The Truth: Part 18 

It took me a few days to make a decision, but I would decided to move in with Scott. The boys thought it was a bad idea, and even the managers told me to be careful. I didn’t tell them that I had a feeling I was doing something I was meant to do.  It was an easy move as everything I owned fit into my backpack. The room came fully furnished, and Scott even went out of his way to buy me new pillows and blankets. On my first night we stayed up late getting drunk. 

“It’s tradition for a new housemate to take a shot of Sambuca.” Scott insisted. We both did two shots and then he then passed me a beer and got on the electric piano set up in the kitchen and started playing me songs. I didn’t know at the time that Scott could sing or play piano, so it was a pleasant shock. 

So that was it; My first night I sat, beer in my hand, listening to Scott as he played for me. His voice was soulful and his energy was mesmerizing. 

The next day I told the boys about my night and Nick commented, “That sounds like my worst nightmare. If I ever had to sit through that I would kill myself.” 

“I still can’t believe you moved in with him. Isn’t it weird?” Matt asked. 

“Why would it be weird?” I responded. 

“Because he’s old and you’re young. If I were you I would be frightened that he was gonna rape me in my sleep.” 

 Brendan said, “Well if he does then just start charging him two hundred and fifty per round.” 

“He can be your sweet sugar daddy.” Nick joked. 

“Eww, I would barf. Scott is disgusting.” Matt said. Nick and Brendan laughed. 

I hadn’t put too much thought into it. Scott was older and I didn’t really know him. Maybe I should have been more careful before moving in.

That night I had my first outcall ever. An outcall is when you go to the clients house or hotel. I was being sent to his house, which was luckily nearby, and I was very nervous. Besides location, outcalls were different than incalls because you never knew who you were being sent to (unless they were a regular client). You don’t do an interview and you don’t get to see them, they just choose you from a list online and our managers tell us the address, give us taxi money, and send us off alone. They were riskier than incalls too. Although the managers had their credit card details and addresses, if things were to get out of hand you’d be completely alone. In the brothel you could scream loudly and someone would come running, but out in the field you had to rely on your own intuition. 

The man ended up being my first client that was good looking, which is rare in the world of escorting for obvious reasons: good looking people have Grindr, the old, ugly and fat had escorts. My client was tanned, muscular, and has an amazing white smile. His apartment looked like a place Tony Stark would live. Everything was connected through his iPad. He would touch a button on the screen and the blinds would shut, another button and music came on and the lights went down low. He was very well travelled, so the majority of my paid time with him was spent listening to his stories about being overseas. After talking for a long time I felt myself kissing him because I wanted to, not because I was being paid to. 

I had survived my outcall, to much congratulations from the boys and Robert. Scott was among the boys, and together we went to the smoking area. 

“Hey, I have to ask you something.” Scott said.

“Sure,” I replied, lighting my cigarette and taking a drag. 

Scott asks, “So I am going to Cairns in two weeks to visit a good friend. I haven’t been out of Sydney in a long time and I just need some time away. I was wondering, if it’s alright with you, if you could take care of Deniro for me? I’ll only be gone for a few days.” 

“Yeah, I’d love to!” I said maybe a little too enthusiastically. The truth is: I love dogs. Growing up on a ranch, my family would own three dogs at a time. My mother was a professional dog groomer who ran her own business out-of-home, so there was plenty of dogs around. 
“If it’s too much pressure then I can find someone else. I don’t want to put too much pressure on you.” 

“No, I’ll be absolutely fine.” I confirmed. 

“Well good. I’ll have to show you what to do then.” 

Later that week Scott showed me how to take care of Deniro. I was to feed Deniro one giant can of dog food a day, take him on a walk around the neighbourhood, and bathe him once while Scott was away. Because Sharpei’s are very wrinkly dogs they suffer from skin problems, so Deniro had to be bathed with special shampoo and conditioner once a week. Scott also started letting me feed Deniro days before he left so that Deniro would trust me while he was away. The night before Scott left he was at work and I was by myself in the house with Deniro. 

Scott sends me a text that says: Hey Babe, before you come to work tonight can you please feed Deniro.

I reply: Sure 🙂

I grabbed the can of dog food from inside the cupboard and Deniro came barreling down the hallway when he heard me opening it. He was restless at my feet as I tried to walk the food to his bowl outside. Scott always left the back door open so that Deniro could go in and out when he pleased. 

I put the food in the bowl with Scott’s instructions to tell Deniro to wait before he was allowed to eat it. I waited a few seconds after I poured the food in. 

“Ok,” I said in a high-pitched voice reserved for dogs and babies. Deniro basically jumped into the bowl. 

I stood and watched him eat for a second, the flaps under his chin were hilariously swinging with his head movements. I went to step away when Deniro turned and growled at me. It caught me off guard and in reaction I quickly took a step back and Deniro growled even louder, this time his back arching and head bowing low, almost like a cat. His eyes were fixated on me.

I’ve been around dogs my whole life. They have many different levels of growling and displeasure. 

This wasn’t a back off growl, the one dogs use to warn you to stop what you were doing. This was a low and deep growl that seemed to rumble through my chest. The look on Deniro’s face was pure aggression. 

Deniro was about to fuck me up. 

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