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A New York Escorts Confessions
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.
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confessionsComments
I love the way you describe this. In my vocab he's a "shopper," the guy who thinks escorts are for sale and he can just buy one for a girlfriend. Good for you for cutting him short.
Posted by Moonlighting Escort on Feb 23 09:40AMA poignant story. S doesn't want to save you, he needs you to save him.
Posted by Clueless on Feb 23 01:16PMBut if you think about it, dont we all need to be saved from time to time? Dont we all need to just let our guard down, and have that one person to love us, to care for us, to save us? Or maybe some of us arent meant to be saved. Maybe some of us just need to run free, until they find someone just as wild to run with. And maybe some of us, need to ask...Alexa, girl, why the hell would you buy pickled eggs?! LOL...
Posted by David on Feb 24 11:50PMIt's so cool for anyone in any walk of life to be completely comfortable with who they are and what they do. (As someone who is a recent returnee to being a corporate minion, I am constantly questioning my place in the world.)
But honestly...pickeled eggs?
Posted by MissMeliss on Feb 26 12:31PMWhat I'm wondering is (kinda in the same vein as S, but without the same intent), whatare you going to do when you (as we all do) age? There's got to be a point when an escort is past her prime, and can't satisfy her clients as well as a younger girl can...what then?
Posted by Curious on Feb 27 06:27PMI wanna know about the eggs and beer, too!
You can't really blame the guy (or anyone) for wanting to "save" you, though. I mean, the perception (well, society's perception) is that all women in any kind of sex industry (strippers, pornstars, escorts) are trashy sluts who need saving. I mean, how could it be that somebody would actually choose to have sex with strangers for a living? That's so dirty!
I don't happen to share that perception.
But then again, if he's a "shopper," then yeah, good that you cut him loose quickly.
Posted by mikey on Feb 27 11:53PMOK all ye epicurious!
So the eggs. . .well I cheated a bit. It took me two pilsners to get the guts to try one. It's pretty odd tasting as you would imagine--interesting but I wouldn't necessarily want to do it again. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to slice it or pick it up and bite it like an apple. All in all: the fried pickles were much better!
Alexa
Posted by Alexa on Feb 28 02:20PMalexa, I love your stories, and you're a great writer, but the notion that southerners talk like the gentleman described above really takes away from your story and it's credibility.Ever see a movie and watch a talented actor completely destroy it with a terrible accent?
Now have you gone and tried southern dialogue without all the insulting stupidity and twang? If'n you haven't yet, it'd be right proper if ya did.
Posted by dixiebelle on Mar 1 02:30PMPost a Comment
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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)
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Love the story…. don’t really like the potential endings. People do strange things when they are desperate…and S seems desperate. As they say in Schipol airport….„mind your step„!
Posted by Rex on Feb 23 07:50AM