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A New York Escorts Confessions

Maven first published the story on his friend’s blog LA Dating but told me it’d be OK for me to post the story on my blog as well. Check out LA Dating as well — the owner has some really great articles on knowing your league in online dating

Alexa -

As promised, my buddy who’s trying to start an LA Dating weblog has
posted one of my stories: An L.A. “Pick-Up” Story.

Please let me know what you think. Writing about booty is sort of a
new thing for me, I might need some practice (at the writing, not the booty). Plus, it was only after reading your site that I felt
compelled to write something up. Cheers to your influence!

Best,
Maven

Thanks for the kind words, Maven! :) Now, without further ado…

An L.A. “Pick-Up” Story

I picked up Tracy at the Trader Joe’s on La Brea. She was bending over, examining a carton of eggs when I first noticed her, dressed in a white wife-beater with her bra showing through it, holding up her beautiful breasts. I’d been out until 6:30 a.m. the night before, and perhaps she mistook my prolonged attempt to focus my hung-over eyes on her chest as some sort of sexy stare, because when she caught me looking she returned the gaze. I made a few awkward attempts at friendly conversation, at one point recommending some canned pink salmon, yet despite my bumbling she agreed to give me her number. I walked Tracy and her groceries to her car, a brand new white Mercedes S-Class. Score, I figured, the girl is loaded.

A few days later we talked on the phone. She asked what I did for a living, I told her, and then asked her the same. “I don’t like to tell people that when I first meet them,” she said – an odd answer.

“Why not,” I said, and trying to be playful, asked, “are you a stripper?”

A pause. “Well,” she replied, “I prefer to call my self a ‘dancer.’”

Oops. Turns out she worked in Vegas every weekend buy lived in Hollywood. After I managed to remove the foot out of my mouth and smooth out the awkwardness that ensued, she invited me to meet up with her and a friend at the bar at the Four Seasons on Doheny the following day. I told her I’d think about it.

The next day I called my buddy Clay at the last minute and told him we had to go meet up with a couple of strippers. He agreed, and we headed to the bar. I forgot I told Tracy I’d call her beforehand, and by the time we arrived at the Four Seasons, she and her friend were on their last drink. They apologized, but they’d already planned to grab some sushi. They assured us they’d call when they were done.

Clay gave up and went home, I went back to my house. An hour later, my phone rings. It’s Tracy. Her friend “got tired and went home.”
She wanted to hang out. She didn’t want to go to a bar. She wanted to come to my place.

Perhaps every guy wants to hook up with a stripper. Maybe it’s the taboo dirtiness that’s so attractive, maybe it’s the unattainability of the whole endeavor, I don’t really know. All I know is that I no longer was just in this for myself. Guys everywhere were counting on me to be a hero. So naturally, under all this pressure, I started off trying too hard. While Tracy was on her way to my apartment, I lit candles, put Sade in the stereo, and even straightened up a bit. Poor girl didn’t know what to do with me. After half an hour of trying to throw the mack down and her just sort of squirming away from me, I gave up, told her “fuck this,” replaced the Sade, and hopped out onto the patio for a smoke.

Somehow, this got her attention, and Tracy asked to join me. She asked me to help her down from the window ledge. I lifted her up by her hips, and when I lowered to the ground, her legs wrapped around me and she slid down like I was a pole. She kissed me lightly on my lower lip (cigarette dangling from my mouth) and made out with me. I lit her a smoke of her own, we chatted for a bit, and suddenly she claims, “That cigarette made me a little light headed — can I go lie down?”

“Sure,” I replied. I felt bad. That harsh American Spirit made her lightheaded, how could I not have anticipated that? Of course she can go lie down.

Already lying on my bed by the time I got to my bedroom, Tracy had changed out of her jeans into a pair of my workout shorts. She asked me to spoon. She wouldn’t kiss me, she kept my hand away from her breasts, which was sincerely frustrating. Then she asked me for a massage. It was the massage that allowed me to take off her shirt, unhook her bra, slip off the shorts of mine she was wearing.

I rubbed Tracy’s ass. She tensed up, but I didn’t care. She had an incredible ass! All I could think about was tearing off her thong and hitting it from behind. But she wouldn’t take off her thong. All the while though, no panties were coming off, and her hands were affixed to her breasts like the suction cups that CIA guys use to climb up glass buildings. I gave up, and lay down next to her, frustrated. I patted her lightly on the butt one last time and told her, “enough of that.”

A pause. “Spank me,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Spank me.” She said it louder this time, a little more authoritatively. I smacked her on the ass. “Harder.” I smacked her harder. She exhaled and wriggled a little. I slapped her again. She moaned.

Then I went at it, spanking her like a little girl who just stole some candy. “I want to spank you,” she demanded. I had to think about this.

“OK.” Why the hell not?

So I lie down and this stripper I picked up at Trader Joe’s is slapping my ass. While I’m getting spanked, I took a moment to reflect on the situation, one in which I’m not sure I ever expected to find myself. Soon I got bored with being spanked and I flipped her back over and started spanking her again. Then her phone rang. It was 1:30 in the morning.

“Hello? No. Are you drunk? You want me to cover over where? Not a fucking chance.” Etcetera. Tracy hung up. “Fucking asshole.”

“Who was that?”

“This guy — some actor. Jared Letto or Lee-toe or something like that.”

Beat.

“Jared Leto?”

“Yeah.”

“That was Jared Leto?”

“Yeah, do you know him?”

“How do you know Jared Leto?”

“I met him at a gas station.”

“Jared Leto picked you up at a gas station?”

“He didn’t pick me up. Besides, I didn’t even know who he was. He just sort of leaned out his window and started cracking jokes at me.”
It was just now sinking in: Jared Leto had just interrupted my little spankfest with a Vegas stripper, making a booty call. “I went over to his house.”

“You went over to Jared Leto’s house after you just met him at a gas station?”

“Yeah, that’s why he was just calling. He wanted me to come over again. We didn’t have sex or anything.”

“Yeah?”

“He kept trying to have sex with me, kind of like you. But I wasn’t into it.”

“So what the hell were you doing at his house?”

“I don’t know.”

“He must have been frustrated.”

“Yeah, he was.”

“No fucking shit.”

I rolled over, faced away from her. She started to touch my arm, she began to kiss me again. I tried to touch her breasts again, and she wiggled away. I thought about the situation, about how I had to be at work in the morning. “You’re going to get a ticket if you’re parked on the street past 2:30,” I told her.

“Oh.”

Then she got dressed and left.

Maven