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A New York Escorts Confessions
Wax On, Wax Off
So there we were. I had unbuttoned his shirt and was kissing my way slowly down his chest. I kneeled in front of him and ran my tongue lightly along the edge of his jeans. I pressed the weight of my palm on top of him, felt him hardening underneath, heard his breath quickening. Slowly I unzipped him so he had to wait for it tooth of the zipper by tooth by tooth by tooth. A pair of black boxer briefs. One of my hands under the waistband, the other up his thigh, close enough that he could feel the touch of my fingers, but far enough away that he moaned. I looked back up at him, smiled coyly, then suddenly whipped his briefs down to his ankles and—
Oh. My. God. He was completely bald.
I mean not a hair. It was like ‘penis in relief’. It was clinical. I kept thinking of a diagram in a text book. Vas deferens. Epididymis.
It freaked me out.
Well for a second anyway. I’m a girl who believes in completion.
There were advantages mind you. We ladies worry about what may be hiding in the forest there. And this way there were clearly not going to be any stray parting gifts stuck in my throat.
And there’s something to be said for aesthetics. No one like to be faced with pubic sprawl. I applaud the guy that knows when and where to trim.
But come on— real men don’t wax! Okay I’ve heard swimmers do. Exotic dancers. But regular guys?
I think I’m developing a case of schizophrenia.
Since I’ve been down here in Montgomery, S and I have been out and about and then some. Wednesday we had dinner with one of the other doctors in S’s practice and his wife. Thursday it was drinks at the country club with S’s golf buddies. Friday it was the Alabama Shakespeare Festival with one of the city’s hospital administrators and Saturday a mimosa brunch at S’s neighbors’ house in Cloverdale.
At each event I was Alexa, girl-about-town New Yorker and S’s hot new squeeze. We had met—so the story went—through one of S’s former patients. Oh wait. That actually WAS true. Our relationship had been strictly platonic (ha!) until S moved down South. Once we were apart though we suddenly realized how much stronger our feelings were for each other. “I married the wrong girl, can you believe it?” S would say over and over again to anyone who would listen. “But thank God I’ve got the right one now.” And he’d give my wrist a little squeeze.
For all of these occasions S wanted me shiny and sexy, bejeweled and tastefully appointed. He wanted his friends and acquaintances to be jealous, to wonder at his prowess, to think of him as a winner instead of someone to be pitied. I was allowed free reign to be my charming self, so long as I stuck to the basics of the script.
And then we went home. Home where there were aprons on hooks in the kitchen and Glade plug-ins in the sockets in each of the bedrooms. S liked me to pick out a tie for him each morning. He wanted me to greet him each night with a gin and tonic. He asked me if I wouldn’t mind hanging my things next to his in the closet and leaving my lipsticks out on the counter by his toothbrush.
Last night he went one step further.
“So Alexa, if it’s okay with you I thought we’d stay in tonight for a change.”
“Sure. That sounds great.”
“…do you think…do you think maybe you could fry me a chicken?”
Did I think I could fry him a chicken?! Did I think…ummm…
“S…gee…I—this is really not my skill set.”
He nodded his head and looked down dejectedly.
“Sorry.” Seriously he did not want me messing with any of his appliances. If he had a clue about my pie-exploding past—
“Um…do you think if I gave you directions that you could pick us up some fried chicken? And then you could put it on some plates like you just made it?”
Call me Tanlexa.
Thankfully I’m going home tomorrow. Hopefully the real me will be waiting for me when I get back.
Super Bowl XL here we come!
Okay I caved. I’m in Montgomery, Alabama. With S.
Now before you all start worrying about me, stop—I’m no longer required to play the part of Tanya in this little drama. S’s family, i.e. his intended audience, is now safely back in Seattle. So this time I get to be down here as me, Alexa…S’s new girlfriend from New York. Okay so I’m still sort of playing a part. But I don’t have to fake my way through a Southern accent, right?
And the gold Elsa Peretti bracelet S offered me on my arrival wasn’t too bad either…
And so it was that on Martin Luther King Day—the very day my web master launched this fabulous new site—that I found myself in the birth place of the Civil Rights Movement. Dr. Martin Luther King’s church is actually in Montgomery on Dexter Street. Rosa Parks wouldn’t give up her seat on a bus stopped downtown at Montgomery and Lee. And in 1965 Dr. King lead a march from Selma to Montgomery, 54 miles over 4 days to protest the lack of voting rights for blacks in Selma.
Now if that last bit of info sounds rather esoteric, think of it this way. In 1964 only 1% of all blacks in Selma were registered to vote. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. The white city and county officials conspired to make it virtually impossible for anyone of color to sign up. Registration centers were only open two days a month, and those running the show made a habit of arriving late and taking long lunches. Blacks who actually managed to overcome these hurdles had to then pass literacy tests and even interpret sections of the state constitution—something illiterate whites were never asked to do.
S and I decided to pay tribute to the day by taking a little trip to Selma. I had read there was a museum there commemorating the march and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 that was passed because of it. Just as we got to the door though, a man came out. And locked it.
“Oh no. You’re closing?”
“Yeah. ‘Fraid so.”
“But it’s Martin Luther King Day!”
“Alexa. Come on. We’ll get something to eat,” said S.
“But-why are you closing so early? It’s only 2:00. Can’t we just sneak a peak—”
“Got to get things together for the march. Y’all are welcome to come.”
“There’s a march?”
“Alexa? Can we just—”
“There’s a real good soul food place past the stoplight.”
“That sounds great. See S? So what time is the march?”
So after a short trip to Hardy’s (was everything in Selma closed that day?) S and I met at the starting point of the march, a Baptist church at the corner of Jeff Davis Street and Martin Luther King Boulevard. We were one of the few white people there.
It was awkward at first. Almost everyone in the parking lot appeared to be local and to know each other. The few who did approach us had such heavy southern accents that it was difficult to hold up our end of the conversation. But little by little, the experience unfolded.
The march this year was in honor of Dr. King’s vision of non-violence. And in Selma that’s not just a historic concept. In the front row marching between two local ministers, was a woman whose nineteen-year-old son had been shot and killed by a gang member only two weeks before. He hadn’t been in a gang himself. Wrong place, wrong time.
The chief of police marched. So did the mayor. So did the pastors, and store owners, and congregants. And so did we. We stopped at the Edwin Pettis bridge, where during the first attempted march in 1965 state and local lawmen attacked demonstrators with billy clubs and tear gas and drove them back into Selma proper.
But the most moving moment came after the march, over a simple meal of beans and cornbread in the basement of that church. The mayor, who was probably in his mid-sixties, told us that when he was a boy there was an ice cream shop in town that made the best pineapple sundaes. He and his friends would have to go to the shop’s window for service since they weren’t actually allowed inside. And when they got those precious sundaes, they’d have to eat them lightening fast before they melted in the Alabama heat. All the while they watched the white kids on the other side of the glass spinning on those old-fashioned parlor stools, leisurely eating their sundaes. The mayor said when the march with Dr. King happened, he didn’t care about voting rights. He just wanted to be able to eat a pineapple sundae inside the ice cream parlor on one of those chairs.
On the drive back, S and I couldn’t even talk, we were that overwhelmed. There’s reading history in books, and then there’s living history, history that you find yourself physically in step with. It was a new feeling, one that was as powerful as a drug.
About half way back to Montgomery, on the very route that Dr. King and the demonstrators marched upon forty-six years ago S suddenly stopped the car, pulled over, and turned off the engine. “What’s going on, what’s wrong?” I said. Were we being pulled over?
“Look,” said S. “Just look over there.”
And I did.
It was the Alabama National Guard base. The place where there is still no existing record of our President showing up for service.
What a day!
Remember how it felt to dash down the stairs on Christmas morning and hoping to find that shiny new gift that you’d been waiting for all year?
I — during a particular period in my life when I was obsessed with all things Katarina Witt — remember spending hours imagining how it would feel to glide out on the ice for the first class after the holidays in new skates and the cutest of outfits. I also remember freaking out at the thought that Mom would screw up and buy some lame matching sweater and sock set that the other kids would make fun of.
When the fateful day arrived I could only shriek with delight since Mom had come through after all.
Well, that’s exactly how I felt again as I opened P’s latest email. “It’s done.” Succinct as always.
With all the trouble it took to get here, I’d begun to doubt that I’d ever get a new site that I’d like. Although P seemed to finally get me, I wondered at times if I was just imagining it.
Balancing the blog posts with the new ads was one of the biggest challenges. I wanted to provide an attractive showcase for other girls to advertise themselves. On the other hand, I didn’t want to turn off any of my regular visitors. After many emails, phone calls and attempts, I almost gave up on whether we could ever strike the right balance.
Seeing the new site completely erased my doubts. My new baby’s finally here. My site’s been born again!
And I do hope you like it…
Girls Girls Girls
The first one came after my post ‘Poops I Did It Again’:
Haaaaa!!! That happened to me one time too! That’s how I learned I couldn’t drink lattes anymore. My client was so grossed out and I was so sick I couldn’t even try to disguise all the toots I was making! You’re the bomb for telling it like it really is!
You should have escorts ads on your site! Can I be the first?
The second one after my post on the first ‘Carnival of Sin’:
I’m no writer like you or some of the other bloggers but do you do ads? I wish I could write and tell all the messed up things that have happened to me too. But I would like to participate by being a part of your site if that would be okay for you maybe.
It was a pattern. Every few weeks or so, another escort would email me about placing an ad on the website. They liked my kooky posts, they loved the zingy moans that came with them. They wanted in on the action, to be a part of the package.
I hooked up everyone who was game with a link. It’s fun creating community, you know? And I always envisioned this site to be more than just an outlet for me, but a forum, a gathering place. It was hotties, plural, after all.
And then I decided to redesign the site.
Aaarrgh! &%$O#&P)#!!! You know when you buy a new piece of furniture, like a desk, the perfect desk, the desk you always wanted and you bring it home, and it looks perfect there by the window just as you thought but oh my God now the comforter on the bed looks like something your grandmother slept under sixty years ago and the nightstands look squat and suddenly you realize the glue that held the whole room together is gone gone GONE?!
“How are we going to redo all of this?!!” I shrieked to my web designer. “Where—I mean what—where are we going to put everything and—”
P, as always, was the voice of reason. “It’ll work.”
Anyway with everything so up in the air I found myself revisiting the concept of free escort ads on the blog again. No one, as far as I knew, had really combined the two things before. Hmmmm. Was there a reason for that? I called P. Again.
“So what do you think about doing free ads on the site?”
“No, I mean what do you think about them.”
P paused like it was a trick question.
“I mean I mean I think there should—could—should—be some sort of uniformity. Like like you know on a site where there’s clothes, there’s a similar background, like like branding, I guess in a weird way.”
“But the blog is really important to me and I don’t want anything taking away from that or making it look look crowded in or—”
“We’ll do a button.”
“…um oh right. Wai—excuse me?”
“Pull down menu. People can click the ads on or off.”
Huh. What a good idea.
So, here’s what P sent me as a sample ad
What do you think?
P.S. To those of you who said my new logo looks like the 80’s. Yeah it IS raging 80’s. But I for one love Pat Benatar.
I have been on the pill forever and a day and then some. Which means—lucky me—I just don’t do PMS. At least not usually.
When I woke up last Thursday, though, I knew immediately that something was wrong. I had forgotten something. I had forgotten something desperately important. What was it?! My heart raced. I began to sweat. And then I began to cry. “What’s the matter with me?” I blubbered. “How could I forget something like like like—rrrgghhrrr!!!!!” I balled my hands into little fists and pounded the air at the unfairness of it all. I hugged myself and shook from side to side. “Holy—ow!”
Oh my God. My breasts were suddenly KILLING me. I slipped off my silk baby doll top to have a look at myself in the bathroom mirror. Jesus. My breasts were like two softballs poised in mid-air for someone to take a swing at. They were like a parody of breasts. They actually looked ripe.
Oh right. Right. I abandoned my little temper tantrum and went to get a grande cafe mocha whip and two chocolate biscotti at Starbucks. Well, if I was going to do this I might as well go all the way, right?
That night I was going out with K, a sweet commuter who liked to meet me before the 6:58 express at The Grand Hyatt. K loved to touch me. As soon as I closed the door to the room, he would begin petting my head. He’d run his fingers through my hair, brush his knuckles lightly along the hollow of my neck. And then he’d go for my breasts.
The first time we were together he was tentative. He unbuttoned my shirt with the greatest delicacy, like I was an antique made of the finest porcelain. When he reached the last button he stopped and just gazed at me. He didn’t want me to move at all except for the natural rising and falling of my chest. It was as if he were hypnotized, or—or enraptured. Thirty minutes later he would rebutton my shirt, glance at his watch and leave.
On our fourth meeting he grew more daring. He began to trace the outline of my bra with one finger, moving in an unbroken line over every edge. When he got to my cleavage he paused. His breath caught in his throat. He began to sweat. Then the same thing. Button me back up, glance at his watch, and make his exit.
Today though, on the eve of our 9th time together, the day my breasts felt like engorged water balloons that might pop at any moment, I knew much more lay in store for me. K would slip my straps off my shoulders, slide the top of my bra slowly down so my nipples would just peek out from the fabric. He would trace my aureoles, one then the other until they were both erect. He would grow bold and pinch me, then go soft and caress the underside of both breasts, let them weigh in his hands, close his eyes and sigh. He would inhale deeply the smell of my perfume and my sweat. He would suckle me, lay me down, rub the stubble of his cheeks through my cleavage. He would softly kiss my right breast, snap my bra back together, button me back up, glance at his watch, and leave. It would last approximately forty-three minutes. Dear God—I couldn’t even touch myself without wincing. How was I ever going to get through the Breast Olympics?
As it turned out this time K entered the room with a new found determination. He actually pushed me down on the bed, tore through my shirt, undid my bra, and thrust himself into my cleavage. He came a mere three minutes later.
As soon as he got up the pain and utter prickliness hit me. Unfortunately, K saw my expression before I had a chance to cover. He hung his head, flushed a deep red, and barely mumbled, “…I ruined your shirt.”
“It’s alright. I travel with a spare.”
He gave a tentative smile at that then just as quickly stopped. “I’ll—I’ll get—I— a washcloth. Um.” He stumbled up from the bed. I could hear him moving around abruptly in the bathroom. I propped myself up on my elbow and looked at the clock on the nightstand. “You’ll miss your train.”
He came back in the room, nodded ever so slightly, then handed me the wet cloth. There was a heavy silence as I cleaned myself. Then he said so loudly and so suddenly that I nearly fell off the bed, “My wife won’t let me touch her breasts.”
He shook his head sadly and looked away. “She says she’s too sensitive…”
Did someone say SENSITIVE?!!!! “Some women feel a lot of sensation there.” Like me now. Uhhh…was I really going to have to go all the way down to Grand Central to get some more Ibuprofin?
K shook his head. “No no. She—it’s like she’s hiding from me. She’s become protective…from from me. I don’t—” He bit his upper lip, nodded, glanced at his watch. Then he looked me in the eye. “Sorry,” he whispered.
Sometimes pain is a hazard for me. But this time the pain wasn’t mine at all. The sound of K closing the door echoed with finality. I wondered if I’d see him again.
Out of Site
Last year I fired three website designers in five months. Three.
That’s one every 6.66666666666etc. weeks. If you’re counting.
I had a good feeling about P, a.k.a designer number four. He came to me through one of my techie friends who told me P was also a muralist and had been a hair stylist once upon a time. That sounded just random enough to yield some off-beat and interesting ideas. Yay. I almost swooned.
P truly seemed to get me. I had realized through my conversations with designers 1-3 that people just had a whole lot of preconceived ideas about escorts. The first guy gave me something that was right, very right—if only I had been working the early shift at Hooters Orlando circa 1992. Okay, I thought. Maybe I need to find a woman designer—someone to do an upscale site but one that was sweet and approachable at the same time. Unfortunately, she, designer number two, responded by giving me pink—lots and lots of hot pink. Pepto Bismo pink borders, puffy cotton-candy type font. It was like a sherbert explosion. I summarily banned designer #3 from using anything even approaching THAT COLOR. In response he gave me a site I dubbed New York Gothotties. It would have been perfect for Elvira, if only I knew how to contact her.
I tried to be as specific as possible with P. “So like, what I want P is slick, sophisticated, very very New York. It’s New York Hotties”
“Titilating but not explicit. A tease. Yeah that’s good. I want a sophisticated tease. I love the shoe. I still love the shoe. Well I’m not so sure I love that particular shoe. I’m more partial to thicker heels now—”
“Lose the shoe, got it.”
“It’s just somehow seems so cute and quaint now—”
“And that’s not you.”
Woooo-hooo. I wanted to cheer.
When I actually got P’s email about a week ago, I made myself down a cocktail before I opened it. It’s just that I was suddenly so nervous. What—what if P really didn’t get me either? What if all of this, this ugly series of miscommunication one after another, was my fault? Did I secretly harbor sadistic thoughts to web-designers?
I took a deep breath and opened the email.
Oh. Oh Oh Oh. Oh yeah. Now that’s what I’m talking about.
What do you think of my new logo?
The Great Cookie Caper of ‘05
Man. That first yoga class back after the holidays is a motherfucker huh?
Christmas through New Year’s this year was the big mush out for me. Days on end I sprawled out on mom’s couch with the remote as my trusty companion. By and by I acquired a blanket, pillow, bowl for popcorn, Cracker Jacks, chocolate covered pretzels, what have you. Sometimes Tyler and Emma would snuggle up with me and watch cartoons. Sometimes Pete would plop down and hang in for some football. God it was great.
But of course there’s a time when every holiday bum has to shower, pack up their swag, and make the journey home. I got in last night to the honking of horns, the bustling of foot traffic, and the knowledge that a week of elasticized waists lay ahead of me.
When I walked into my building my doorman Denny was there with a big welcoming—um, well, grimace. “So where are they?!” he demanded.
“Well Merry Christmas and a Happy New year to you too.” I gave him a punch on the shoulder and as much of a hug as I could muster while still balancing my bag on my hip. “Check it out. New video Ipod. Groovy groovy groovy. And—sparkly legwarmers. Always a holiday must.” Cynthia had actually KNIT THEM for me for Christmas, can you believe it? I decided to like her, even if her brother was still a twit in my book.
“I’m not talking with you.”
“You know why.”
Actually I didn’t. I had tipped all the staff of the building generously, Denny included. I hadn’t ratted him out about the “Girls Gone Potty” project. What the heck had I done?
“The ginger snaps?”
“What did they suck?” I thought they had actually come out pretty good this year. I scrapped the tree, Santa, and star cookie cutters and opted for the simple round variety. I hadn’t burned them—
“How would I be able to tell you if they sucked or not girl?”
“Wait, what do you mean?”
“Never got none.”
“What do you mean? I gave them to Wilson right before I left.”
“Harris didn’t have none neither. I checked.”
“But there were five dozen. Eight for each of you.” Denny shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the new release of House of Wax on his computer. Clearly our conversation was over.
I went upstairs feeling confused. There were exactly seventy-two ginger snaps. I knew because I counted. Wilson, the morning doorman, had had gout last spring and had lost fifty pounds since then to try to improve his overall health. Had he possibly gone on a mad holiday-induced ginger snap bender?
The next morning I went downstairs to the front desk. On the way I ran into one of the porters, Jose, at the recycler. “Hey man. What’d you do with those cookies?”
“Wait. You didn’t get any either? Didn’t Wilson tell you they were in the closet behind the desk? In a bag with a purple ribbon?”
“There was nothing there. 8K got us some nasty pecan buns in a box though. Tasted like ass.”
Wilson was no better in coming to the bottom of things. “I didn’t take them!” he blurted out the moment he saw me.
“Hey, I’m not saying you did—”
“You know, Denny called me at home to accuse me. Jose’s not speaking to me. It’s been awful.”
Well it was nice to know my cookies were so popular. Even if they were causing the mother of all building Cold Wars. “Well, okay. Maybe we can reconstruct this. What happened after I gave them to you? That was like at 10:00 AM on the 23rd, right?”
“I had one. Kevin had one. I put them on the desk, then Diego the Fed Ex guy came. I had to log in about sixty packages. When I was done, I looked down at the desk and they were gone.”
“Well it must be Diego then! Right?”
“No. I axed him. He’s got that disease, you know where you can’t eat flour, or wheat or something. And the mailman—”
“Right. He keeps kosher.” We actually had an Orthodox Jewish mailman for our building who was ‘shomer shabbat’ and didn’t deliver on Saturdays. You’ve got to love New York. “You know what Wilson? Don’t sweat it. I’ll make everyone another batch and you’ll be in the clear.”
“Sorry Alexa. I didn’t mean to let you down or anything.”
Of course there were worse things than losing holiday cookies. Like taking that blasted yoga class. Like trying to return an ugly sweater from Macy’s without a receipt. Like buying a bottle of wine and then dropping it as you went through the subway turnstile on your way home. Shit.
When I got back to my building around four, Wilson was still there. Only this time he was smiling. “I want to show you something,” he said, and led me behind the desk to the building’s security system. I nearly froze. Had he discovered Denny’s secret?
Instead he took me back to, yes, you guessed it, December 23rd at 10:00 AM. To the camera over the desk. To me giving him the cookies. To Diego dropping off the packages. And then to Wilson handing off the cookies—to Eduardo, the other porter.
You could just make out Eduardo going off-screen, bag of cookies in hand. “He must have thought they were all for him.” Wilson said.
Eduardo I knew had five kids plus his mother living with him. I hope they all had a very merry, very sugary, very snappy ginger Christmas. As for me, it was back to the rolling pin again.
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