I received a call from my boss on my day off. “Roxie,” he barked. “You were requested and I’m short-staffed. I need you here by 12.”
I sighed to myself, as I quickly packed my work clothes into a bag. I took a last look in the mirror as I zipped up my shiny black leather high heeled boots.
I arrived there quickly. I slipped into the locker room and changed into the required outfit. I slipped off my bleach blonde wig and arranged my long brown hair into a bun. I slipped on my glasses, grabbed my knitting bag and went into the work room.
I sat down in the rocking chair, rocked slowly and started a new row on a pale blue baby blanket. I waited a few minutes and looked up from my knitting. A baby boy with blonde hair and blue eyes was crawling towards me.
I set my knitting back down into the knitting bag. I could see the cameras in the corner of my eye as I reached down and picked up the baby at my feet. It always amazed me at how light the baby feels when I lift him into my lap.
I started to adjust my top and noticed that this baby didn’t immediately reach for my chest like the other babies do. He seemed to be studying my face. I pushed that thought out of my mind, as I lowered the flap for the nursing bra and moved the baby’s head towards my left breast. The baby suckled and drank while I softly caressed his hair.
The baby’s reached out and placed its right hand onto my breast. A flood of memories washed over me, immersing me in the life I’ve been trying so hard to forget since I arrived here.
I saw three blonde-haired children walking on a hill; two girls and a boy were laughing and running ahead of me. I remember the peace and joy of watching them enjoy the sunlight. How free and innocent the world was then.
My heart ached with the memory. I held back the tears and took slow, deep breaths of air, so that the cameras wouldn’t be able to pick up on my thoughts. I looked down at the baby, and lifted him to my shoulder, patting his back. I quickly switched the flaps of the nursing bra, and moved the baby to my right breast.
I rocked the baby as it appeared to drink. I could tell this one was different, he didn’t seem to relish my nipple or breasts like the other babies here do. I felt slightly uneasy as I looked down at him. He moved his arm and covered his face slightly as he nursed.
Our time was up, and the nursery assistant came to take the baby out of my lap. I refastened the nursing bra and my blouse, picked up my knitting bag and stood up. I went to the main office to ask my boss if there were more appointments scheduled for me. He said there wasn’t, and I could go home.
I went back to the locker room and changed out of my work outfit, which was a white blouse, a long knit skirt and sneakers. “He must have offered more a double rate to ask me to come in today,” I thought to myself as I washed the milk off of my skin. I am always careful to wash all evidence of my job off of me before I go out into the street. The girls who haven’t followed these rules have disappeared; the rumors at work are that they are killed or kidnapped by former clients.
The great danger of this job is that you never recognize your clients once you leave here. The machine that makes the grown men into babies has never been fully explained to me; however, when we are in that room, they feel, act and smell just like a real baby. While I never asked to come here, I figured I have to try to survive, if only to prevent other women from being kidnapped, taken away from their children, and made to do this demeaning form of sex work.
I slip on my tight black dress and zip up my thigh-high, high heeled boots. I have to dress as all the women do in the city, to blend in. I move my brown hair up and slip the blonde wig back onto my head. I slip on a pair of prescription sunglasses and reapply my red lipstick.
I throw my canvas bag over my shoulder and walk out of the building. As I walk down the street, a tall man bumps into my shoulder. I barely look up and say, “Excuse me.”
He softly, kindly replies, “Forgive me.” His tenor voice echoes through my heart in a strange way, so I look up. His blue eyes looked in kind recognition at me. I can’t remember the last time anyone had looked at me with such a gentle compassion.
He softly commands, “We have to keep walking. Come with me.” His hand gently grips my elbow and a flood of images of sunlight and laughter nearly stops me cold. My legs felt weak, but I take a deep breath and force myself to walk. I hide my trembling hands in my jacket pockets while I look forward blankly.
After walking a couple of blocks, I ask, “Am I being kidnapped?”
He smiles and whispers, “You don’t remember. You were kidnapped 3 years ago.”
I didn’t remember exactly how, but I knew what this stranger said was true. I knew I didn’t belong in this world and that every day I stayed here, a part of me slowly died.
We kept walking he looked quickly around, and carefully pushed me into the alley with him. There was a black car with tinted windows waiting there for us. I was still in a state of shock as he lifted me into the backseat and climbed in after me. He shut the door and knocked on the tinted window between the back seat and the driver. The car jumped into gear and turned into the street.
I tried to look out of the window, but it was too dark for me to see anything. I felt confused and tired, and I could hear him say, “It’s alright; you’re safe now,” as I suddenly fell to sleep.
