1558 Paths Not Taken

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Back when I was going through some very bad times in my twenties and early thirties, I "seriously" considered suicide a few times. "Seriously" is in quotes because I didn't do it, and the "only" reason I didn't is because I had to stay alive to take care of my cat. But I thought about it a lot.

Another thing I thought about a lot was prostitution. Not the standing on the street corner kind, and not the getting calls to "escort" a stranger, either. More like a mistress to a few men who could afford me. Maybe three or four "regulars". It seemed like handled discreetly and carefully, it could be an easier way to make a lot more money than whatever I was doing, and I'd be in control of my time. I could make at least five times what I was making legit, doing something that wasn't much effort and I enjoyed anyway, and I'd invest the money carefully, and be fully retired by 35.

I had met a lot of older guys (by "older", then, I meant over 40) who thought I was just wonderful. They liked the way I could converse about almost anything. They thought I was just the sexiest little thing. I could have picked several suitable clients.

There were a few I found without even trying, like the Italian electrical engineer in H---ford who wanted me, but couldn't marry me because I was a divorcee, but actually offered me a "hostess" contract, covering duties, an attractive salary, and child support should any result.

Then there was the 45-year-old guy in G---burg who used to knock on my door whenever he'd had a few drinks. I knew him as one of the more successful businessmen in town, and often talked with him when he was sober, but I never opened the door to him on these slightly drunk nocturnal visits. He'd sit on my doorstep outside the closed door, and we'd talk for hours through the door, about cabbages and kings, until he sobered up and went home to his invalid (as in ill, not illegal) wife. Usually, depending on how much he remembered of the conversation, a few days later I'd find a gift on the doorstep, perfume, books, a scarf, usually something in the $40-$60 range (at a time when I was making $100 a week teaching), along with a note thanking me for my patience and understanding.

I often wondered what I'd have gotten if I had opened the door.

Well, those were paths not taken. But I do wonder sometimes.
.