Made For Sex. Joan Elizabeth Lloyd
you have to be submissive could be a profitable addition to our business. You know that I tend to be the dominant one and I have many friends who enjoy playing with me. But lots of men like to be the master. Well,” Ronnie said, spearing a shrimp with her fork, “we’ll figure that out as time goes on. First, I’d like you to think about changing your appearance. Making yourself look more sophisticated. I’d love to get you an appointment with Jean-Claude.”
“The Jean-Claude? The one who works with all the stars?”
“That’s him. And he’s done pretty well for himself since he and I first met,” Ronnie said. “He did a makeover for me a long time ago, when he was still a hairdresser named Jimmy and I was still relatively monogamous. He did my hair, taught me how to use makeup, how to select the most becoming clothes, the works. I recommended him to my friends. He’ll do wonders for you.”
“Am I that bad?”
“You are perfect for the supermarket and the PTA but not quite right for men who want to take you out and show you off. Like last evening. In addition to how it will make you feel, it makes a man feel potent if the woman he’s with makes others’ heads turn.”
“I guess you’re right.” Carla crossed the room and looked at herself in the antique mirror that hung over the maple desk. She lifted her long brown hair and turned left and right to study her face. As usual she wore only rouge, gray eyeshadow, and lipstick. Her earrings were simple gold hoops. “Do you think Jean-Claude could do something with me?”
“You bet.” Ronnie looked sheepish, then said, “As a matter of fact, you’re due at his studio in about an hour.”
Carla’s laughter was immediate. “You were so sure?”
“What woman could resist putting themselves in the hands of a talented, gorgeous Frenchman with the soul of a lover?”
“Does he know about you and this?” Carla said, waving her arm around the lavish room.
“Actually he’s a good source of referrals,” Ronnie said. “He works around celebrities and he occasionally meets someone who wants discrete company.”
“You’ve entertained celebrities? Here?”
Ronnie sighed. “Russell Street was here just last month.”
“I’m impressed,” Carla said. “Russell Street.”
“Don’t get starstruck. Eventually you may entertain someone famous, but what they want as much as anything else is a companion who’ll enjoy cavorting without the trophy-collecting mentality that groupies are known for.”
“Well,” Carla said, “if I’m due at Jean-Claude’s, I’d better take a quick shower and wash my hair. Are you coming too?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Jean-Claude did wonders. He cut Carla’s hair short so it formed a soft frame around her face and rinsed in a slight reddish highlight. He and Ronnie spent an hour showing Carla how to put on her makeup and select clothes that would best accentuate her lovely figure. Together they tried earrings and necklaces on Carla to see which complemented the shape of her face and her large brown eyes. Jean-Claude’s manicurist redid her nails in a bright shade that Carla thought of as hemorrhage red.
Finally, when she studied herself in the mirror, Carla was thrilled. Her eyes appeared larger and her cheekbones seemed higher. Dangling gold earrings made her neck look longer and the teal scarf Jean-Claude had draped around the collar of her white blouse brought out the pink in her cheeks.
“Remember when we…uh…ran into each other that morning last summer?” Ronnie said with a wink. “You described yourself as medium brown and average, average, average?”
“I did, didn’t I.”
“And now?”
Carla gazed at herself in the mirror. “Well, I have to admit that I’m not half bad.”
“Not half bad indeed.”
When Carla arrived home late that afternoon, her boys just stared. “Hey, Mom, what’s with the new hair and stuff?” Tommy asked.
“I had a makeover. My friend Ronnie suggested it. Do you like?”
“Heck no,” Tommy said. “You look like a model or something, not like a mom.”
“Yeah,” her youngest chimed in.
“I think I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Cut it out you guys,” BJ said. “Mom’s looking for a man. It’ll be good for her, dating and all.” He patted her on the arm and Carla suddenly realized that her thirteen-year-old son was almost as tall as she was. “It’s okay, Mom. If you find a nice man, I’ll explain it to these guys.”
“Thanks, BJ,” she said, completely nonplussed, “but I’m not looking for a man. I just want to look nicer for my business meetings.”
“You know as well as I do,” BJ said, “that grown-ups need a partner. Hormones and all that.”
“Oprah again?”
“Yeah. And we learned about that in sex education.”
Carla tried not to laugh.
“Will you still cook and stuff?” Tommy asked, his eleven-year-old mind not yet taking it all in.
“Of course. If you’ll let me get into the kitchen we’ll do Barrett-burgers for everyone.”
Three days after Carla’s session with Jean-Claude, Tim Sorenson maneuvered his station wagon into the parking space that appeared unexpectedly when a van pulled out from right in front of Ronnie’s door. He sat for a moment, thinking about his assignment: to take photos of Ronnie’s friend Carla for an album like Black Satin. Ronnie had told him a lot about the woman he was about to meet and he was confident that he could do a professional job.
Since his first evening with Ronnie, Tim had come a long way. He’d managed to tell his father that his working life wouldn’t revolve exclusively around the oil business and, to his dad’s credit TJ had taken the news just fine. Although he still worked at American Oil and Gas Products with his father, Tim now also viewed himself as a photographer. His work had appeared in several photography magazines and two of his views of the California coast were appearing more and more frequently in photo stores. Clients wanting Tim to do portraits had to book him three months in advance.
More important, thanks to Ronnie, Tim had discovered the joy of sex, to borrow a famous phrase. His new vibrancy showed in his work. Women seemed more beautiful, men more robust. His first serious photographic assignment had been the nearly two hundred pictures he’d taken of Ronnie for her album. During that photo session they’d made love in ways Tim hadn’t dreamed of and they’d been together several times since. He now considered himself a sexual sophisticate. And he loved it.
He climbed out of the driver’s seat and unloaded cases from the back of the wagon, stacking lenses, camera bodies, and video equipment. He also pulled out a nylon bag filled with goodies he’d gathered after his long conversation with Ronnie about Carla. He walked up the steps and rang the doorbell with his elbow.
When Carla answered the door she saw a wholesome, appealing looking young man standing on the stoop, his hands filled with black leather cases. Tim held the handle of a blue nylon gym bag with his teeth, which muffled his words. “Catch the top one,” he mumbled. “It’s going to fall.”
The case toppled from the stack and Carla neatly caught it, tucked it under one arm, and snatched the bag from his teeth. “You certainly come prepared,” she said.
“Overprepared, one might say. May I come in? This stuff’s heavy.”
“Sorry,” Carla said, stepping away from the door and holding it open with her foot. “Come on in.”
As if familiar with the house, Tim walked directly