Butterfly Weed

Portia, 2025

I finished putting my bag together and popped into Frankie's study.

"I'm off to my shift," I said cheerily.

"C'mere," she beckoned, lifting her lips.

I kissed my wife in front of her Excel workbooks, and then I left to go get railed.

Some husbands lie about business trips to have affairs. This was different, right? I was working, and Frankie knew about the banging. We'd been crystal clear with each other about what I was getting into: selling myself to classy ladies. I earned money. I paid union dues and income tax. Everything was out in the open. Everything was kosher.

"Lot on your mind tonight, doll?"

I blinked. Shit, I wasn't supposed to space on the job. I tried to recover—a dainty hand over my mouth, pretend I needed to burp—but Abi grabbed my wrist, tight, and smiled that smile that always sent shivers down my spine.

"You were thinking about other women again, weren't you."

Not exactly, and it's not like Abi had any reasonable claim to exclusivity, but this was a game we played sometimes, and it was always quite fun.

"I'm sorry, Miss, it's—"

"Did I ask you to explain?"

I never really knew if the eeps she extracted from me were roleplay or genuine. I certainly didn't have to try too hard to perform for her. But when I would give Frankie incomplete summaries of these interactions, later—something she insisted on in the name of being in the loop, for my safety—I would say that my clients liked jealous lover roleplay. And then my wife would roll her eyes and say they weren't possibly paying me enough.

There, she was dead wrong. I charged the standard union rates for my line of work, and even then I felt I was scamming my clients. I'd play these games with Abi for ten bucks. I'd play them for free. Hell, I'd pay. I'm sure there was a Domme out there who deserved money for what I was getting out of this arrangement. But then it'd be a conversation with Frankie about why I wanted to do it, and...

"Red," Abi said, and I blinked again.

The restaurant came into focus. She'd eaten half her steak; I'd barely touched my salad. "I'm sorry," I began babbling, "I'll get my head in it, I'll—"

"Stop. It's okay. Charles, it's really—" I must have made a face, because Abi's expression softened. She reached across the table for my hand, and I put it limply in hers. "Portia, sorry. I—I get confused, sometimes, to be honest, how much is real." My lip trembled. "But if you're not in the right headspace, maybe we can just use our time to talk?"

I hesitated. It wasn't fair to Abi if I kept drifting—but I didn't like the idea of walking home empty-handed, as it were. Even if she intended to pay me regardless, what I wanted was—

"Please," I begged. "I'm sorry. Your idiot Portia just can't seem to focus sometimes."

"Oh," Abi said, nostrils flaring.

"I might need, um, guidance."

"Indeed." Her tone had shifted back to haughty, and just like that we were back on track. "And a small reward, perhaps, for recognizing your deficit."

"Reward?" My voice pitched up. The things Abi did for me.

"Yes—hm." She rummaged in her purse, a designer bag so far outside my world that "designer" was the only detail I knew. She produced a foil-wrapped liqueur bottle chocolate and slid it slowly toward me over the tablecloth. I reached for it, and—"Not so fast, greedy girl. You can have this, now, or—if you have developed a single mite of patience—two of them, upstairs."

While the implicit admonishment for my impatience sounded about as good as a second chocolate, I wanted to show Abi she had earned my trust. I pulled my hand back, meekly, and said, "I'll be good."

"Does that mean you'll eat your salad?" she asked. "You know I work hard to afford your lavish lifestyle."

I rushed to get through a few forkfuls of the salad. I wasn't hungry, but it wasn't important that I finish my plate. I just needed—and wanted—to signal my obedience. Abi would never use these games to actually push me beyond my comforts.

She took her time polishing off her steak and finishing her wine, all while I squirmed in anticipation of "upstairs." The views from Abi's Park Hyatt penthouse suite were always exquisite. Especially when she had me pressed up against the glass, hands on my hips and teeth in my shoulder.

"You're not thinking of other women anymore," she hummed, swirling her glass.

"N-no," I admitted, mildly unnerved at how intimately this woman had my number.

"Tell me." Abi bent forward. "You can whisper it, if you're shy."

I felt warm. My clients must think I'm the best actor in the world—or maybe they even think I'm laying it on thick. I leaned toward Abi, cupped a hand around my mouth, and whispered, "the window."

"The window?" Abi said, suddenly in an outdoor voice, sitting back and smirking. "What about the window?"

I leaned closer. "Um, against it, Miss, ah—"

"I can't hear you when you mumble," she said for the entire restaurant.

I sat back in my seat and pouted. "Meanie."

"Don't be so sullen."

Doing my best to affect composure, I sat tall and held up my chin. "Yes, Miss."

For all her teasing, I knew she was far from unaffected. I'd been with her enough times to recognize the heave of her chest, the slight shift of her hips. Taking her time with the meal, playing with my heart at the table—this was, at its core, edging done for her own benefit. She was the client, after all. Her pleasure should come first.

And it did. 

She pulled me against her in the elevator after dinner, as she had so many times before. She was a furnace, radiating need. She grabbed my hand, pulled it between her legs, pressed it against the expensive fabric of her slacks. "Will today be the day?" she breathed before licking my ear. A challenge, to get her off before we reached her floor. I'd never succeeded—though I'd never really tried, because we both knew she preferred deferring her climax. And we both knew she preferred punishing me for my failure.

In her room, she shoved me roughly onto the bed and stood over me, hands on hips.

"You put on such a pretty facade," she hissed. "Sitting in fancy restaurants, taking dainty bites of girl food... Prim and proper, in your pleated skirts and starched collars and Mary Janes..."

"It's what you tell me to wear, Miss..."

"Yes it is," she purred. "And you do it, for me, even though you're more inclined to wearing nothing at all—" I moaned. "Pervert."

"You made me this way," I protested.

"Don't kid yourself." Abi put one knee on the bed by my hip and and one hand on my sternum. "You were a wretch long before I found you. I civilized you."

I nodded, heart catching at her proximity. Take me, ruin me—

"But I'm getting ahead of myself," she said, suddenly standing. No, come back. "How will you ever learn if I'm not consistent? I promised you a reward, and you've been ever so patient."

I groaned as she returned to her purse and produced the promised chocolates.

"What's that, doll? Use your words." 

"I don't want to misbehave..."

"I won't be upset, sweetheart. What's on your mind?"

"I'd really like, um, a different reward..."

"What, are my chocolates not good enough for you?"

I pouted.

"Oh, don't give me that. You're just so fun." Abi put her purse down and approached me. "What would you prefer, then? Or—wait, let me guess." I bit my lip. "Yes, I think we're on the same page. My sweet Portia, would you perhaps..." I felt every fiber of my body bending toward my client. "... like to be fucked like a woman?"

There it was—another eep.

"Such charming birdsong," she said, removing her blazer. "Perhaps I should keep you."

I nodded.

"Those other women don't see what I see."

I nodded.

"You should stop seeing them." She was leaning over me again, face descending toward mine. I nodded again, and she kissed my brow. "I pay better." She kissed my lips. "I kiss better." She kissed my neck. "I fuck better." A shrill moan wrenched itself from me. "And I wager I make you sing better."

She withdrew and straddled me. I felt so helpless—so perfect.

"Tell me," she demanded. "Tell me I'm the best you've had."

Any sex worker worth their salt could fulfill this fantasy for Abi. But there was some stupid reckless part of me that prided itself on honesty, and it was that shameful part said, "you're the best I've had."

What followed was a flurry, Abi making good on every promise she'd made, tearing the clothes from my body, throwing me up against the window, sinking her teeth into me as she rubbed me to orgasm from behind.

After, I returned the favor, kneeling at her feet and lapping at her until she cursed and came unfurled and could no longer hold character. 

"That's the stuff," she said, as I—suddenly the larger, the stronger, the more present—carried her to the bed.

I spooned her until the timer went off. 

"Wish you could stay," she murmured.

"Me too," I confessed.

If she knew the truth of this routine admission, would she still see me? Would she still pay me?

Guilt clung to me as I rinsed myself off, traded my dress for jeans and a t-shirt, took my payment from the bathroom counter, and left Abi to her slumber.

Frankie was waiting for me, as she always was. She had baked—her nervous tell—and I struggled not to cry when I greeted her.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

"Great," I lied. 

No.

Not a lie.

I'd had an amazing night.

I'd made a pretty buck.

And I hadn't hurt my wife doing it, because we'd agreed to this.

Reddit disagreed with me.

> you're cooked, moron

> this is clearly cheating

> ... you DO know that poly is, like, a THING, right?

> it's not honesty if you're lying about your reasons

> does your wife know you're trans?

> i'm not confident OP actually understands that she's trans

> you're basically stealing money from the amalgamated sex workers

> fraud

> liar

> cheat

But, well, Reddit is the cesspool of the internet, right? 

Frankie had been opposed to the idea at first. She made enough at her job to pay for both of us, so the argument that I'd been unemployed for a while didn't feel sufficient to her. I ended up making the point that I would have more dignity if I contributed to our finances, and, well, sex work is work. She'd almost argued with that one—almost.

It would have been reactionary of her to suggest I do anything besides sex work, because what's wrong with sex work? And in this way, I used Tumblr logic to pen my wife in. She made her own demands: that she know about my jobs, that I be safe, yada yada. But ultimately I got the green light to fuck other people, as long as it was for cash.

If I'd had a confidant, they might have told me to talk to my wife about polyamory. If I'd had a confidant, they might have asked me why I didn't want my wife to fuck me the way I wanted my clients to fuck me. If I'd had a confidant, they might have told me it would all come crashing down.

But Frankie was my confidant, in all other things. And I had no close friends who weren't also Frankie's friends.

That left therapy, which I tried. I really did.

When my therapist asked me why I didn't feel safe coming out to my wife, I had a panic attack. The thing to do would probably have been to stick with therapy, to massage out those answers, to work through those feelings. But I have that thing therapists hate where I over-rationalize everything and predict the correct answers to my predicaments.

And I didn't want a divorce.

I wanted my life with Frankie. I loved Frankie, our home, our shared interests, our vibrant friend group. I just also wanted to be absolutely destroyed by lesbians—and these things were simply not compatible.

So I made my excuses, picked and chose my honesties, and kept seeing my clients.

"I think this might be our last evening together," Abi said one night, before we'd gotten into character.

I felt dizzy.

"Um, sorry," she said. "Really. But my mom's sick, and I'm quitting my job and moving home."

"Oh." Tell her you're sorry about her mom.

She frowned. "Will you be okay, financially? I don't mean to presume, but if you want I might be able to refer—"

I had other clients. Frankie had a job. I'd be fine. I'd be fine. But it was really hard to say that.

"Portia?" she asked, furrowing her brow. "Or—do you prefer—"

"Portia," I said. Why was that part automatic?

"Portia," she confirmed. She reached for my hand. "Can we please just talk this time? Like, if it's what I want?"

I couldn't deny her request.

Instead of the fancy hotel restaurant, we got In-N-Out. She got a 3x3 and the horrible fries, animal style, and I couldn't help giggling at the shift in character. My high-powered businesswoman sugar mommy, still in her nice get-up, slumming it in a burger joint full of stoned high schoolers, eating the worst fast-food fries in the world and getting sauce all over her sleeves.

For my part, I had a demure cheeseburger. It felt wrong to go for the Double-Double in Abi's company, even if we weren't roleplaying.

We didn't talk much at dinner. Our usual games were inappropriate to the location, and the surrounding teens would have made any proper talk uncomfortable.

"Wanna go for a drive?" she asked after finishing her meal.

Frankie had insisted I never get into a client's car. But Abi was not a strange john. Abi was—what was Abi? She felt like a lover. I'd fallen victim to one of the classic blunders.

I nodded.

We got into her Tesla and took the 10 down to Sacred Solitude, then turned onto the coast highway. Abi had the windows down, just a bit. I could smell the night and hear the surf, but it was just dark enough out to shroud the destruction of the Palisades Fire.

After what Abi must have deemed was enough companionable silence—or maybe enough wasting of her paid time—she spoke, not taking her eyes off the road.

"My friends say this is a stupid question to ask, and you don't have to answer, but... in case you want to: how much of it is real?"

I leaned against the car door. Abi was going away. "Most of it."

"Wanna say more?"

"I don't know how much—"

"Listen, I know where I stand. And I know it's over. And you seem like you need an ear."

I glanced over at her. She was so calm. I considered her question. If I asked her how much of it was real—get a grip, dude. "Uh. Yeah. I... I don't know." It was weird to not be playful with Abi, but she was right that I wanted it. "I don't feel like it was right of me to take your money."

"Do you not feel like I got what I paid for?"

"I feel like I got what you paid for."

She twisted her mouth at that. "It's good when both parties benefit from an agreement." She made it sound so impersonal—but was she wrong? She'd paid me for sex. I'd fucked her for money. We had a union contract. "But..."

"But?"

"Well, if most of it was real, then I'd guess you're not all that happy."

"I have a good life."

"You know what I mean."

I did. "I feel guilty."

"For?"

"Lying to you. And—some other clients. And... my wife."

"I hope you don't have to lie forever." Abi took one hand off the wheel. Did she wipe her eyes? "You're a really special girl."

"I'm a philandering, crossdressing grifter."

The car jerked as she swerved and pulled off the road. We were somewhere between towns—somewhere dark, hilly, with lots of shrubbery and a precipitous drop to the ocean. Frankie's warning about clients' cars echoed in my head as Abi reached across the center console for me, and then—

She slapped me.

Not even that hard. She'd struck me far harder on the top floor of the Park Hyatt, many, many times. Somehow, this one hurt way more.

"Respectfully," she seethed. Her face was wet, her eyes wild in the glow of the dash. "Shut your whore mouth."

I lost it.

Ugly sobbing in my client's car, in the middle of nowhere.

"Oh, honey." She leaned into me, wrapped her arms around my heaving shoulders. "Oh, sweet, sweet Portia."

"Why," I hacked, "are you," fuck, that stung, "doing this for me?"

She pressed her lips to my tears, brought one hand to my cheek and held my head to her. "Because I'm going away, Portia. And I'm going to miss you. And I don't think we should talk to each other again after tonight, and I hate that." Her breath caught. "Because I'm a weirdo who paid you to get off on fantasy play and now I wish I'd just met you in a coffee shop or something."

Well that was validating, in a tragic sort of way.

"There's no way we go to the same coffee shops," I sniffed.

"Heh. You're probably right."

Abi held me a while longer, then offered me a packet of tissues from her purse. We both blew our noses, said "gross" simultaneously, and laughed.

"How many dates before you can tell a sex worker you're in love with them?" she asked, when we were driving back south to Angels. It was probably a real question, but there was levity in her voice, and that helped me feel a lot less stupid.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I'm really not very good at any of this."

"Don't kid yourself." Abi smiled at me, and I melted a little. "You're very good at what you do, Portia."

Frankie had warned me not to tell any clients where I live, but I let Abi drop me off at my place.

"Good luck out there, Portia."

She kissed me, and I'd broken up with enough people before finding Frankie to feel the finality. I got out of the car and waved as she peeled away into the night. It's not like everything was over. I had other clients. I had Frankie.

I wiped my tears one final time, took four long breaths, spun around, and walked into the house.

"Charles?" Frankie called from the kitchen. I heard footsteps. "You're home early, is everything okay?"

Of course. It usually took me a good thirty minutes to get home from the Park Hyatt after my time with Abi was up—and she'd designed our route to get me home right as our session ended. The timer on my phone went off as I put down my bag.

"Everything's fine!" I called.

And then Frankie appeared in the foyer, apron covered in flour, and her jaw dropped, and I remembered that I was still in my dress.