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A New York Escorts Confessions
I remember being on a family trip in Lake Placid, New York one summer. We were renting a house, the whole brood of us, my family and my cousins from South Bend. The place was sort of down at the heels but full of the kind of quirks that kids love. A bat flew in through the window one night. I was the only one who saw it and no one could find it inside afterwards, a fact Pete wouldn’t let alone for the rest of the trip. But we did manage to locate a dead frog in the hot tub. And we would endlessly theorize about the odd-shaped worn spots on the living room shag rug. Had it been a dead body? A bean bag chair? A throne?
We couldn’t get in a lot of channels on the ancient television and the few that we did tended to be Canadian. It was an Olympic year—probably the ones in LA, that would put my age about right. And I remember watching a whole news story about an athlete from Canada that had won one of the events.
By ‘won’ I mean he got a bronze.
You wouldn’t ever have guessed that from the story though. It was reverential, awed, and respectful. The guy, at least in the producers’ eye, was a hero.
My cousin Stewie wondered aloud what Canada, that place just a few hours away from where we were, was like. “I mean, if we were born like two hours away we’d be like Canadians, not Americans, you know?”
“Weird” said Pete. “I wonder what it’s like to be Canadian.”
“Duh,” said Stacey, cousin brain-o,”It’s like being third.”
I don’t know. That sort of sounded like a death sentence at the time.
The next night we all went to a concert for The Trumpet Society, a group that was having some kind of conference in the town.
I fell asleep, so I can’t say much about it. But I do remember the lively conversation in the car ride back.
“I just don’t understand who in the world thought it was a good idea to have an orchestra of only trumpets,” said Aunt Jodi.
“I’m sorry I didn’t know it was going to be over two hours—” That was my mother apologizing. Again. She would do that for the next three days.
“Close to three hours,” Dad grumbled.
“But really who’s idea? It’s like a singer singing a song only using the letter T.”
I tell you all of this because I’ve been thinking about Sasha Cohen. Who won a silver medal in Women’s Figure Skating on Thursday.
Oh. You may not know that. You may only know that she fell. And fell again. The media likes to show it over and over and again.
Message? Sasha Cohen’s a loser. She’s soft. She fucked up.
How very un-American of her.
Forget that Sasha was the most beautiful, most glorious skater/ballerina to take the ice in a long time. Forget that she fell, got up, and pulled herself together completely, enough to earn a place on the podium. Isn’t that a perfect ending in itself—at least one to a commercial movie?
Over and over I watched American commentators approach our loser athletes who won silvers and bronzes and ask them minutes after their race, “WHAT WENT WRONG.”
I don’t know America. You’re starting to bug me. It’s sure beautiful to hear our anthem played while our flag is rising. But I can’t help thinking. It’s starting to sound a lot like, “Oh beautiful for spacious skies, T T T T T T…”
No Banjo On My Knee
So there we were at the downtown farmer’s market on Madison. I was loading up on jars of homemade scupernong jelly, camp stew, zucchini relish and muscadine cider. It was then that I saw the giant red bottle of pickled eggs.
“Oh my God! My grandfather used to love those!”
“You should go ‘head and buy some then, don’t you think?” said the farmer.
“Ugh. No way. I can’t stand them! I mean…I mean…I’m sure yours are good but…”
I mean pickled eggs, really.
The man persisted. “Now have you gone and tried them yet with your beer?” He then proceeded to tell me how pickled eggs were actually the perfect compliment to a pilsner. He said he’d offer me one to prove his point, but unfortunately the Madison market was dry.
“So what you’re saying is,” I summarized, “That the sharpness of the hops plays nicely against the sweet and sour of the eggs.”
“Yes, yes that’s it exactly!”
I bought a jar. What can I say. I’m a sucker.
Back in the car, S was silent. I let downtown Montgomery spread out before me and counted the moments to myself. After a while, he spoke. “You’re so smart Alexa.” He said it wistful and weighted. And I knew exactly what he meant.
S had been trying to initiate a certain conversation with me ever since I arrived. There was the job interview approach: “So Alexa, where do you think you’ll be in five years?; the survey approach: “I’m just curious—how many years do you think the average escort works before she does something else?”; the philosophical: “You know, it doesn’t have to be like this.” S wanted me to know I had plenty of options—the option to stop being an escort, the option to move to Alabama, the option to marry him. Then I could do whatever I wanted.
What I wanted, though, was to keep on doing what I was doing. I look around sometimes and you know what? I got it pretty good.
That night I was getting ready for bed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw S literally gathering his strength. This was it, I could feel it—the moment of direct confrontation. He opened his mouth. “S,” I said gently cutting him off, “I don’t need to be saved.”
He smiled tersely and nodded his head.
I don’t think I’ll be coming to Alabama again.
Mind The Gap
Um. So I kind of find myself in Alabama. Again.
I knew it was a possibility. But when I didn’t hear from S at the two week mark, (not even a call to make sure I had gotten back safely to NYC, which is uncharacteristic of him) I thought he had moved on. Maybe I was really going to be a bridge for him, someone who could give him the chance to move from life with Tanya to life with Someone Else. It’s just hard to tell sometimes if S thinks that I might be that person
I had thought about what I’d say if he called again. I mulled over looking up escort agencies in his area. Maybe that way, I reasoned, the transference could pass from me to someone else, which would somehow dilute it in the process. Plus then S wouldn’t have to spend so much money. Or even better—I could encourage him to register with a local dating service. Or to join a singles group through the symphony or the theatre. He might like that.
But all of that seemed like the brush off it was. The hard part is, I do really like S. It’s business, of course, I’m clear on that. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what happens to him. I want him to find a place for himself in Montgomery, want him to locate the person that will give him the family and the security for which he’s desperately craving. And I certainly don’t want to add to the cruelty and hurtfulness that he’s already experienced.
And then there’s the flip side—the perspective that unfortunately doesn’t paint such a sweet picture of me. S is a really good client. He’s predictable, courteous, respectful and well, easy. It’s in my best interest to keep him. And believe you me, he’s making it nearly impossible to voice that simple little “no”. The second I balked at coming down here he doubled my price. Doubled it—for a five day period. Which is like gold in my business. It means I could effectively take March off if I wanted to. But I don’t. Instead I’m going to be responsible and put it in my savings account.
And maybe buy the super cool Fiorentini Baker boots on sale at my local Barney Coop.
In the silences here I’m back on the London Tube. I hear that proper British mechanized voice warning me to, “Mind the gap.” S reaches his hand for mine while we’re alone in his house? “Mind the gap.” S puts my toothbrush next to his in the cup on the sink, our bristles intermingling? “Mind the gap.” S mentions buzz words like “future” and “next time” and “our”? “Mind the gap.”
Because God knows, it’s a long way down.
My, What A Tangled Web They Weave
First there’s the man. Let’s call him A. He’s a powerful lawyer in his late sixties who has clients in entertainment and sports. He’s married of course. Has been to a woman, B, from a fine New York family for forty years. But over the last sixteen months at least he’s had a kept woman, C, on the side with the apartment, and allowance, the whole nine yards.
Are you with me so far?
Well, as it turns out, C finds it a little difficult to always be with a man so much her senior. She went ahead then and hired herself a male escort, D, to hang out with and do things like go dancing and have dinner at dives on the Lower East Side. She actually introduced D to A at his birthday party the year before, saying he was a struggling musician who was friends with her sister. She convinced A to give her a lump sum to help D, which she uses to pay all of D’s fees.
I know all this because D, who actually is a struggling musician, happens to be a friend of mine. What C through A don’t realize though, is that D got involved with C because he’s trying to get enough money together to buy a ring. For E. His girlfriend. Who doesn’t have a clue about C through A either.
I think the daisy chain stops there, but with this group, you never know.
Anyway, this whole house of cards is about to fall over big time because A just left B and asked C to marry him. C likes things the way they are, but feels bad because A has been supporting her for two years and she figures she kinds of owes it to him. She told D that if she says yes she’ll have to cut off their relationship since while she can stomach cheating on a boyfriend, she draws the line at a fiance or husband. Somehow said line didn’t ever come up with A’s marriage to B. Go figure.
In any event, all of this poses a huge problem for D. You see, C was D’s only client. They met by happenstance through her cousin when D was working one of his previous side businesses, videotaping rich little kids’ birthday parties. He’s since given that up and in terms of the escorting world, the only other potential clients he knows are C’s friends. Which D is sure C would never tolerate.
D worries about what this loss of income is going to do to his relationship with E. Who loves that he’s a musician. But still wants a ring. A big ring. One she can proudly show to her friends who are marrying business consultants and doctors. He wonders if she would still say yes if she’d have to bite the bitter pill of accepting what a real struggling New York City musician’s salary is. He thinks the ring will be a sort of dam, I guess, protecting her from the truth.
I suggest that after C and A get married, E can become A’s new kept woman. Which D doesn’t find funny.
I do wonder though what happens after the ring—when E starts asking for the house, the yard, the vacations, and the clothes that go with it. Seriously, what then?
Sometimes You Just Gotta Go It Alone.
I don’t know what happened to me the other day. I was inside my own head, ticking off the list of errands I had to do when I walked into Duane Reade. As I moved down the aisle, I saw an African American man with long braids tied back restocking the shelves. I suddenly has this full on vision of me pulling his braids back hard, him arching his back, him turning to me, slipping his hot tongue in my mouth, of us grabbing each other as we sunk down to the floor messily, taking box after box in our wake. I stopped in my tracks. Where the hell had that come from?
Then later in the day, I was walking back up Columbus, trying to avoid the nasty rivulets of ice water that block about half the streets on the Upper West Side post the blizzard. There was a tall European tourist in front of me, characteristically with his backpack in front of him and the straps on his back. Again it happened. I was pulling him from behind. I was grabbing him from the front, slipping my fingerless cashmere gloves down his pants, making him come in front of God and everyone else on West 75th.
Either I was really angry or just really really horny. I opted for the second.
The minute I walked through my door I stood in front of my picture window, tore off my coat, and stripped off my clothes all the way down to my bra and panties. I must have known my state of mind when I woke up since I was wearing one of my favorite matched sets. Fire engine red, sheer, and lacy. Mmmmm. I felt ripe and ready, already having broken a sweat. Then I reached for my private stash. Of really really bad erotica.
I had actually started out with good intentions. I read Anais Nin who got me hot, but also made me sigh with her great literary descriptions. The problem was, sometimes that was distracting. Someone had given me a book called Quiver by an Australian named Tobsha Lerner which was good, but again, very psychological. I don’t know. It just wasn’t doing it for me.
To really get me hot, there was the thing of it having to be well, unsavory. To that end I had stumbled onto a series of books called Eros In ______. Fill in the blank any way you’d like. According to the series Eros was apparently everywhere—In The Country, In Town, On the Grand Tour, In the Far East, In High Places etc. etc. etc.
The stories had two narrators, Sophie and Andy, who alternated chapters. I never could quite place the time frame, maybe the 1830’s? But long enough ago that we were talking about top hats, and bloomers, and corsets. Lots of clothes to remove. Oh and they were English, which gave everything this tension between uncoiled desire, and a proper upright Englishness. Would you like tea with your scrotum? The one I was currently um…enjoying, had Sophie and Andy in the New World. Sophie had a bet with Andy, that she could sleep her way through the signs of the zodiac. Hmmm. That wasn’t such a bad idea actually. I was going to start keeping track in my own life. Who knows if there were patterns for lovers of different signs. Maybe I was secretly a Virgo girl. Though I knew for a fact I didn’t want anything to do with Scorpios. Nope. No way.
While Andy went North, Sophie went south and landed in New Orleans. I had to skip several chapters here because, who wants to get off on anything that has anything at all to do with New Orleans? But from what I gathered, Sophie had managed to save two young slaves from a violent master and now was on the run with them. Sure. Could happen.
I turned to the page where Sophie was alone bathing the young girl. Mmmm…okay. I could see their skin tones playing off each other in the darkened light of the ship’s cabin (oh right—they were escaping by boat). There was something romantic about it. I could see the curve of the young girl’s breast as Sophie washed her, heard her breathing change. Heard Sophie saying she was getting wet sitting there so close to the tub, and wouldn’t it be better if she got naked too.
Just then the young man walked in, saw the two women entwined. Sophie called to him and then it was breast on breast, an eager youth with a sinewy body embracing black and then white. Sophie’s lips on his, then hers, hands tangled, water splashing, moans, hair being pulled, the man with the braids in the store, a quiver, the arch of a back and everyone coming at once.
…good God. I was getting off on slave fantasies. I ran for the shower.
What could my bad taste be about? Is it the repressed memory of being raised religiously? That ho hum idea of sex being naughty? Or am I just quite simply a sick puppy?
One Size Does Not Fit All
When you’re sixteen and from an East Coast suburb, getting your driver’s license isn’t the only rite of passage you face. There’s also the big push to get you into Just The Right College. To that end my parents sent me that fateful summer to one of those college prepatory programs in Boston. And that’s where I met Bitsy.
She was stylish and put together, always with just the right accessories and a waft of smoky floral perfume trailing in her wake. She wore lipstick when the rest of us were globbing on vanilla-scented gloss and had already embarked on pedicures and waxing. We were teeny bopper plebes in her wake.
But the thing about Bitsy was, well, Bitsy just wasn’t bitsy. At all. In fact she was probably a good forty pounds overweight in addition to just being big boned. But despite her measurements Bitsy wasn’t fat. Yiddish has a perfect word for it—‘zaftig’. She was curvy in all the right places, wore her big frame proudly with her shoulders back and her chin ever so slightly upturned.
Or so it seemed.
Down the hall from Bitsy was another girl named Minerva, Minnie to her friends. And unlike Bitsy, Minnie was in fact aptly named. She was tiny—imagine Sarah Jessica Parker about four inches shorter and you get the idea. She too had an early sense of her self and had adopted a bohemian chic approach to fashion—lots of scarves and beaded peasant skirts.
The thing was Bitsy was always asking Minnie if she could borrow her clothes. Which of course freaked Minnie out. How was someone who was probably a size 16 possibly going to fit into something that was, at best, a 0? And how in the world was Minnie supposed to politely address this? “Um, I’m sorry Bitsy but I really don’t think you would feel comfortable in this tank top since um, I think it would only cover your left nipple?”
At first Minnie took to dodging her every time she saw Bitsy in the hall. When that became too obvious she told Bitsy that she simply had a no-lending policy about her clothes. Once upon a time someone had borrowed a beloved tunic and had ruined it over a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. Bitsy assured her of her own dexterity as well as her vegetarianism, but Minnie was resolute. No more lending out any of her clothes. It was for everyone, not just Bitsy.
Which was really too bad. I would’ve looked great in one of those skirts.
I was thinking about Bitsy the other night when I was with K, an oral surgeon who I had dated twice before. After dinner at Aix we strolled back towards K’s West End Apartment. “Oh,” K said as we passed Price Wise Discount. “Do you mind if we just make a quick stop here? I need to get a couple things.”
“Sure,” I said. “No biggie.”
Little did I know that was soon to be a punchline.
Inside, K grabbed some toothpaste and some paper towels and then proceeded to the registers. Just before the cashier rang him up he stopped her. “Oh wait. Some of the Durex too. The black ones.” The cashier made a move towards the box of Ultimate Feeling Lubricated Latex Condoms.
I was just about to tell him that I of course had already come fully prepared when he stopped her at full volume. “NO! NOT THOSE. THE XXL ONES.”
Everyone behind the registers and in the store stopped for a moment, including myself. There was a weighted pause. Then, we all collectively adopted our game faces. Sort of.
Here’s the thing. At that point I had already been with K and I knew for a fact that he was not XXL. He was perfectly average which is perfectly fine by me. So, who then was K’s desired audience? Was it me still even though he had to know he was dealing in illusions? Was it the women behind the counter who couldn’t care less? Or was it himself? Was saying it aloud in front of God and everyone enough to make him feel like he was in fact XXL?
Wherever she is I hope Bitsy is happy just being well, Elizabeth. And as for K, I hope he realizes that sometimes good things come with small packages.
The Marrying Kind
I remember the first time I went for an acupuncture appointment. The doctor was Chinese, and unlike many American physicians, didn’t seem to feel the need to explain to me what was going to happen next. One time a man came in, threw a towel over the back of my head and massaged it so vigorously that my hair literally stood on end afterwards like a lion’s mane. Another time a woman came in, put a big needle in the middle of my chest and actually LIT IT ON FIRE. I always likened going there to getting on an amusement park ride—one where you didn’t actually know what the heck that particular one was going to do to you.
I kind of think New York is like that.
I was out to dinner downtown last night with a new client, A, who is running his second hedge fund after having sold his first one for well, a whole lot of money. A is still married to his first wife who even though she just turned 46 recently decided to go back to school for her MBA. Apparently Mrs. A found a fast track program where the classes were taught mostly online. Two days a month, though, the students met in person at the college, which was in Boston. When she was gone, I stepped in. As A rationalized it, “Look, she gets what she wants, I get what I want.”
Of course, she doesn’t know what he wants.
Anyway, after a delightful appetizer of warm octopus salad in a roasted onion vinagrette, and some champagne I retreated to the bathroom. Boy, you just can’t beat those old fashioned restaurant lounges that still have all the products. I sampled a lemon-scented hand cream then went into one of the stalls to do my business. Soon after I heard the clicking heels of two women entering.
“—disgusting. “Do you see the way he chews?”
“He talks with his mouth full all the time. And he has to order the richest thing on the menu and then ask me if I think it’s fattening. Sometimes when I look at him, I just can’t believe it. That that sweating sack of flesh is my husband. Ugh. Do you get that with Richard?”
“Richard’s not fat.”
“I just hate watching him eat. It’s like a cow chewing it’s cud. You wouldn’t believe how many times I go to the restroom during a meal just to get away from him.”
I peeked through the crack in the door to get a look at her. She had perfectly coiffed honey blonde hair piled on her head a good three inches taller than she was—and she was already 5’ 11”. A gym slim body. A slash of a mouth outlined by red lipstick. Beautiful but imperious. I’m always amazed when I see someone so out of central casting. The well-bred trophy wife.
“I’m waiting for him to have another stroke. Maybe it’ll stop him from moving his mouth this time.”
“…it’s that bad.”
There was a pause. The blonde didn’t answer.
“…if it’s like that why don’t you divorce—”
“Because because—…” She looked around conspiratorily. I instinctively lifted my feet above the top of the stall door.
She began to whisper. “Hallie knows Natalia, the Russian, his second wife?
“So her divorce settlement was close to ten. For her. But me, if I divorce him, I only get three. Can you believe it? Ten million for her. She was practically a mail order.”
My heart did a loop de loop. Did she just say $10 MILLION?
“If I survive him though it’s like ten times that…guess I’ve got to make sure he orders dessert”
Jesus. And they say we escorts have no morals. I may be a willing participant with A, but at least I wasn’t plotting to kill him.
At the same time, maybe Evil Wife #3 knew something I didn’t. Here I was thinking maybe A would want a third hour and I would get another cool five. Hundred. Maybe I’m in the wrong profession…
Stop this ride. Maybe I want to get off??
They Shoot Quarterbacks, Don’t They?
Picture, if you will, a quarterback…
If you picked picture number one, the Patriots’ gorgeous all American dreamboat, Tom Brady, you’re not alone. Madison Avenue picks him too. They’d probably be okay with picture number two, the Steelers’ Ben Roethlisberger. He’s not a pretty boy, so he won’t be selling upscale goods like Visa cards or landing on the cover of Vanity Fair, but he’d probably do just fine in the Salty Snacks and Alcoholic Beverages categories. The man looks like a football player—all tough, gritty, and of the people. A perfect Pittsburgh Steelers mascot.
And then there’s picture number 3, the Seahawks’ Matt Hasselbeck. Who looks like he’s in middle management.
According to advertising gurus, even if the Seahawks win the Superbowl on Sunday, Matt Hasselbeck just won’t get the kinds of endorsement deals as Tom Brady, specifically because he’s not as good looking. Forget that he’s going to the Pro Ball or that he was the highest-rated passer in the NFC or that he ran the 2nd ranked offense in the NFL. Forget even that he’s known for his sharp wit and offbeat comments.
The only thing that matters is that he’s bald.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot this past week, about the human need to stereotype and categorize. We escorts have our own battles to wage in this area too. It doesn’t revolve so much around how we look. Most of us tend to follow the stereotypes—we’re usually pretty, sexy, slim, and young. Frankly we wouldn’t get much work if we weren’t. But the thing we’re not supposed to be is smart.
You wouldn’t believe how much this comes up. Last week I was out with a client who works in finance. He was just coming off of work, and was wondering aloud how things were going to change once Alan Greenspan stepped down. He suddenly turned to me mid sentence and said,”Oh who am I talking to? Like you even know who that is.”
Don’t know who the Federal Reserve Board Chairman has been for the last 18 years? Does he think I sit and polish my nails all day instead of reading the paper? Does he think I don’t invest or pay attention to interest rates? Does he think I’d rather watch soap operas instead of CNN?
And then there was the restaurateur who liked to have me over to his bistro at the end of the night. The waiters would set up an elegant table for two in the private room. The first time I was there he began very pedantically explaining which utensil was for what. He got all the way to the dinner fork before I couldn’t take it anymore. “That’s okay.” I said. “I’m actually familiar with formal table settings. And by the way, the knife blade is facing the wrong way.”
Alexa: 1. Mean restaurant owner: 0
The question is why. Why can’t people accept that a woman can be an escort and still be smart? I think it comes down to separation. Escorts are other. People can separate themselves from our kind because they’re smart and we’re not. Because what happens if you accept that escorts have brains? Well then we can be your sister. Or your girlfriend. Or your wife.
Matt Hasselback is a damn good quarterback even if he doesn’t look the part. I should know so.
After all, my IQ is 170.
Confederacy of Dunces
Man, I love Sundays in the city. The Upper West Side is the land of many good brunches. There’s Sarabeth’s Kitchen for something rich and refined, Good Enough To Eat for a big Vermont country eatfest, EJ’s to check out the neighborhood’s kiddie generation of pancake lovers.
After brunch, my favorite thing to do is to walk it off by hitting one of the city’s many flea markets. Between 77th and Columbus, the Hell’s Kitchen market, and the Chelsea Annex Antique Fair we here have the perfect combination of crafts, antiques and really great junk. I was milling my way through marcassite necklaces and vintage bomber jackets two Sundays ago when something caught my eye. It was a man’s fire engine red T shirt with the logo Doc Walker’s Western Wear Troy, Alabama.
“Huh,” I said aloud.
I remembered Troy. There were signs for it off the main bypass in Montgomery. I actually also remembered Doc Walker’s. A few of the costumes in the Hank Williams Museum supposedly came from there.
“Can I help you?”
“No it’s just—I was there.”
“Where is that?”
I pointed to the shirt. “Well not there exactly. Montgomery.”
“Well, that’s where I’m from.”
His name was Prescott Pruitt Thompson III, a third generation Montgomerian—that is until he moved to Jersey twenty years ago. He was about 73 with a thin bony frame, a big smile and coke bottle lenses in his glasses.
“My specialty is records. I’ve got 100,000 different 78’s, everything from Big Band to Bluegrass to Honky Tonk. I also have in my possession a full line of historical Tabasco products. Now, did you know Tabasco is over 137 years old?”
Huh. I did not.
“You know darlin’,” he said next in the butteriest of drawls. “I would so love to photograph you.”
Of course as any good New Yorker worth her salt knows, this is the point in the conversation where you smile kindly, laugh, quickly turn around and head for the hills. “Taking pictures” is code word for “I will slice you, dice you, store you in a garbage bag in my crawl space until I feel like putting you in a stew.”
I was just about to give my regrets when I caught sight of Prescott’s right hand. An ever so slight tremor. Parkinsons. I felt my throat catch. I thought of my grandfather. How he was slowly imprisoned in his body until he was nothing more than a breathing statue. That vulnerability, that weakness— “Sure,” I said. “That would be fun.”
So last Friday, putting my better judgement aside, I made my way out to Jersey to Mr. Pruit Thompson III’s place of residence. First, he showed me his pin cushion collection (311). Then, it was onto his shadowboxes filled with Alabama match boxes (275). There was a bookshelf full of Michael Jackson memorabilia and a wall of sepia photographs of old Montgomery. Next to those were some of Prescott’s own photos, many with blue or yellow ribbons from the Alabama State Fair.
His studio, no surprise here, turned out to be in his bedroom. Prescott brought out a Greek column, an old wooden stool, and a few black drapes. I slipped into a tiny cocktail dress and we got to work. It was fun and silly, goofy and tiring. The column was just high enough that I had to strain to put my elbows on it. Try doing that though when it’s behind you. “I promise you it may feel uncomfortable now but it’ll look real nice on film.”
All the while Prescott told dirty jokes. “I was on this date once. We came back to my house you see and she said to me, ‘Would you like to take off my shirt?’ So I did. Then she said, ‘Would you like to take off my pants?’ And I did that too. Then, wouldn’t you know it, she said, ‘Will you take off my brassiere?’ And I did that. And then she said, ‘Will you take off my panties?’ And I did that too. Then she said, ‘Prescott, Lord will you stop wearing my damn clothes!!!!’ Ha! Oh, I fooled you. You thought it was true!”
At one point Prescott asked me if I wouldn’t mind changing into my tank top.
“Oh. I’m sorry. “You told me to bring a cocktail dress and a black T-shirt. Oh—did you mean tank when you said T—”
“Don’t worry darlin’. I got some right here for you.” He opened up a drawer. “Excuse my underthings if you don’t mind.” And he pulled out a stack of assorted tanks. Among them was a curious blue item with a whole lot of strings. My hand immediately went to it.
“Oh. You could put that on if you’d like. That sure would be wonderful.”
I unfolded the strange little bundle. Then gasped. It was an itsy bitsy teeny weeny—
confederate flag bikini!
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