiation. You came to my place and have been her for...an hour. Thus, legally, you have fulfilled your obligation and are entitled to your fee."

She said nothing. I think she knew I was technically correct, just as she knew she was clearly not delivering the goods promised. What she didn't have any way of knowing was that the chance to get to know a little bit about the real Brianna was worth far more to me than any dance.

"So with that settled," I continued, "what is your legal status? Have you hired a lawyer yet?"

"Hired a lawyer? For what?," she asked, confused. "Not that I have any money anyway, but do you think I need one?"

"That depends, but I would think so. What are you planning to do about Paolo?"

"I'm not planning anything. It appears I have been ditched."

"Yes, but legally you are still married, which is why your assets are frozen. If you were to divorce him, you could separate your finances from his. I should think you might want to do that before any monetary judgments are brought against him."

"Maybe, but even if I could afford a lawyer, which I can't, how do you serve papers to someone that's in hiding in another country?"

"I think I've heard about this before--the note he sent may actually help you. Do you know if there's been a warrant issued for his arrest?"

"Yes. The police came by to serve him, but I told them I had no idea where he was other than probably somewhere in Brazil."

"That's actually good. I think if you can prove he's abandoned you, you can start divorce proceedings. That is, if that's what you want to do..."

"You think I'd want to stay married to him after what he did to me?"

"I wouldn't, but love can be a funny thing...when it comes to love, I would never take anything for granted. But if that IS what you what, I'll make some calls Monday morning. I know some lawyers, I can get a recommendation for you."

"That's nice of you to offer, but I still can't afford to pay for one."

"If you can't get one to defer payment until the divorce goes through and you get some assets back, I'll spot you the fee. Nah...nah..." I headed off any protest before it picked up steam. "I have plenty of problems of my own, but money is not one of them. I know you'll be good for it eventually."

She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again. She was reading the firm look on my face. "You're going to insist, and it's pointless to try to argue with you, isn't it?"

"Pretty much," I agreed.

She sighed. "OK. Call me Monday and I'll speak with a lawyer." I smiled and nodded.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"I'm happy to help," I replied, knowing my reasons were far more selfish than she realized.

-----------------

I got a referral from Eric's best man, who was a lawyer but only did corporate stuff. I called the guy he recommended and explained what I knew of the situation. I told him that I would pay any up-front costs, but he said in this situation he'd defer his fee until the settlement went through. Then I set up an appointment for her and phoned her to tell her where to be and when.

On my way to the subway at 6:15 my phone rang.

"Hi, Mike? Its Brianna," she said pleasantly, "is this a good time to talk? I don't know how long you usually work."

Perhaps she was a workaholic, too. A lot of people would just assume you'd be home from work by six. "Brianna! Yes, I'm actually on my way home right now. How did it go with the lawyer?"

"Great. You were right, he's going to file on the grounds of abandonment, and with the outstanding warrant I should be able to get a ruling in a lot less time than it usually takes. Not only that, but he's going to contact the judge in the civil case--it's not going to do any good to hold the house towards damages and then have the bank repossess it while the case is in court. He thinks they should be able to arrange for the mortgage to be paid out of the frozen assets while the case is being heard."

"Hey, that's great!"

"It's a start. I still need to come up with a way to pay utilities and credit cards. And eat...that's OK, I've been living on Ramen for three weeks already, what's a few more..."

"Ramen...ugh. That stuff'sterrible for you."

"Yeah, but a full meal for fifty cents! Can't beat that. Kind of feels like being in college again."

"Nuh-uh. You're going to get scurvy or something. I have to buy groceries tonight anyway--I'm going to buy you some, too."

"No you're not," she protested.

"Yes I am," I answered, "even if it means I have to mail them to your lawyer's office to get them delivered! Once in a while is fine, but you can't live on Ramen alone!"

"Mike, stop. You've done enough for me already..."

"Look, I can imagine that it's hard to feel helpless and accept assistance, especially from someone you barely know. But you are in need right now, and I have more than enough to meet your needs! Someday, maybe you'll return the favor, if not to me then someone in a similar situation. But for now, please--for your health, meet me at the grocery on Broadway and 95th in a half-hour." There was silence. "Please? Don't make me beg, it'll make a big scene here in the subway station."

"OK," she said quietly. "Broadway and 95th, half hour."

I stopped by my place to change, then went to meet her. I could see her from a block away, glowing like a radiant angel in the misty evening. She had on jeans that fit her like friggin' glove with high boots that looked expensive, but what do I know--I can't tell a Prada from a Panda. She had on a tight shirt with a fitted, short blazer; both ended at the waist, so when she bent over, a thin strip of her midriff became visible. She smiled and waved when she saw me. Then we went through the store together. She picked out some fresh fruits and vegetables and few staples, no more than maybe 20 bucks worth. I in the meantime picked up darn near everything in sight, easily $150 worth--except I was only planning on keeping a third of it for myself. I knew she needed more than she was buying, but was too proud to ask.

After checking out, she took her re-usable cloth canvas bag towards the subway--that's when I said "are you going to be able to carry all your bags?"