Wednesday, October 17, 2012

A Man At My Door


Lately I’ve been fantasizing about going far away to some place like the Dominican Republic (I hear the people are friendly) or Jamaica (the waterfalls and caves are supposedly breath-taking). Not with a sugardaddy, just me and my daughter. Get away from California and forget that anything in the United States exists. I still have not made my decision about which SugarDaddy to pick and most days I think I can manage just with body rubs. but most times I believe I’m just procrastinating. I need the money and I’m stressed.

Last night, right after dinner and my daughter’s bath, I heard my doorbell ring. The doorbell is just about the only thing that works smoothly in this place. As a rule, I don’t answer the door after dark. It’s election time so I assumed it was an over-zealous volunteer. Then I heard two loud, and RUDE, if you will, wraps on my door. This individual had to open the screen door to knock on my wood door, allowing the screen to slam, sounding only slightly louder than his two other knocks. My daughter immediately jumped up and ran over to the window and pulled back the curtain.

“He looks nice, let’s let him in,” she said, dressed in her Halloween pajamas.

“Go sit down,” I insisted, using my furious face to show her I meant business. I had gone over the “no talking to strangers” talk a million times, and yet she always forgot once she saw a new face.

I stood on my tiptoes and looked through the peephole, perhaps the only saving grace of this crappy apartment. He looked older, with a gray combover. Often people come to my door instead of the apartment below, but those girls were young and I doubt this was a potential suitor. Did this person know me? I couldn’t make his attire with the fishbowl effect of the peephole, but he wasn’t wearing a uniform of sorts or appear to be carrying a pizza.

“What did he do when you looked at him?” I asked my daughter more gently.

“He waved at me. And he had a clipboard.”

I had no idea who this could be.

And then he began ringing my doorbell repeatedly. Was he trying to break in?

I have a fear of this sort of thing, partly because of what I do for a living. I often don’t give men what they want or sometimes I do, which can lead to persistent and unwanted guests if they find out where you live. I’ve never had stalker problems, but I know plenty of strippers who have.

And the idea of putting my daughter in danger from my choices makes me nauseated. I grabbed the phone and called 911, hoping that this wasn’t a former client who would expose me. But why would he be carrying a clipboard? Although he did fit the demographic of eighty percent of my clientele.

“What is your emergency?”

“There appears to be someone trying to break into my house.”

And then I heard a loud crash outside. Was he trying to climb a tree? Get on the roof and fell off?

To Be Continued.... (sorry, but I have to go.)