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A New York Escorts Confessions
‘Twas the night before Xmas…
…and all through Mom’s house
Not a creature was stirring, not even Neal (that louse)
My stockings I slid off my legs with great care
As I ran my hands over skin, which was bare
Jen and Pete should be nestled all snug in their bed,
And Tyler and Emma were both sleepy-heads
So I in my nightie in lieu of a date
Lay down on my pillow to masturbate
The moon on my breasts cast a silvery glow
How could I but help when my hand snuck below?
When out on the lawn there arose such a ruckus
I sprang from the bed and thought, oh hell, well fuck it
Away to the window I stumbled and dashed,
Tore open the shutters, knocked over my stash.
When, what to my wandering eyes should appear,
But a god-like man with a build like a steer?
With a chest that barreled, and a bulge that was thick
I knew in a moment that must be his dick.
He was dressed like Santa, but not quite the same
And he whistled, and whispered, and called me by name;
“Oh Alexa! You prancer! You fibber, you vixen!
What is it these tales I’ve heard you’ve been mixing?
With S threatening suicide, and Tanya you playing
No one would believe one word you are saying!”
Well I gasped and I gulped and I cried my defense
“My goodness, my gracious, how I do take offense!
Why people will ask me all sorts of things
To wear a dick like a man, to be a girl from Beijing
A stewardess, an heiress, their mother, a doll
It’s a wonder I ever get to be myself at all!”
With that I drew in my head, and was turning around,
When up the drainpipe he shimmied and came in with a bound.
He was dressed in red leather, from his head to his feet
And he unzipped his fly without missing a beat
Before I could flee he flung me hard on my back
“You’ve been naughty, not nice.” My behind he did smack!
His hands how they grasped me! His penis how scary!
Each thrust I could feel from my heart to my cherry
He pulled at my hair and bit my bare shoulder
Who wanted to be nice when naughty felt bolder?
But a liar I’m not, not at all how you think
So with regret I stopped him, right there on the brink
“Dear sir, your punishment deserves a harsh crime
But of crimes I have none, not a one, not this time
S does exist and Tanya does too
But I didn’t go to Montgomery; to my mother I was true.
I told S to be honest, to get help, to be brave
I told my mother I’d bring her the pies that she craved
I told Jen I was thrilled with the news of my niece
I told Pete that with Neal I’d try and keep the peace
So you see Sadist Santa there’s nothing to do
If you’re looking for naughty, I’m just not your screw”
Well with that he did shrink, his manhood an elf
And I sobbed when I saw it, in spite of myself
With a blink of his eye and a nod of his head,
He led me to know no orgasm lay ahead
He spoke not a word, but went back as he came.
And I knew I had no one but myself to blame.
I stared at the ceiling and said with a sigh
“Next year on Christmas I’ll be sure to lie.”
Southern Winds
Ugh! Blast the transit strike! In the past two days I had hiked to Union Square Crafts Market to get Copa soaps and Bellamuse cards for my cousins. I had hitched a ride to Williams Sonoma to buy Pete and Jennifer the roaster they wanted. And today there I was, hoofing it back from Grand Central after picking up my newly-fixed formerly-decapitated marionette from Prague. Don’t ask. Needless to say when my cell rang at 72nd street, I was far from my normally sweet self.
“Yeah what.”
“…oh. Sor—I was looking for Alexa? But—”
“Wait wait. S??! Is that you?”
Alexa?”
“Oh my God! No way! How the hell are you stranger?” S had moved to Montgomery, Alabama in August.
“I didn’t think it was you.”
“Fucking transit strike. Holy cow—the Seahawks!”
“I know!”
“12 and 2. Did you see the Chargers game!? The Hawks could actually beat the Colts. What do you think? Is Holmgren going to have Matt and Shaun start?”
S. had turned me on to the Seattle Seahawks about three years ago, when they pretty much sucked. Actually that was how we met. He was the hand surgeon for one of the people I used to see regularly (a stockbroker who had slammed his own hand in his own car door. Don’t ask). We would meet every Sunday lose or lose at a dive called the Bullmoose Saloon in Hell’s Kitchen. Frankly I was surprised S kept calling me since he didn’t seem to actually want company while I was there. Week after week all he did was drink crap beer and stare dejectedly at the screen. After game five I started sneaking off the bathroom to read US Weekly.
Gradually though S warmed up to me. It turns out his wife Callie had left him six months before. The two of them used to watch the Hawks play together every week since she was an even bigger fan than he was. According to S it was the sweetest, most delectable part of the marriage. What could I say. I was moved.
“So. Tell me. Montgomery? I hear they’ve got some good hands down there, huh?
“Yeah. Yeah. It’s alright”
“And the lovely Miss Tanya?”
Tanya was the reason S had made the move South in the first place. She was from a small town near Birmingham. They had met online and fallen hard for each other. S soon flew Tanya out to New York, where they immediately realized they couldn’t be apart a minute longer. In January they eloped to St. John. Unfortunately the honeymoon was short-lived. When they got back, try as she did Tanya just couldn’t adjust to the life of a Northerner. She missed her family, she missed the weather, she missed the land and trees and hills of the South. Ergo the job in Montgomery.
S was quiet. “Hello? S? Are you there?…S? Did I lose you?”
“Yeah. No, I’m here”
Something was definitely wrong. “…what is it? S?”
“Tanya…she left me.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. Oh God. Walked out on in not one but two marriages? My heart ached for him. I stood there dumb, not knowing what to say. Suddenly out of nowhere a group of Catholic school girls plowed right into me. Up went the box with the marionette in it. Down came the marionette without the box. And there it lay on the sidewalk—decapitated anew.
Jesus. There goes Mom’s Christmas present. Again.
“Okay I’m going to go into a cafe and sit down so I can talk to you, okay? Don’t go anywere.”
So he told me the story. Tanya and he had had a few blissful months after the move. They had even started turning the third bedroom into a nursery. But slowly she started finding fault with him. He was spending too much time at the hospital. He was watching too much television when he came home. One hour and forty minutes was still too far from her family. S proposed moving closer to them. Just when they were about to close on a new house though she ran off—with her dentist.
“The thing is Alexa…I—I don’t think she ever loved me.”
“Oh honey. I’m so so sorry.”
“And I could deal with it all, I really could. I like my job. It’s kind of nice being in— somewhere new. But—it’s just—mmm—we invited my entire family down here for Christmas. They’re coming on Friday. My brother and his three kids. My mom. My cousin Max and his family—
“—and they don’t know.”
“…no.”
“S—they’re your family. They’ll support you. It’s—”
“No. No they won’t. They—they told me we were rushing into things. They—”
“But you’re going to have to. They’re going to find out, I mean soon. Imminently. You’re so much better off—”
“Please come down here.”
“Wai—what?”
“Please. Please Alexa. I’ll fly you down. I’ve already gotten you a ticket. They’ve they’ve never actually met Tanya—
“Wait. Wait. You—are you saying—you want me to to…impersonate Tanya—”
“Just for a week, just Christmas and New Years—I—I’ve heard you. You do a great southern accent and—”
“I’m going to Virginia. I’m going to my Mom’s—
“I can get us Playoff tickets”
“But it’s not about—”
“In the front of the Hawk’s Nest. On Qwest Field. You could take home a football.”
I could see Shaun Alexander in person. I could watch a historic win when the Seahawks actually won a playoff game. I could—wait wait. What was I thinking. “I’m sorry. S I just can’t. I can’t disappoint my family.”
“Alexa. I am begging you. If you’re not here…I don’t know if I can—if I can…make it…”
Shit! I think he means it. What should I do?
A Little Christmas
We have enough Hallmark Cards and Hallmark Hall of Fame specials to tell us what the true spirit of Christmas is. We have enough tinny Christmas songs assaulting us at every single store in the entire five boroughs letting us know just how special this time of year is.
It’s enough to make a girl go Grinch.
But even us hardened New Yorkers like to see our share of miracles once in a while. Here’s one to talk about ‘round the fire.
The story was awful. Katrina writ large but in a single family.
The extended family had been living in several houses side by side in the 9th Ward. When the waters came, eleven gathered in one house.
Ten of them died.
The eleventh has disappeared. Survivor’s guilt, the family thinks.
That’s to say nothing of the previous traumas the family’s been through. Like the time when there was an electrical fire in one of the houses a decade ago and one of the kids ended up with third degree burns over eighty percent of her body.
Sometimes it just doesn’t pay to be a poor black person in this country.
Two women and their five children are now in Baton Rouge with next to nothing. One of the mothers is diabetic, which makes it hard for her to stand in line for all the things Katrina victims now have to stand in line for. But she perseveres. She’s even volunteering in the Recovery Effort
The women confided in one of their relatives, the sole one living in New York, that they didn’t have enough to buy the kids Christmas gifts, let alone try to scrounge together enough for basic necessities. He in turn told their story to his friend Tess. And that’s when things got interesting.
Tess produces commercials which means she cleans up at Christmas. Actors turn out to be pretty darn generous at the end of the year when it concerns those who just might be able to snag them a job. Sure she loves the bottles of Dom Perignon, the homemade cookies, the fancy bath products, but it wasn’t what she needed.
What she needed was this:
“Portable DVD player (2)
Sony Discman (5)
Hand held Nintendo game player (2)
Games, CD’s, DVDs for the above
Books (anyone daring enough to figure out what teenagers are reading?) Kmart gift certificates (the only store they know they can get to. Any number in any amount)
Clothing (jeans, t-shirts, sweatshirts, fleece jackets) The girls are tiny-sized 5 and 9 and the littest one is a real girly girl and the boys (surprise surprise) love everything supersized (XX or XXX) and prefer anything that screams hip hop and trendy…”
The email went out to everyone she knew, myself included, along with the family’s story. And suddenly before she knew it, Tess had $3500—in addition to almost everything already on that list.
What to do then, but make a bigger list? Tess went to Target. She bought each family member a toothbrush, a stick of deodorant, a towel. She bought hair care products and nail polish and socks. She bought mascara and lip gloss and chapstick and slippers and towels and aspirin and hairbrushes and soap.
Yesterday she was in a panic.
“Lex You’ve got to help me.”
“What? What’s the matter?”
“This woman—she’s she’s amazing. I mean through it all she’s still standing. She’s working in a soup kitchen while they’re looking for housing, she’s taking care of her dead sister’s kids and she’s—Jesus can you imagine? Losing ten—I think of what it means to lose—I mean—if—even-four—
“Tess you’ve got to take a breath.”
“I know but—”
“What’s going on?
“I’m I’m standing in Lane Bryant. What does a 40-something African-American woman from Louisiana wear?”
According to us she now wears a brown accordian skirt a purple sweater and sensible heels.
As for me, I was all over that girly-girl—who I hope on Christmas will be wearing a grey velvet hoodie with a little heart charm for a zipper.
Bah humbug indeed.
Say Pees!
The other night I came in late. The door to my building was locked and my doorman Denny was nowhere to be found. I buzzed a couple of times and finally he popped his head up from behind the desk. His face was a deep deep shade of red. Hmmm.
“Aha. Up to no good I presume?” I said when he finally let me in.
“Lex! What’s happenin’?” He slapped me five. I’ve been Denny’s favorite tenant ever since I made him and the rest of the staff ginger cookies last Christmas. And it wasn’t just that they were good cookies. The doormen, porters, and super were particularly touched since I royally blew the cookies. I had taken the time to get some holiday cookie cutters but had forgotten the proverb that yes Virginia, cookies EXPAND when you put them in the oven. So instead of cute little shapes I got ginger…well, blobs. Denny thought they looked like Rorschach tests. Each time I came down to go out he would pull one out and declare: “Lex, looky—it’s a ginger narwhale!” Or: “Hey hey. I got it. A hockey puck—with the stick still stuck in it, right?” Or: “You know how a cow like eats its cud then spews?”
Tonight though, Denny wasn’t his usual offbeat self. Well maybe he was. But he certainly had something to hide. The second I looked behind his desk he jumped in front of the security cameras.
“Denny…?”
“Alexa…”
“…Whatcha watching?”
“Nothing.”
Uh huh. This was definitely weird. Denny was usually more than happy to tell me what was on his computer at the moment. I think he took the night shift specifically to indulge in his favorite hobby—watching horror movies. Since I myself am a big horror junkie, he was normally more than happy to tell me about all the special features on the reissue of the first The Fog for example.
Only now a quick look at his desk and I could see his computer wasn’t even there. Which was even more odd. Because the other thing I know about Denny is that he checks his Ebay bids on an hourly basis. No way he was going cold turkey.
“…Where’s your computer?”
“Being fixed.”
“You fix your own computer, liar.”
We stared each other down. After a minute though I decided to give up the ghost and go upstairs. After all I had better things to do at 2:00 in the morning than stand in my drafty lobby. Like brush my teeth. “You win,” I said tossing my head.
I walked by the desk when all of a sudden—
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“What? What the hell?” Denny ran around the desk to me. And I slipped around the other side.
I know. I don’t fight fair.
“Alexa! You—”
Whatever I thought was actually behind the desk I wasn’t prepared for what I now saw. Because Denny’s laptop was hooked up to the security monitors by a bunch of wires. And was currently UNDER the desk. With a stack of DVD’s next to it.
“Why are you recording the security camera footage?”
“Shit. You’re not going to tell Stan, are you?”
“I don’t know what you’re doing how could I tell—”
The door buzzed. Denny rushed to the button. A large man came in lugging a suitcase. He looked at me as I stood up from behind the desk. “Hello Mr. Kubovy,” Denny covered. “Welcome home. Do you need help with those bags?”
“That’s all right…”
We waited until we heard the bell of Mr. Kubovy’s elevator going up.
“You can’t tell anyone.”
“Okay…”
He pointed to the monitors. “Okay. You know how these face onto different parts of the streets outside the building right?”
“Yeah”
“Camera one. Behind the loading dock? Most likely place for people to get busy.”
“No way.”
“I’m not lying”
“On a quiet side street on the Upper West Side?”
“Yup.”
“Like what time are we talking?”
“Usually around 4:00.”
Wow. My nice neighborhood. A sex den.
“Camera four? The place where most girls take a piss.”
“Girls? You’re kidding—”
“Look.” He put one of the DVD’s in his computer. It was blank. Then an abrupt cut to a bird’s eye view of a woman in a long coat squatting. When she walked away, you could see the puddle sort of following her for a bit until it poured out of screen. Then there was a jump to another head. In this one you could see the girl had her skirt hiked up. She looked around furtively, then watched herself peeing.
There were six in total. In one a guy tried to block a woman from the view of the street by chivalrously standing in front of her and spreading his coat. No one in any of these things ever bothered to look up.
“That one was my first,” he said fondly, as we watched two woman peeing together. “June of last year. I remember.”
I thought about this for a second. The stack of DVD’s next to the computer…”Wait. So you’re like…selling these?”
“Shhhh!” Then he grinned. “I’m going to be like the ‘Girls Gone Wild’ guy. Millions. You can’t believe how many people I got asking for these. And I got my boy Pedro on West 87th? He’s going to check out his building’s security system. They
got a real good alley there. What do you think of calling it “Girls Gone Potty?”
What did I think? I think I’m never ever going to pee on the streets of New York.
The Conversation
“Are you a filmmaker?”
When you’re an attractive woman in New York men often approach you and ask your profession. I guess it’s a conversation starter or a sort of type A mating ritual. Usually though, the list of professions is pretty limited. “Excuse me—aren’t you an actress?” “Are you a model?” “You must be a pilates instructor.”
Filmmaker though, that was pretty unusual. Enough to make me look up from the Science Section.
He was average height about 45 with black unruly hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore heavy black-framed glasses—the kind that scream nerdy cool. Most of all I noticed his twinkle. He looked like he was full of some kind of offbeat mischief.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a filmmaker, right? Or a screenwriter?”
I must have looked utterly perplexed because he started motioning next to me. “Your bag.” I looked at the floor in front of me. There was a black bag with the letters IFP on it. I had never seen it before in my life.
My heart went into my throat. Shit! I grabbed the wrong black bag from the yoga studio. My wallet! My phone! My yoga card!
“Scuse me guys.” A lithe blond reached between us and grabbed the bag. With a swing of her ponytail she pushed her way through the cafe and left. Right. My bag was exactly where I left it. In my lap. Duh.
I looked back up at my mystery suitor, who suddenly looked exposed and off guard. And consequently…very weirdly cute.
“Well, there goes that line of conversation, huh?”
He laughed. “Yeah…”
“Alexa.”
He shook my hand and nodded. “I’m M.”
“…and you’re a filmmaker yourself?” He certainly looked the part.
“Well oh— I did just finish my first documentary last year. So yes. Yeah I…yeah. But I’m mostly a war photographer.”
Oh.
“I just got back from Darfur”
Oh. Well. “…I hear the weather’s awfully nice this time of year.”
I know. Believe me. I’ve replayed that idiotic remark over and over in my head about a million times. But what was I supposed to say?! Oh! How goes the raping, pillaging and murdering? I tell you I was stymied. Especially since he was looking right at me, like into my core. Like he saw me.
“Oh. Um…yeah it’s hot—”
“No I mean. I meant. What I wanted to say was…Wow.”
“Oh. I wrote a journal about it that’s going to be published.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe you want to read it sometime?”
I had to give it to this guy. He had the motherlode of non-traditional pick up lines. “That would be nice actually.” He gave me his card.
Aaaaah. I met a boy. A man. But…I don’t know. Should I call him? I sounded like such an idiot. And for God’s sake, how can I measure up to a war photographer?
My Tale of—Whoa!
Envelopes can be scary things, can’t they? Stationary that’s penned in a hand you hoped to never see again, a letter from the IRS, a scrawled missive from your landlord—
A jury summons.
Drat! Double Drat!
On closer inspection though, it turns out it’s a juror qualification questionnaire, NOT a summons.
Phew. But still…
I actually sat on a jury right when I came to New York. Frankly, I was surprised the lawyers picked me. It was a grand larceny case. A young woman had been attacked coming out of one of the Harlem subway stops and her gold chain was ripped off of her neck. The attorneys questioned each of us perspectives and asked us if we’d ever experienced anything similar.
OK, yuck. I thought back to the time I was sexually assaulted on the Paris Metro. When it came to be my turn, I tried to pull back on the details a bit since I didn’t want to well, make anyone in the courtroom vomit. Clearly though my tale of woe now lacked the crucial details to get me released. Shit. I always did find a way to overcompensate.
The case was a single witness case, which means only the victim saw her attacker and identified him fifteen minutes later. The chain was never found. Lest you think this was no big deal, the victim was traumatized enough to move from New York a month after it happened. And when she took the stand, it was the first time in a year she had been back.
The potential perp turned out to be an African-American man who was exactly my age. I mean his birthday was the same day AND the same year. I couldn’t help staring at him and feeling some weird sort of kinship. He was so young! What would happen to him if he was convicted? Could he really have done it? He looked so like a regular guy.
Uch. One witness case. African-American accused. All I kept thinking of was the statistics. Another black man sent to prison. How was the prosecutor going to provide enough evidence to convince me either way? I didn’t want to be part of our messed up system.
Race does really have a way of raising its angry head in these kind of environments I’ll tell you. There were two African-Americans on the jury. One of them actually worked at a police station in Harlem, though not in the precinct where the crime took place. She was resolute that this guy was not guilty. When other jurists tried to press her, though, she wouldn’t provide a reason. In fact she was downright hostile, and looked at all of us—except the other African-American man—like we were accusing her of something.
We were sequestered for four hours. We asked the judge if we could be read the definition for reasonable doubt. And ultimately, we convicted the guy.
As soon as he heard the verdict he began to softly cry. I watched a single tear make its way from the corner of his eye, down the stubble of his cheek to his sweater vest. My stomach and jaw clenched. I felt hot and awful.
And that wasn’t the worst part.
Because afterwards the judge, who was an absolute peach by the way, took us into his quarters. The guy’s prior record had not been introduced as evidence, so the judge took the opportunity to read it aloud for us. Our sweet-faced potential perp? In the short span of his life, he had already been convicted of grand larceny three other times.
Say sayanora sweetheart.
No, the worst part of the case happened midway through our sequestering, when I had to go to the ladies. There was a small bathroom within the jury room and I went to make use of it just as they were bringing us lunch. I squatted over the toilet, hiked my skirt up and pulled my tights and thong down to my mid-calf. While I was peeing, I thought about the case, about our powers of memory, about all of the cases where witnesses’ recollections were later shown to be faulty. I thought about what details I remembered during tragic or unexpected circumstances. And that’s when Juror #4, opened the door on me and flashed me to juror #6, #9—and #11.
I ask you, where oh where is the justice in that?!
Have Coke and a Smile
I am spitting mad.
The other day I went out with another someone new. I’m going to change around my usual rules here, skip the initials, and well, just call him…Dick.
So Dick is a white hot trader on Wall Street specializing in new issues. He works at the same company with some men I’ve known for a while, and they all promised me he was nothing short of a prince.
The evening started off well enough. I met Dick at Masa, which is a restaurant I’ve been dying to try for quite some time.
I think there’s actually a waiting list longer than the list of people who have been, which makes it intriguing for sure, but not the main reason I wanted to go. Masa promises to deliver a sushi lover’s wet dream. Okay, that’s not exactly in the brochure, but that’s the long and short of it. It really was unique—over-the-top but understated at the same time. Because there’s no menu, it was sort of like going to a zen amusement park—you never knew what little dish was going to be brought out next. All in a tiny and spare place destined to make you feel like you’d found a food temple to worship in.
It was so zen that the environment combined with the saki made both of us a bit giggly.
“So Alexa, do you think we’re supposed to take tiny bites of our tiny morsels?” Dick said when they brought out a small plate containing only two pieces of sushi.
“Let’s try to buck them. Let’s slam the sushi and see how fast they can replace our plates.”
Dick pounded his cup of saki and slammed it on the table. The action made a resounding thwack. I choked on my tuna belly.
He may have laughed a little too hard and talked a little too fast but he was sure fun. I was enjoying myself.
Afterward Dick took us to a room at the Mandarin Oriental, which was conveniently located in the same building, the Time Warner Center. Our room was on the 39thfloor with floor to ceiling windows and a stop-your-heart view of Central Park. I swear—nothing is more beautiful than our city at night from up above. It’s enchanting. I couldn’t help gasping the second we entered. Especially when I saw the Perrier Jouet Champagne with strawberries and cream.
“Gee wilakers what do we get to do next?” I said after I checked out the amenities and the view in the bathroom. Ooh! Aromatherapy products. A rain shower! I planned to be wet all evening.
When I went back into the bedroom, Dick had a line of coke waiting for me.
“Ladies first.”
“No thanks.” Wall Streeters I had found were pretty attached to their coke. Let’s face it, if you have to perform for twenty hour days you were probably going to need some help. For me though my days of snorting were over. At the fashion rag I saw one of the editors turn into an addict. She used to made her assistant fend her from creditors and call everyday to wake her up at home. She walked around in short sleeves in the middle of January because she felt so invincible. The last I heard she had been kicked out of a heroin rehab place.
“Ah come on Lex. Loosen up.”
“Loose? You want to see loose? I can pull my leg around my head and bring you to Shangri-La at the same time. I’m that good.”
“I’m telling you, you’ll thank me. This is purity unlike anything you’ve had.”
“I think I’m gonna pass.”
“Ah Come on.”
“You go.”
“Don’t make a guy beg.”
What were we, in high school? “No means no my friend.”
I saw a brief flash of anger which vanished just as quickly. Whoah. I could tell you didn’t want to tangle with Dick.
He leaned over and did the line. ” Aaah. Mmmm. You don’t know what you’re missing. Champagne, milady?”
“Now you’re talking.” He poured me a glass then offered me a berry. I opened my mouth and closed my eyes.
“Oops. Can’t forget the cream,” he said. He teased my lips with the berry. “So what should we toast to?”
I picked up my glass. “Hmmmm—to new friends and great views.”
“Salut!”
“Opa.”
“God you have great lips. Watching you chew all night… ” He lunged for me and began to kiss, my mouth, my jaw, my neck. I went to kiss him back. After a few minutes something weird began to happen.
“I can’t feel my mouth.”
“Mmmmmmmm.”
“Dick? I said I can’t feel my mouth.”
“Feels pretty good to me. Like Candy.”
I grabbed my glass. There was traces of white powder along a part of the rim.
“You…dick! I told you I didn’t want any.”
“You’re so beautiful when you’re pissed. Like a fiery Irish lassie,” he said in an Irish accent. “Hey. Where’s the fire?”
“We’re done here.”
“Alexa. Come on. At least stay while you get happy.”
I left so quickly he didn’t even have time to get off the couch. Luckily there was an elevator conveniently opening just as I crossed into the hall. I fumed all the way down to the first floor.
Can you believe his nerve?!
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about me
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)
friends
raunchy humor
sexy stories
archives
- 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
