Big Things in Far-Away Places — Part 1 (Patreon)

***The following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. This post does not constitute, insinuate or recommend an offer to sell, a solicitation of an offer to buy, or a recommendation of exchange, monetary or otherwise, services that are sexual or pornographic in nature.***

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Dear Ms. Beck,

Good day. My name is [first name only, omitted]. I am originally from [W. European country], but currently residing in Dubai, United Arab Emirates, where I work in [finance, executive position].

I have thoroughly enjoyed your content during the last several months. You are obviously a person of wit and intelligence. I am also convinced that the appeal of your physical appearance does not escape you.

I am respectfully writing with an inquiry. In brief: I would enjoy the presence of your company in Dubai from the dates of March 12 until March 16 of 2022. Our interaction would involve no acts of sexual intercourse or genital observance, and would only occur for periods of no more than two hours each night during the evenings of your stay. During these periods of time, I would rely on you to establish, in advance, your level of comfort with our interactions. I would appreciate, however, that your breasts are fully exposed and accessible to touch. Specific limitations can be established in advance.

All costs would be paid, including:

• Top-tier transportation departing from and returning to location/s convenient to you (limo service to/from airports, Emirates cabin/First Class seating depending on carrier availability).
• A private hotel suite in the Burj Khalifa.
• Third-party independent security of your choosing, available at your 24/7 discretion during the entirety of your stay.
• A prepaid Visa card upon arrival, with a balance thoroughly suitable to shop, eat, and explore the city during your stay.
• Various perks, additions, and pleasant surprises (available at your discretion) to ensure as enjoyable a stay as possible (full bar, pre-selected garments, room service, private transportation in and around the city, etc).
• For the pleasure of your visit, additional compensation of €10,000.

I understand that the nature of this request might be unappealing to you, and if that is true, I hope that no offense has been created. I would, in this circumstance, wish you well, and would be pleased to interpret a non-response as confirmation that you would like to decline.

If such an arrangement is interesting to you, I will provide a packet for your review that includes identifying and contact information, references, an expanded proposed itinerary, and additional materials that will collectively serve to clarify the nature of my intentions and inform any understandable reservations you may have about this solicitation. I will also be available to answer any questions at this email address, or via phone.

I anticipate your reply.

[Salutation]

Hunh. Well. Hmm. Needless to say, not an email one expects to receive upon waking up, bleary-eyed and a bit hungover, before she’s even had her coffee.

My personal email account is the one I give out to folks who wanna do collaborations and the like. It doesn’t ping very often, but every now and then, among the brief requests for custom content (thanks for asking, but no thanks — that’s what this Patreon is for, and it’s a happy balance for me), there are smatterings that catch my eye. Illustrators who want to team up on stories; I helped doctor a screenplay a little while back; actually just helped out a musician with song lyrics, which was pretty cool! Stuff like that… But THIS one was… a doozy.

Make no mistake, I have received a fair share of messages in the past asking for meetups. “Hey, babe, you really should come to Chicago,” “If you ever find yourself in Seattle, hit me up!” or even “I’ll give you X-amount-of-dollars if you spend a night with me.” Vague stuff that’s pretty much a non-starter. I have no ill will toward escorts or their profession — I believe many countries should adopt a system not dissimilar from The Netherlands, where Ladies of the Night pay taxes, have access to healthcare and police protection, and are free to conduct themselves as they see fit with consenting adults — but as far as all that is concerned, for me, it’s just not my speed.

The first two paragraphs were fairly standard — well written, which I always appreciate.

Graf three was where the eyebrows perked. Dubai, huh? Woah. Neven been down to the UAE before. Specific dates? OK, this fella plans ahead. I got a chuckle out of the phrase “genital observance,” but as I was deciphering what that meant, I got the impression that he wouldn’t pull a Louis C.K. and just sit there, masturbating at me. Which is, y’know, not horrible, but get to know a gal first. So, I’m glad he put that out there. And, he seemed interested in making sure that I would maintain my comfort level. Which, ya’ know, is something that can rationally be Filed Under: Actions Speak Louder. But overall? Seems like he was simply interested in hanging out and copping a feel from time to time. Which, I mean, c’mon. Natalia and Olga are kinda unique, and it’s not the first time such an interest has been expressed.

This note was, off the bat, interesting, at least. It succeeded in catching me off guard, I’ll give it that much! But… could I have drafted a letter that was more… respectful? Thorough? Probably not, no red flags at the moment, and, I mean, bonus points for laying it out on the table, dude. Further reading was merited.

I started to get a little skeptical around the next graf. I mean, have you seen those private cabins on Emirates flights? It’s your own freaking room, on an airplane. Which, don’t get me wrong, sounds like the only way to travel. (I’ve had a few awkward experiences with fellow passengers in coach, especially when I’m overflowing a middle seat. ‘Sorry ‘bout that — hope you don’t mind if Natasha is just mashing into your elbow for the next three hours.’) But that ticket ain’t freaking cheap, muchacho. Same for first-class seats on whichever freaking plane, but especially the ones going in and out of the UAE. (I used to be a luxury travel hack — one of those writers who wrote about a lifestyle she could never afford. So while I know the lingo, I ain’t had the pleasure, myself.)

And the Burj Khalifa?! Tallest building in the world. And, my own suite? Can’t help but think that that runs a pretty penny. But wait… are there like, hotel rooms in that place? My mind went back to where I’m sure a lot of minds go when we’re forced to think about the Burj Khalifa… that Mission: Impossible flick. Was it the fourth one? Can’t remember. But there was that sequence in the Burj Khalifa. Nice rooms, and one hell of a view, so… Plus, I was always a weird kid, growing up, and always had a fascination with skyscrapers, so I was already a little aware of what that building was all about. Anyway.

Then… expense account? OK! My tastes are pretty simple when it comes to travel. Call me more… experiential. I’ll be glad to take a $0.25 taco stand over a $200 lunch check any day. And, personal hesitancy toward fashion aside, I’ve never been able to figure out why some people go to some fantastic locale abroad, just to… blow all their cash at some fucking Hermes or Ferragamo location. I dunno. Bless their hearts, but it… lacks imagination. Never been skydiving, though, and as much as I try to craft my bucket list upon a path less-trodden by the influencer crowd, I gotta say — jumping out of a plane over that big man-made island chain that’s shaped like a palm tree would be… pretty cool. So, nice to know that I wouldn’t be digging out of my own pocket to poke around in a city that I am positive. Is. Not. Cheap.

My own choice of private security?(!) Nice touch. Some huge dude sitting outside the door and available at a moment’s notice shows consideration. I was in New York City once, and I saw some actress just walking around on the street. Can’t remember her name for the life of me, one of those old Norma Desmond-esque screen queens of old who lived a life of semi-reclusion. Decked out to the nines, mink, sunglasses, the whole shebang, and about 5 steps behind her, what I can only describe as two of the largest men I have ever seen, earpieces and all. I don’t have any mistrust of Dubai or any reason to question its safety — I understand it to be extremely safe, especially for Westerners, so to speak — but a gal like me has had to tactfully excuse herself of awkward interactions at fucking suburban Starbuckses (is that the plural?), so having my own “Little Tony” to diffuse any awkward interactions would be… kinda fancy. (Not sure why I’m going with ‘ironically named mid-century American mobster stereotype’ for my vision of ‘private security,’ but what can I say. I’m an ingenue. “Joey Two Fingers” can help him out.

And 10,000 fucking Euro?!!?!?! What, would I pick it up in some underground, concierged bank in Geneva on the way back home? Would the well-quaffed Swiss guy at the front desk cut me off halfway through my introduction and say something like, “Yes, of course, Madame, we’ve been expecting your visit — this way please.” Would the safe deposit box be locked with a retinal scan? Would this benevolent benefactor throw in a few Krugerrand as a tip?

And for me… this is where it all started to fall apart. Something just didn’t click. It was too perfect. Too “put-together.” Those of you who know me already understand that I can be somewhat of a prankster myself, so it was becoming more-and-more clear that this was not a legitimate offer at all. Rather, just some dear acquaintances, sitting around, saying “Oh, hey! Add this line!” Then, having a laugh. This ‘packet,’ that [omitted] wanted to send? It was going to be Rick Ross, crooning about how he was never gonna let me cry, never gonna saaaay goodbye.’

Yep. I get it… I’m being played. Well played, indeed, whomever it might be.

I chuckled as I re-read the email a few times. I got a nut in my head… this… sounded like her. (An internet big-boob lady some of you might know, but maybe not, who has been an internet big-boob lady for much longer than I have.) In my mind? Silly, small elements of the letter did obliquely relate to passing, funny conversations we had had recently. The pieces were fitting together. I texted my friend. The first words out of my thumbs we’re “Ha-ha-ha, very cute. And you almost got away with it, too!”

She was confused, of course. You would act that way, if you’re trying to maintain the ruse.

“Though I have to admit,” I continued, “If you ever want to spend a week in Dubai, I’m down. But you’re paying for it, and you’re *still* coughing up the 10K.”

“What… are you talking about.”

Wait. First rule of pranking — when someone unravels the ruse and calls you out, you give it up, you surrender. Otherwise, that’s cheating. For the prankster, the joke is no longer funny; for the prank-ee, it devolves into dumbness and makes future pranks deceitful and less meaningful. There’s an art to this sort of thing. I started rambling.

“The letter. That email. With the genitals, and the [finance] dude, and the whole vacation in April that would cost, like, I dunno, a hundred-thousand bucks? C’mon. You know better, but I will tip my glass to you, chica.” (I was drinking at the time, as is my nature).

“I really. Have not the smallest idea. Of what you’re talking about, Heather.”

Oh, shit. I know that punctuation-heavy tone. She’s… serious.

I forwarded her the email, and she took a peak. Fine. Wasn’t her. Maybe someone else, but maybe not.

I expected her to give it a scan, and get back to me with a “Bwahahah! God, he took a shot, didn’t he!” Because, hell! It all just sounded like… a little much.

While I waited for her to give it a read, an earlier supposition started to coalesce. I’m really not trying to toot my own horn here… If you’ve gotten to know me at all, you’ll know that I’m not a person who is dominated by some misplaced sense of pride and vanity. That being said? I’m also not unaccoustomed to folks using all sorts of unorthodox methods to get their foot in the door when it comes to approaching me. A mountainous, un-deliverable promise that quickly devolves into “just some dude who wants to lure you into a video chat so he can show you his junk and get his rocks off” is, I think, one of the more common tricks ‘Women of the Internet’ have to put up with these days. This, I was fairly sure, was one of those moments. But whomever it was was going overboard with it. Pfft. Whatever.

“Sounds legit.”

I think my response was something akin to, “.........?”

“Never told you this, I don’t think,” she said. “I did something like that once. Not the best idea in hindsight. I was stupid. The guy was cool, tho. I needed the money, and it was like, why not. It was fine. But this guy’s next level.”

“.......?” (I didn’t text that, again — but that’s what was going through my normally word-filled head)

“Sounds like some fucking good $$$, and he seems to be covering all the I’m Not A Serial Killer or Sex Trafficker bases. Thinking of doing it?”

“………....?”

We said our goodbyes, after I promised her that I would keep her up to date on what was what. Then, I put a dash of brandy into my coffee, and opened up a fresh email. Probably spent about 15 minutes looking at the blinking cursor before I started typing a reply.

[To certainly be continued, y'all. Once I hit the 2,000-word mark on this story, I kinda realized that it's a *rabbit hole.* (And you know I'm serious, because I just put asterisks around a metaphor that is already contained inside of brackets, and followed it up with an expository self-contained parenthetical, so hoooo-nilly!) Anyway, more to come, very shortly.) And in case you're wondering the $64,000 question — is Heather going through with this?! Well... stay tuned, folks. (Or, to use yet another antiquated gameshow slogan, "Two and Two, Right Back At Ya." And if you've actually read this whole freaking thing, and can name the show THAT little lines comes from, I will read it and chuckle, and know that I'm not the only one who was bored as shit during sick days home from school in the '80s.)]