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A New York Escorts Confessions
Friends (Part II)
I shrieked when Linda opened the door yesterday.
In my profession, you’re only one violent client away from a beating or a visit to the ER.
Smart providers take steps to protect themselves from the risk of assault. All the girls I know call a friend before starting a session. Clients usually get the message. Someone knows where I am and cares. And this someone might just be a big and burly guy who could make your life unpleasant.
One of my personal techniques is to screen new clients. I also only meet new clients who are staying in an upscale hotel such as the W. (Of course, bad people can stay in nice hotels too. But this one requirement works well — you know that there are a lot of people around who are paying attention.) Most clients, in fact, are referred by my current clients. Of course, not all girls have the luxury of turning away prospects… I certainly didn’t when I started out.
Linda isn’t in my profession, though…
She’s an artist who I first met at a yoga class in the Upper West Side Equinox. We’d seen each other several times because we both loved this one instructor’s class. About a year ago, we started talking after class about some movies that we’d seen. She introduced me to Jamba Juice that day and we sealed our friendship over two Kiwi Berry Burner smoothies.
When I asked Linda what happened, she first tried to switch topics by saying that she was OK and that she just needed to get back to work. When I didn’t take the hint and leave, she then said that she was in some kind of accident.
Pure bull shit.
Although she never told me exactly what happened, I’m sure that her boyfriend beat her because he’s a total jerk. I met him a couple times and know his type. Rich investment banker who thinks he’s a big swinging dick with diamond cuff links and a Porsche in the garage.
In the end, I left because Linda didn’t want to talk and I couldn’t force her to. As I was leaving, she told me that she’d be pretty busy for a while.
And now, I’m mad. Mad at her asshole boyfriend who gave her such a nice gift. Mad at Linda because she won’t let me help. And mad at myself for not doing anything about it.
I popped into my friend’s apartment for a quick visit this morning. I really craved a berry smoothie after my run around Central Park. And since Linda, my Jamba Juice buddy, lives close to the Time Warner Center, we could just go there and catch up while sipping our Kiwi Berry Burners.
Linda didn’t want to go. In fact, she didn’t even buzz me into her apartment. She claimed that she was sick and just didn’t want to get me sick too. Being my oblivious stupid self, though, I just ignored her protestations and insisted on getting her a Jamba Juice.
She stunned me when she finally let me in. A big fat shiner had started forming around the perimeter of her eye. The combination of her runny eye makeup and the bruise made her face look like one of those grotesque masks you put on for Halloween.
“Linda, what the hell happened to you?!”
This is the longest that I’ve gone without writing anything since I started my blog last summer. With a lot of client meetings and the arrival of spring, laziness seeped in. And as the days passed and the weather warmed up, getting back to the blog got harder.
It’s just like working out. You can never stop. Or else you won’t go back.
But now, I miss you. I really do. And I need to maintain my little outlet for my own sanity. So I’m now back. Re-committed to writing posts.
If I stop writing again, you must discipline me. Tie me up. Pull down my panties. Bend me over your knees. Spank me till my cheeks are red and hot. Please!
One post per day will keep the therapist away (I hope).
Carnival of Sin #18
John Psmyth has been kind enough to post this week’s Carnival. I’m going to take a 1 week break.
Next Carnival will be published here on Monday, April 18. Submit your stories now.
Daddy Dearest Redux
What is it about families? Even though I hated my dad for completely fucking my mom years ago, I agreed to meet with him two weekends ago. I don’t know why. Maybe I wanted to tell him fuck off to his face. Maybe I wanted to scream at him for all the hurt that he caused.
We met at a diner on the Upper West Side for brunch. I arrived a couple minutes late. Until I actually stepped into the diner, I’d been continually struggling with myself about whether I should show up. Even after getting to the diner, I wanted to leave. By meeting my dad, wasn’t I betraying my mom?
My dad got up when he saw me and tried to hug me. I didn’t respond. Why should I?
“Alexa, thank you so much for coming out to meet me.”
“I’m still not sure why I’m here. What do you want from me?”
“I just… I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for what I did to your mom and to our family.”
“Um, you should’ve thought about that when you decided to sleep with that skanky secretary of yours. And please don’t call it ‘our family.’”
“I know. I know. I know how you feel, but please believe me when I tell you how sorry I am.”
“You don’t know how I feel. And how did you get my phone number?”
“Your brother gave it to me.”
“I hate him.” My brother occasionally talks with my dad, but I had told him to not give my dad any info about me.
“Please don’t hate your brother.”
“I don’t. But he shouldn’t have given you my phone number.”
“I know. He warned me that you didn’t want to see me. I really needed to see you, though…”
“Well, I’m here now. What do you want from me?”
So that’s how the first conversation with my dad in more than 6 years began.
Eating a light salad and soup, my dad told me how he had been diagnosed with stomach cancer a couple years ago. The doctors had given him only a 50-50 chance of beating the cancer. As he went through surgery followed by an aggressive course of chemo and radiation therapy, the prospect of dying alone frightened him. (After a couple years, his secretary had left him for an even richer man.)
He told me that he had prayed to God. He promised to God that he would reach out to all of us and try to make amends if God would only let him live. Now that the cancer was in remission, he wanted to hold up his end. And so here we were.
At first, I wanted to ask him how he dared to invoke God’s name when he had been the one to desecrate our family. Looking at his now sunken face, though, I couldn’t. My dad’s illness and treatment had taken an obvious toll on my dad. His full face had been replaced with sagging jowls and a wrinkled forehead. Where once he had a full head of dark hair, he now had many streaks of grey. You could almost see some parts of his scalp because his hair was so thin places. I felt too sorry for him to be vindictive.
I hate my dad. I hate him for leaving us. I hate him for entering my life again and for re-awakening all these memories. I hate him for being sick and making me feel sorry for him. But, at the end of lunch, I still agreed to see him again in the future…
So why am I writing this blog? I have an inner exhibitionist that just needs to be let out. I've always wanted to bare myself completely in front of strangers but have always been held back by fear.
As strange as it may sound, I've never really truly bared myself in front of any of my clients. For all that they've seen, they've never seen me be me. And for all that I've seen, I simply need to share it with you!
So why should you come? To be tantalized and teased. To get release by knowing the true me.
I promise that I won't bite, and if I do bite, I'll make sure you like it!
my favorite posts
- Caveat Vendor - Part II
- Selling Out (Part III)
- Poops!... I Did It Again!
- My First Escorting Experience
- My First Lesbian Experience
- Daddy's Little Girl (Part II)
- Selling Out (Part III)
- February 2007
- January 2007
- December 2006
- November 2006
- October 2006
- September 2006
- August 2006
- July 2006
- June 2006
- May 2006
- April 2006
- March 2006
- February 2006
- January 2006
- December 2005
- November 2005
- October 2005
- September 2005
- August 2005
- July 2005
- April 2005
- March 2005
- February 2005
- January 2005
- December 2004
- November 2004
- October 2004
- September 2004
- August 2004