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A New York Escorts Confessions

After the champagne and hors d’oeuvres, we settled down to watch the show in our hosts’ home theatre, which had white lights running along the edges of the aisles. I was psyched to see John Stewart (And yippee! I’m actually going to see The Daily Show taped later in the week.) and the opening montage with him sleeping with Halle Berry and George Clooney didn’t disappoint. But after that? Jesus, were any of you out there as bored as I was!?

It’s like they sucked the very life out of the show somehow. It was as bland as that bland color worn by Naomi Watts and Uma Thurman (hello! Naked color makes you looked washed out, not naked!) The only high point was when Three Six Mafia won Best Song for “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp”—which I proceeded to sing for the rest of the night. Finally someone on stage seemed to express real feeling, surprise and glee.

When the remainder of the show dipped to new levels of borrrring (rhymes with snoring), my date for the party L and I began gossiping with the couple seated next to us. He was nerdy looking but funny and friendly in a class clown kind of way. She on the other hand was hot. She wore a dress with a plunging neckline that clearly couldn’t accommodate a bra. If there was any doubt of that, her nipples remained erect during the whole broadcast on account of the air conditioning in the theatre. She wore a shawl around her shoulders to hide them to a certain degree. But I caught L staring at them anyway.

“So what do you think gets the best sex scene in the nominated movies?” she asked coyly. “Personally? I think you’d have to go with Brokeback Mountain.

“Says you,” said L.

“Oh come on. Don’t be so hetero. Even if you’ve never been attracted to a man—”

“Is she always like this?” he asked the nerdy guy.

“It’s like every woman wants to know now. Did you think it was hot?” the nerdy guy commiserated.

“Come on. Admit it. That kiss after they haven’t seen each other for five years?”

“Unfucking believable.” I said.

I’d actually been fantasizing about it ever since I saw it. It felt passionate and strong and male and desperate and physical. And when there was that scene with the two of them wrestling with their shirts off, all Wrangler jeans and cowboy boots and dirt. I just wanted to watch it over and over.

“I thought the movie was boring,” said L.

“Yeah,” she said. “You know what? Aside from the love scenes, I actually did too. She turned to me. “What about you Alexa? What’s your favorite?”

“Me? You can’t top that scene between Viggo Mortgenson and Maria Bello in A History of Violence.”

“That guy,” said L. “Every chick I know wants to fuck him.”

“Well yeah.”

“Duh,” she added.

“It’s not just that,” I said. “That combination of anger and passion and danger. And the idea that you don’t really know who you’re having sex with—”

I would have gone on but I saw she had her hand under his jacket. He jumped a little suddenly. Then they exchanged a smile.

The other people at the party clearly didn’t find our conversation as stimulating as we did. We kept getting shushed.

“Want to get out of here?” said L.

“Desperately,” I answered.

We got in L’s Audi convertible and made our way back to New York. Just before the entrance to the highway though, L pulled off onto a side road. He continued until he found a particularly dark street, turned down it and parked.”What are we doin—,” I started to say. Before I could finished L had pushed me up against the passenger door. I felt the door handle cutting into my back. My head hit the ceiling. L’s hands smacked the glass. I felt his teeth on my ear along with his hot breath. Then suddenly he stopped. He panted in the dark.

“…I’ve always had a fantasy.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

He wouldn’t look at me. “…take off your panties.”

I hiked my dress up and slowly eased them down. I slid into the seat, my bare skin on the leather. L finally turned and stared at me. I opened my legs a little wider. He moaned then groped his way back to the steering wheel. He turned on the car but kept it in park. “Please,” he said. “Would you…Oh God. I want to see you fuck the stick shift.”

I turned so my back faced the dash and slowly lowered myself onto the tip of the stick. L moaned and unzipped his pants. He began to stroke himself. I tightened my grip over his and eased myself up and down, up and down, faster and lighter.

He revved the engine long and hard as he came. Then he took off his leather glove and stroked the stick with his bare hand. He brought it to his nose, inhaled, then slipped his glove back on.

“Now that,” he said. “Was an Oscar-caliber fuck.”

I’ve even got Maria Bello-like bruises to prove it.