There were lots of fantastic pieces that we just couldn’t fit into the anthology, but we’re happy to be able to share some with you here in the Tales of the Trade section of our site.
BY JILL MORLEY
“Bend your knees! Get your racket back earlier! Follow through!”
These are common suggestions I make as a tennis whore on the Upper East Side. People pay me to help them improve their games, their bodies, their psyches. Some people pay $100 just to play me. I get a very small percentage of that, since court time is so expensive and my manager/pimp does screen my tennis tricks. Many are men who love to show me how hard they can hit the ball. Some think they are Roger Fucking Federer. Others are angry. They don’t want instruction.
The harder they hit, the harder I return the ball. That’s just the way I am. Some men want me to whup their asses. I guess those are the fetishists. Once, when I apologized to a client I passed at the net by whipping a backhand by him, he told me that he liked it. He said, “I enjoy being abused. That’s what I pay you for.” Before that, I never realized that I doubled as a dominatrix.
Other men, usually the older guys, just want my company and will spend a lot of the hour talking about their wives, their jobs, their kids and why they are so out of shape. They’re curious about what I do when I’m not playing/teaching tennis. I try to keep my private life separate. That is none of their business. I’m just trying to make a buck.
The women are more businesslike and strictly want to become better players. They appreciate the instruction, and usually try their hardest to do what I tell them. When their games improve, they start being nicer to me, trusting me more and talking to me like maybe I’m not just a tennis whore. Sometimes they will tell me about how tired they are from redesigning their country homes in the Hamptons. Ask my opinion on what kind of decks they should put on their houses. They’ll tell me about how hard it is to raise a child with attention deficit disorder. They’ll tell me how their husbands criticize the way their bodies look after having children, and how lucky I am to be single. I keep it confidential. That’s my job.
This one client, Shirl, wanted to break me free of tennis whoredom. Newly divorced with two kids, she wanted me to go on a double date with her. “He’s a doctor,” she said, “Bald…but he’s built and he’s loaded.” I guess she saw that as my only way out of The Life.
On Tuesdays I teach the kids; the kids of very wealthy Upper East Siders. Many have some kind of lesson after school every single day of the week. Mondays acting class, Wednesdays ice-skating, Thursdays swimming, Fridays ballroom dancing, Tuesdays tennis with the tennis whore. They’re all cute. Some are spoiled and don’t behave. Many don’t want to be there, but their parents want them to have all the trappings of an upwardly-mobile-Ivy-League-country-clubbing-golf-playing life.
One eight-year-old named Tommy told me that he didn’t really like playing tennis, but he liked spending his time with me. “You are much nicer than my mom,” he told me. Knowing he was probably right, but horrified at that prospect, I said, “Come on, Tommy, your mom is pretty nice.” He turned to me and said, “No, Jill, she’s not.” Poor kid. But in that hour that he’s with me, I make sure to keep him happy and make him feel good about himself. That’s my job.
Only once did I make the mistake of taking my work home with me. Or actually to a client’s home. Mixing business with so-called pleasure. A big no-no for a tennis whore.
I was teaching a handsome, wealthy man named Mark, whom I played every week. He owned several restaurants in Manhattan. He was always my last lesson/trick of the night. Afterward, he would usually ask me to have a drink with him. He was a wine collector and had a full wine cellar. “Come on,” he’d say, “you’re not going to let me drink a bottle by myself, are you?” I would always decline. I was attracted to him, but knew he would never take a tennis whore as his girlfriend. I was way too common.
But one night I was so tired of resisting Mark’s offers, and lusted for a tasty sip of rich red wine. I went with him to his four-story brownstone on the Upper East Side, blocks away from the tennis club. It was magnificent. The only time I had ever been in a townhouse that size was when I used to cater private parties, wearing a tux. I’d never gone in as a guest before. Especially a sweaty, salty guest who had sticky tennis clothes clinging to her body.
Then I thought about it. This was my big chance. I saw Pretty Woman. I knew what could happen if things went my way. I imagined us going shopping at Paragon and trying on all sorts of tennis skirts, matching tops, Fila, Reebok, Nike, Adidas, warmup suits and sneakers; sitting in box seats at the U.S. Open and Wimbledon, going to the most elegant gyms, clinking Gatorade bottles, visiting the most elite spas in the world. This could be my way out of tennis whoredom. We entered a small hallway that went into his kitchen. A child’s Big Wheel obstructed the way. There were pictures of his wife and children all over the walls and his wedding ring was on the kitchen counter. I guess I should have immediately fled the scene, but I really wanted to see the rest of his apartment. We climbed the stairs to the library on the third floor. He opened some merlot, offered me some pot and poured my red velvety liquid into his daughter’s pink plastic Barbie cup. Very kinky. I declined the pot because everyone thinks that tennis whores do drugs. I wanted to break the stereotype, and besides, you can’t get too relaxed when you are around clients. You must always have an edge. Always be one step ahead of them.
After he confided in me about an affair he had with a Brazilian stripper, I decided it was time for me to leave. Taking my last sip of the best wine I ever had in my life, I pushed myself away from the table, tennis racket in hand, and excused myself. I carried the racket in a professional way, but also in a way that could be seen as semi-threatening. I didn’t want Mark to feel too safe or like I would be too easy. He followed me downstairs to the doorway. I thanked him for the wine, turned my head so he would get cheek when he kissed me, and bolted out the door. That’s another thing. Never kiss a client on the lips. Since that evening, I have kept my tennis life very separate from my private life. I stopped teaching Mark, replacing myself with another tennis whore for his lessons. That is what we do when these things happen. Replace ourselves, move on to other clients and try not to mix business with pleasure ever again.
The worst part of being a tennis whore is that tennis isn’t as much fun to play, because it becomes associated with work. Your game weakens; tennis becomes more about servicing others than improving your own playing. Often, a tennis whore must come up with other activities that he/she can enjoy to replace the activity of tennis.
I don’t mean to sound like I am complaining. I love my job. I am a free agent, virtually my own boss, don’t have anyone looking over my shoulder when I’m on the court, make decent money and get to do something that is physical and keeps me in shape. As far as servicing others and making them feel more confident about themselves, their prowess, their bodies, giving them a place to release their tension and anxieties, I enjoy providing those things. That’s my job.
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A contributing writer to The Village Voice, Freshyarn.com, The New York Press, Penthouse, Inside Kung Fu, Martial Arts and Combat Sports and Gear Magazine, Jill also co-produced/co-wrote two radio documentaries for “The World” and “This American Life,” which aired on NPR.
Morley wrote and performed the critically acclaimed play, “True Confessions of a Go-Go Girl.” It was produced in Manhattan for five years, San Francisco’s “Solo Mio Festival,” The “Texas Fringe Festival”, LA’s HBO Workspace, and opened Women’s History Month at NYU. “True Confessions” is published in The Best Women’s Plays of 1998. and is being made into a Lifetime Movie of the Week that will air in August.
Jill is honored to have her monologues published in several monologue collections by Gerald Lee Ratliff along with Arthur Miller, Steve Martin, David Hare,and Wendy Wasserstein. Her short story, “Teaching Rose” was published in the collection by Russ Kick, Everything You Know About Sex is Wrong.
Jill also worked with Academy Award nominee Brazilian director, Bruno Barreto, revising dialogue on his film, Bus 174, based on the award winning documentary.
