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A New York Escorts Confessions

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!