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A New York Escorts Confessions

Many of you will find this hard to believe, but I’m actually a yard sale/tag sale/stoop sale junkie. There is nothing better than rifling though someone else’s stuff early on a Saturday morning in the country when you’re out of town visiting friends. Who knew that the reason they call them squirrel-cage fans was because back in the Victorian age there were real squirrels running on a wheel to create a breeze? Who knew there was actually a board game from the 60’s called The Kennedy’s? Who knew you could find a cowboy lamp made out of an actual cowboy boot — and more importantly, who knew someone would buy it?

Well one day last year I was visiting some of my brother’s friends in New Paltz. Rob and Cate are so nice — they’ve offered their extra bedroom to me whenever I want a little break from all that is this fabulous city we call home. And their house is so cool, full of funky antiques, old quilts, architectural salvage and the like.

So Cate and I got up that Saturday and hit the pavement. The first two were nothing special — a lot of used kids toys and bad fashion from Kmart, but the third… We took one look and knew we’d hit pay dirt. Someone had an incredible eye for vintage fashion. There were fur stoles, garter belts, 70’s leopard pants. And then I saw it. The perfect dress.

It was an off-white sundress with a fine pattern of gold, olive and red. You could tell it was old because the colors were so different, so of another era. It was fitted in the bust and flowed out to just below the knee. Sweet but sexy, understated but bold. I just had to try it on.

And when I did, the world stopped. It fit me purrrrr-fectly. I looked at the mirror propped up against the white picket fence and suddenly a breeze picked up and blew the skirt up ever so slightly. Holy cow! I was Marilyn Monroe standing over the vent in that famous movie scene. Sure I had red hair and glasses and — okay why didn’t I at least put on a little cover up — but I was a goddess. I turned to the woman of the house and asked her how much she wanted for it. She in turn asked me how much I wanted to pay for it. Was this a trick question? “Um, ” I said. “$2?” “Okay” she said.

I handed over my two bucks just before I came.

Three days later I was walking down Elizabeth Street in Soho with my new va-va-voom dress and an even newer pair of Moschino floral slides (well, after all, I did get a bargain with the dress…) when I was stopped not once, not twice, not three times, not four times, but FIVE times by gorgeous fashinistas who had to know where I got it. Nothing makes you feel more powerful as a girl than a little fashion envy thrown in every now and then.

The dress proved to be a big hit with men too — though it never seemed to actually stay on very long in their presence. That became a problem during one unfortunate splooge accident. So now I had to wash it.

I know I should have taken it to the dry cleaner. I know it was vintage and therefore probably delicate. But I was in a hurry and a conveniently-located washing machine was after all just down the stairs. So I threw it in, dried it on the fluff cycle, put it on, and began to rush out the door. On the way out I gave myself a cursory look in the mirror.

Wait a second. Wait just one second. Why was my left breast suddenly three inches higher than the right? Why did the back of the dress suddenly have a plunging line down to the very top of my thong?! Oh no! Oh no! Oh nooooo!

“Waaaaaaaa!”

“Okay Alexa it is okay.”

That was Stan my tailor trying to console me.

“Favorite-waaa-waaa-$2-New Paltz-waaa-Soho-Moschino-hurry-waaaaaa!!!!!!”

“It is only the elastic. You see? We fix! We fix and it is good as new, yes? Alexa I promise. Let me see this beautiful smile of yours, yes? Come on. Come now for Stan.”

I managed to stop blubbering for a full minute. “Really”, I said between sniffs. “You can fix it really? You’re not making it up?”

“For fifteen thousand, yes.”

Fifteen thousand in Stan parlance meant $15. He’d been making the same joke for five years. I giggled despite myself.

“Very good. Okay. No more of this crying while I pin it.”

One week later with a skip in my step I went to retrieve the perfect — now hopefully perfectly resuscitated — dress. I entered Stan’s studio, but it seemed to be empty. Hmmm. That was weird. I’d often imagined that Stan was always at work since he could pretty reliably be found in the exact position I left him in the visit before. “Stan? Stan? It’s Alexa. Are you there?”

It was then that I first laid my eyes on Maro…