featured escorts
Sayata
Nicole
Hollie
Krissy
Sabrina
Irena
Dru Berrymore
Verified
Niko
Kaila
Mckenzie
Karissa
Athena
PoshModels
Velinda
Valerie
NY Hotties provides links to escorts and BDSM providers in the New York area. The list of erotic adult erotic entertainers includes massage, tantra, exotic dancers, strippers, dominatrix, female erotic dancers, escort services, female strippers, male strippers, escort agencies, male escorts, gay escorts, shemale escorts and other adult erotic entertainers.
Here are some of the areas covered by NY Hotties.
- Manhattan Escorts
- Brooklyn Escorts
- Staten Island Escorts
- Long Island
- Queens Escorts
- Bronx Escorts
- New Jersey Escorts
- Connecticut Escorts
- Westchester Escorts
By following the links on NY Hotties, you'll find photos, rates and contact information for adult erotic entertainers such as escorts, dominatrix, strippers, erotic dancers, female strippers, male strippers, and escort services who can satisfy your every fantasy and fetish in New York City.
A New York Escorts Confessions
The Pirates of Suburbia
The other day I was on the Upper East Side at one of my favorite wine bars, Bandol, when I ran into my former neighbor Lee. “Alexa! I’m so glad to see you!” And he kissed me three times on my cheeks, alternating sides as he went.
That Lee. He was impeccably dressed as always in a sort of Dolce and Gabbana meets urban cowboy kind of way. Apparently, he was some kind of a big wig in the advertising world. Being cutting edged hip was part of the game, I guess.
When Lee was my neighbor, he was always talking about girls. Girls he was dating, girls he wanted to date, what he liked in a girl…what designer the girl was wearing, how she should do gyrotonics to slim down her hips. He was a spinning freak who religiously hit his gym—in Chelsea—at 6:00 AM every morning. He didn’t like football even though he was from Sound Bend, Indiana, the home of Notre Dame, which had to be some kind of public offense in that town.
I could never figure him out. I always wondered if all the girl talk was A) him overcompensating B) him trying to pull one over on me or C) him simply being your average Upper West Side metrosexual.
“Alexa I want you to meet someone. My fiancée. Wendy! Over here. Come meet someone.”
Well if the answer was B he had certainly pulled out all the stops this time.
She plain and slim but, just like her future husband, perfectly coiffed and accessorized. What struck me though was how familiar she looked. I wracked my brain. Had I met her somewhere? Or did she just remind me of someone? I searched her face. When she lifted her chin to look behind me I noticed a large birth mark just under her ear.
Every once in a while, life in New York delivers it’s own smash cut. And suddenly I was ten years old again and Wendy was eight. And we were naked behind a large black umbrella in my dad’s home office.
We were playing pirates, a game that I had come up with. Basically it went like this: Wendy and I were stolen away by a group of pirates on an old sailing ship. There were about fifty of them and we were the only girls there. At first they chained us up on deck. Somehow we were dressed in all white, in pristine Victorian clothes. But soon they made us strip and threw our clothes overboard. Then they would push us below deck and into a claustrophobic room with no portholes. There we were chained to these hospital beds that had cut-outs around our lower backs and bottoms. The pirates would light candles underneath us and would stand and watch over us as we squirmed and shouted for help and tried to get away.
When the candles burned out, the pirates would take us into a room where again there were hospital beds. They would make us lay down and would take turns laying their hands all over us. Sometimes they didn’t take turns though. Sometimes four or five of them would touch us all at once. They would command us to flip over then run their hands over the lengths of our thighs our cheeks our backs, our underarms our necks.
There were many variations. But one thing was always the same. I got to be the pirate.
“Nice to meet you,” Wendy said distractedly, as I stumbled back into the present. Her eyes briefly met mine. And I could swear her pupils changed ever so slightly. I felt hot and embarrassed, a lump in my throat. She turned to Lee. “Can we go?
“Sorry Alexa. Wendy’s doing a C-section first thing in the morning.”
So the victim became the gynecologist. I have to wonder, was I in any way responsible?
Safety Last
People often ask me what in my opinion makes a good escort. Is it simply about looks and presentation? Is it about knowing how to put a client at ease? Is it about deciphering what the client needs before he even knows what that may be?
Of course all of these things are important. But the key in my book? It’s all about being safe.
We’re like taxi drivers in that way. Our job after all is about taking a client on a journey of escapism. But like all smart drivers, we need to know instinctively if the person in front of us should be allowed to get in our cars. And as dramatic as it sounds, that decision can have life or death repercussions.
It only took me one bad experience to realize that if I wanted to continue in this profession—and continue being in one piece—that there were certain things I was going to have to assess at the very start of each date to see if it should continue. Did I feel safe? Was there anything about this person or this situation that seemed dangerous or off? What about the place? Was there an easy way out if I suddenly felt like I needed to leave?
Most importantly, I needed to ask myself these questions in a vacuum—a place completely separate from factors like how much I needed the money or who had recommended this person to me.
Because I have such strict rules for myself, I’ve had a lot of trouble reading about the Duke Lacrosse rape case. For those of you who have somehow not picked up a paper or listened to the news in the last few weeks, a stripper accused three Duke Lacrosse players of sexually assaulting her in a bathroom at a party at which she was hired to dance. The case has exploded because the stripper is black and her three accused assailants are white. It has cast a spotlight on the tension between the privileged world of the students at Duke and the less advantaged one of Durham residents who are not affiliated with the college.
A few caveats here: I don’t live in Durham, North Carolina and I don’t know what the clientele or the jobs there are like. I don’t have two kids to provide for and I’m not putting myself through school.
I also do not in any way think this woman deserved what happened to her or that it was her fault. And if these guys did do what she said, they need to be punished to the full extent of the law.
All that being said, there were way too many warning signs on that night that something bad was going to happen.
The woman told police that she and the other dancer who was hired for the party went to the house thinking they were dancing for five men at a bachelor party. That would have stopped me right there—how many bachelor parties do you know where only five people are present? When they got there though, instead there were more than forty.
Forty men in a house, not in a bar with a staff. Right there, I would have been out of there.
Then there’s the fact that not only were there forty people there, but they were forty undergraduates. Which means there were underage boys in the room. Underaged boys who were drinking. Right there? I would have been so so very gone.
The women said that after they performed, some of those present starting hurling racial epithets. One of the players threatened to sodomize them with a broomstick. The two women left, as hello! they should have. When one of the partygoers came outside to apologize, though, the women accepted and decided to return.
As they say, a leopard doesn’t change its spots.
One more thing: later that night a policewoman discovered the accuser in a car parked at a Kroger grocery and described her as being “just passed-out drunk.” Here again, I don’t know the specifics. I for one have been slipped a Mickey. And God knows I sure like a drink or two while I’m working. But there is a line that I’m always aware of. Am I in control? Is this person encouraging me to drink more than I am comfortable with?
The Senior Class President of the school where the accuser is enrolled has voiced her support of the accuser. She has been quoted as saying, “We want to show that we’re behind her when so many people are judging her because of what she did to make money. We want to let her know that, no matter her occupation, she shouldn’t have been victimized.”
That’s right. She shouldn’t have been. But she also should have put her own safety first.
The Corset
Some people have gaydar. I on the other hand have been blessed with shopdar.
Or retaildar. Take your pick.
Seriously, it’s like a sixth sense. No matter where you plunk me I will manage to find a cool new store to die for. This may not seem remarkable in New York where groovy boutiques pop up like so many Korean delis. But you should have seen me in action in places like Prague (where I found two of the best vintage stores I’ve ever seen in the midst of unremarkable chain stores) and Montgomery (where I found handmade candles that sell in LA for $50 for $8.)
Yeah. I’m that good.
Anyway, I was walking downtown the other day when all of a sudden I felt pulled. There before my eyes on a quiet side street was a temple to upscale and cutting-edged accessories. I walked in and my eyes feasted on oh so classic and cute umbrellas, of all things. Maybe I should splurge, I thought. Then I’ll never lose another pathetic mass-produced black one. There were sparkly bags, gorgeous and intricate fabric flowers for your hair, necklaces made to look like coiled snakes. I was in heaven.
“Let me know if you’d like to see anything.”
“Anything? Hello! I want to see EVERYTHING.”
She was petite and dark with luxurious wavy hair that she had piled into a haphazard swirl of an updo. Stray curls whisped their way down her elongated neck. She wore an elegant designer sundress that showed just a tiny hint of toffee-colored cleavage. A fashionista. A style maven. A very very beautiful and arresting style maven. The kind of woman I could either hate. Or want to touch.
“You have to be the owner.” I squeaked out.
“I am.” And she smiled a big warm smile that lit her whole face up. She came over, shook my hand and introduced herself.
I didn’t catch her name. Instead I found myself fixated on her lips. They were incredible. Plump, pillow soft and shining with a light peachy glaze. Angelina Jolie lips. Lips that looked moist and wet and inviting.
“I just opened actually,” she continued. “Don’t tell anyone. But it’s my first store.”
“Well this must be your calling.”
For the next forty minutes she let me try on all of the bags, three of the necklaces and a couple of the bracelets. Everything was gorgeous, beautifully designed, striking. My delight grew and grew and grew. She eventually retreated back to her desk to let me “think about things”, i.e justify by how much that I was about to kill my savings account. It was then that I saw the box.
“Um…What’s in there?” I asked.
“Oh! I just got this new shipment of belts. Handmade in London. You want to see?” One by one we unwrapped the delicate tissue paper surrounding —treasures, not belts. Intricate designs were punched in all the whispery thin and buttery leathers. Everything had a human touch to it. They were without a doubt lovingly made.
“Wait until you see this,” she said. “It’s the designer’s signature.”
It was six inches wide of a rich mocha that was dotted with tiny Swarovski crystals. The largest part was laced with a thin pale silk ribbon that crisscrossed like the corset it was. I exhaled with a whistle.
“I know. And as beautiful as it is here…” She raised her eyebrows, then swiftly knelt at my feet. I hesitated, then stepped into the circle of the belt. Slowly she drew it up my body. Past my ankles, my calves, my pressed thighs. I felt a slight breeze at my center. I realized my skirt was caught in the belt and was lightly skimming its way up my netted panties, which were now fully exposed.
“Oops,” she cried. “I’m so sorry.” She quickly brought the belt down and ran her hand over the skirt to smooth it. I gasped at her touch. My skin felt prickly.
Finally she had it resting around my waist. I began to pull the ribbons taut in the front. “No no. Sorry,” she said lightly touching my wrist. “The tie goes in the back. May I?”
I nodded and raised up my arms. I felt the hot of her breath on my neck as she turned the belt around. “Now stop me if I hurt you. It’s going to be a bit like Gone with the Wind. Ready?” I nodded again.
She began to pull, pull me tight. With each tug I could feel the soft curve of her breast against my back. Closer and tighter and firmer. One hand reached to steady my hip. “How’s this?”
“More” I said.
Tighter and tighter. I felt short of breath. And thin and tiny and bursting and pricklier and warm. Finally she stopped. “Look at you,” she said, turning me towards the mirror. She nipped her hands around my waist and rested her chin lightly on my shoulder.
I opened my mouth in awe. My waist now sucked in like a V. My breasts were high and full. They heaved with each breath. “What do you think?” she whispered. I noticed there was a tiny line of moisture just above her lip.
I was just about to respond—or something—when the doorbell buzzed. She rushed away to press the button. A tall striking Italian man entered. “Mauricio ciao!”
“Ciao ciao,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks.
Ten minutes and $876.29 later, I left with the corset belt in hand. Although I was happy with my purchase, my thoughts were all a muddle. What would have happened if he hadn’t entered at that exact moment? Would she have kissed me? Would she have walked away? Was it my imagination or had something passed between us? Either way one thing was for sure.
Sex definitely sells.
Paralysis Bound
Last week I got a call from someone new. “Hi Alexa. This is F. I’m a friend of D’s?”
“D! Oh my God. Where is D?” The guy had just about dropped off the planet.
“He got switched to our Tokyo offices. He sends his regards though.”
“Oh well. Please please send him mine.”
“Anyway, I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner sometime?”
Of course I would. A friend of D’s is a friend of mine no questions no exceptions. And this guy already had won me over with his tentative, formal and deferential manner. Besides he had also invited me to one of my all time favorite restaurants, Aquavit, a long-standing Swedish place in midtown. I dreamt all night of herring samplers and the horseradish aquavit I had had with it the last time I was there.
When I got to the restaurant on the appointed night, I looked around for a man matching F’s description of himself—sandy brown hair, green eyes about 5’10” in a black suit. Who knew, maybe he’d even be cute. I couldn’t immediately see anyone who fit the bill though. The hostess eventually lead me to a table off to the side.
To a man who was in a wheelchair.
I was confused and probably looked it. Wouldn’t you mention ‘wheelchair’ if you were in one?
F interrupted my thoughts. “Didn’t expect that I’d be in a wheelchair, huh?”
He said it as a challenge, almost with a sneer. I was flummoxed. He didn’t sound a bit like the sweet and shy guy on the phone.
“Well no but—F?” Maybe this wasn’t him at all.
“Right. Because people in wheelchairs don’t date or have sex drives, do they?!” This had the possibility of veering horribly off course. I tried to adjust. “No sir. I saw Murderball, I did. Wouldn’t think that for a moment.” I smiled my brightest smile.
F—or the person now impersonating him—seemed impervious to my charms. In fact, he seemed to have the deepest well of venom I had seen in quite some time. Man. It was like another thing sitting next to him at the table.
“Forgive me. I was only surprised because you were very specific on the phone about how tall you were and you—”
“I am 5’10”!”
I breathed in and counted to four. “You’re right. You are. So nice to meet you.” I turned to the waitress. “Can I have a flight of aquavits?”
Yeah. It was going to be a long night.
After a bunch of fits and starts to the conversation, we finally got going. F talked about how long he’d been in New York and how he liked living in Park Slope, where he had bought a townhouse about a year ago. He had hired one of the city’s top interior designers and was thrilled with the result—a place that felt old world but was also flooded with light. Offhand he mentioned the phrase, “before the accident—”
Accident. The second he said it his face changed. He looked down. Swallowed hard. I kept eating.
“I bet you’re wondering what happened.”
“No. Of course—”
“I was changing a light bulb.”
I looked up. Jesus. Life was so ridiculously unfair sometimes. It hurt to even look at him. I opened my mouth—
“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me.”
I stared down at my plate. There was at least a full minute of silence.
“I can’t believe this.” he finally said.
I didn’t respond.
“…I had girlfriends. Before. Women loved to be with me.” Another pause. “You don’t believe me?”
“Of course I—”
“And now I’ll have to hire whores for the rest of my life.”
It stung like a slap.
Goddamnit. In one full swoop he had dumped the sum total of his own ugliness and anger onto me. I felt pinned by the weight of it.
But not for long. I signaled for the nearest waiter. When he arrived, I gave him my credit card. “Hi. I’d like to pay for what we’ve had so far. I’m going to go to the rest room. If you could just bring the check to me at the host station that would be wonderful.” Then I turned to F. “Good luck to you.”
I knew his outburst had nothing to do with me. He probably had had a host of women since the accident giving him looks of pity. Looks that probably cut like knives.
Rationally I knew that. But irrationally as soon as I hit the pavement outside the restaurant I broke into a run. I let the reassuring noise of my heels clicking away on the pavement carry me all the way home.
His Cross To Bare
A few days ago at the ungodly hour of 7:30 AM my land line rang.
“Oh oh uhhhhh. You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumbled into my pillow. Fucking telemarketers. This is what the country gets for outsourcing; now we get harassed on Indian time.
The last thing I expected was to hear my friend Tash’s voice. “Will you bloody pick up the phone. I know you’re still in bed,” she bellowed.
I scrambled to find the receiver.
“Hey. Ow. Fuck. I just jammed my finger. How are you?”
“I’m knocked up that’s how I am.”
“Oh. Oh my God—”
“Oh save it. The little bastard’s got me barfing up anything that isn’t nailed down. I told James if he’s such a spiffy scientist he should stop looking up telescopes and start coming up for a way to carry this thing himself.”
Tash, God love her. While any of my other friends would have cooed or cried or expected me to squeal with glee and propose a shower, Tash was her same old hard-edged self. She was my very own real life Miranda.
“Alright then. We need to talk about Ted.”
“You are—you’re calling at the crack of dawn to talk about Ted?”
Our friend Ted had arguably been going through the world’s worst divorce for about a year now. We’re talking restraining orders, lawyers who had unexpectedly dumped him as a client, liens on accounts, you name it. I had been sympathetic at the start, largely because I had never liked his wife Vanessa to begin with. Plus it’s always tough to see someone you care about in so much pain. To a point. After the upteenth four-hour monologue complete with crying fits and prolonged hugs that made me a little nervous, I couldn’t take it anymore. I just stopped returning his calls.
“I know he’s a pain. But I really think he’s gone round the bend.”
“This is the longest bend known to God and man.”
“No. It’s worse now. He’s been fired.”
That made me sit up and wipe the drool from my face. After years of working as a struggling theatre director, Ted had finally landed himself a position at a college upstate. He thrilled to the challenge like a man who had finally found his calling. It had been the one bright spot in his life.
“But what do you mean? What happened? He was doing so well there.”
“I don’t know. I’ve only heard pieces. But they’re might even been a lawsuit—”
“What?!”
“Ohhhh. I got to go get sick again.”
“But wait—what happened?”
“You’ll know what to do. It’s a sex thing. Your department.”
And she hung up.
I tell you there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t regret telling Tash what I really did for a living. Now she was obviously confusing me with some kind of sex therapist. But she had gotten me curious. Ted, absent-minded, mild-mannered Ted, some kind of sex fiend?
I decided to pay him a visit the next day at his Hell’s Kitchen apartment. He bounded to the door as soon as he heard my voice. When he threw it open, he was buck naked.
“You’re here!”
“You’re…uncircumcised.” He threw up his hands and gave me a big hug. Then he pulled back to look at me.
“Oh does this bother you? I’m just feeling really comfortable naked these days. If it bothers you I’ll put something on.”
“Uh that’s okay.”
“Come on in. You want some espresso? I just made some.”
So me and the skinny, small and hooded-dicked man sat like conventional people and sipped coffee.
“So what’s up? Tell me everything Alexa. It’s been a while.”
“Um. Well—” I tried to not look at IT but IT was exerting some kind of magnetic force on my eyes. “Nothing really. Things are good. Life at the magazine is good.” I thought the cover might be good in case Tash had vomited out my profession along with her cookies. “Oh. One of my friends just opened a store and gave me a free designer bag. That was nice. And you?”
“I’m great. I just feel like—you know—I just woke up one day a few weeks ago and thought I know who I am. I’m Ted. You know? It was completely a revelation.”
“Yeah. Sure.” I had no idea what he was talking about. “Um, Tash said that there was something that happened at school—. He cut me off with a wave. “She said it might be a big deal—”
“It’s this idiot other teacher at school. She lives here too, so I invited her to come over here so we could talk about the student show we were co-directing. And she freaked out. And then everyone else freaked out. That’s it.”
“Okay. Were you wearing clothes when this happened?”
“No. But I asked her, just like I did with you, if it was okay. And she said it was. And besides it’s not like—the Fed Ex guy didn’t freak out. My neighbor didn’t freak out.”
“But she’s a co-worker and that—”
“She was just pissed I didn’t come on to her. She never could deal with me as a man.”
He said it with a challenge in his voice. Jesus. I could just see this poor woman confronted with this when she came by. I was surprised he hadn’t peed around her in a circle while he was at it.
As for me, I thought a different tactic might be in order. “You know Ted. There’s places where being…unclothed all the time is completely accepted. Um. Maybe you could go on vacation before the suit. I think the Naturist Society—”
“Forget it.” He grabbed my coffee cup, walked to the door, and thrust it open. A man with a dog from the floor above passed by without a glance.
“Ted. Wait. It’s only because I—”
“You know what Alexa. I’m not some fucking hippie. I’m Ted.” He closed the door with a slam.
Oh boy. How do you do an intervention for a man who just won’t put his clothes on anymore?
Post of Shame
E-commerce? How about e-comedy? Or better yet, e-vil commerce? That sums things up quite nicely in my book.
Lately I’ve been amazed by the number of sites that ostensibly have great deals but follow it up with lousy or non-existent customer service. It’s been absolutely maddening—makes you want to turn the clocks back and just deal with mean or disinterested sales people in a physical space that actually exists.
I’m going to follow in Stephen Colbert’s footsteps here and offer my first “wag of the finger”, to instylekids.com. DON’T ORDER FROM THEM!
Many many people in my life seem to be reproducing these days. I decided that either I was going to go bankrupt or I’d have to learn a skill by which to produce gifts. Don’t fall off your chair here, but I decided to take up…quilting. Yes quilting, I know. But I sort of like that it’s this throwback to a largely bygone craft. And besides, I was truly remedial girl in the one knitting class I tried to take. While everyone else was knitting a sweater, the teacher kept asking me if I wouldn’t be more comfortable making a belt. For a barbie doll.
Anyway, I quilt these small blocks on onesies for all of my newborn gifts. Which brings me to the website which shall not be mentioned again. I found a great deal for a onesie multi-pack and ordered them. Only when I got it, it was actually a package of T-shirts. Ooops. My bad. I checked their return policy and found it was no problem to exchange them for actual onesies.
No problem my ass. I sent an inquiry email to the company and they emailed back right away to tell me they had a new shipment coming in next week. They asked me if I had opened the package. I hadn’t and told them so. Once. Then again. Then again.
Nothing. No response. It was like shouting into a deep deep well with no end. Then I called the number listed for customer service, where I was informed that the machine wasn’t taking messages. I.e there was no customer service.
In actuality there’s no problem giving new mothers T-shirts instead of onesies. But it really pissed me off. I hate feeling like a sucker.
The next wag of the finger goes to ritecare.com. DON’T ORDER FROM THEM!
My groovy East meets West doctor recommended that I begin taking protobiotics to help my digestion. You’ll remember I recently had to give up milk (cheese, cheese I hardly knew ye) and who could forget my experience with the toxic mix of champagne and Indian food. Anyway, when I got home the night after the appointment, I promptly did a search for the product he told me about, Metagest. It came up with the unmentionable website. I ordered a two-week supply and received it not four days later. So far so good.
When the bottle was empty I went to the site and tried to reorder. Only I couldn’t. The site insisted that I needed to register in order to enter. So I did. And it still wouldn’t let me in.
In exasperation I tried to find the company again by doing a search on Metagest. Instantly I got access—without logging in. This time though, I apparently put in the wrong expiration date on my credit card. Yeah, clearly I need to be less distracted when I’m ordering things over the net. But still.
So after receiving an email confirming my order, I got a second email telling me to call a number and say my credit card info over the phone to confirm it. I did so. And received NOTHING. I called the customer service number and no matter how I sliced it I couldn’t reach a real person. Just a general mailbox. Which turned out to be the same deep deep well I reached in my first purchase.
Anyone else have websites they want to add to the Post of Shame? Bring it!
A Tale of Two Cities
My back. His freelance gig. My friend’s birthday party. His niece’s christening. My “work thing that I couldn’t get out of.”
And then. Success.
In the end, M and I nixed The Body Exhibit and went instead to The Film Forum to see Yang Ban Xi, a Chinese documentary about the Disney-esque revolutionary spectaculars staged during the Cultural Revolution. My idea. I was flipping through the paper one day, saw it advertised and thought to myself, gee, how come no one calls me up and says, “Hey Alexa, would you like to go see this?”
The movie didn’t disappoint. Apparently Mao’s wife was this failed actress who got back at society by controlling the arts when she married her husband. The only operas that could be performed were these propaganda extravaganzas that featured rapturous but blank-faced women dressed in short and shapely army uniforms. They also wielded guns and ‘shot’ the enemy owners off screen. M and I alternately chuckled and were horrified.
Afterwards we shared a Toblerone at the theatre’s bar.
“Man. China is so…rich. You ever been?”
“Yeah. But not that much. Maybe three times after Tiananmin.”
Oh. Right.
You know what I love about New York? It always lets you see a different version of it through someone else’s eyes. It’s really beautiful that way. Chameleon-like and ever new.
On our way to dinner M stopped us at a tiny side street lined with expensive loft buildings. “Do you see there, about five floors up? My first squat when I came to New York the first time. Six wannabe journalists without power and water. Not a pretty sight.” He shook his head and whistled. “I look up there sometimes and I think, man, if only I knew then that all I had to do was hold onto it!”
“Seriously. Do you think every New Yorker dreams of real estate?”
“Yeah. I do. It’s the great equalizer.”
“I was once was in this cafe—you weren’t there by the way—”
M laughed.
“And I was telling my friend about this dream I had. I was walking through my living room when all of a sudden I saw there was this door I never noticed before, right? So I go in and there’s this spacious empty room. And I’m like, oh my God, I don’t have a one-bedroom. I have a two bedroom! And this complete stranger from three tables back yells out, “Wait a second. I’ve had that dream too!”
“Hey that guy was just trying to move into your apartment subconsciously.”
I laughed.
“Come on in,” he said. “We’re here.”
It was this tiny jewel-like French Caribbean place. Candle lit. Private. And the best part was we actually had to go to the bar next door to pick up a bottle of wine and two glasses.
Now I love high-end New York. Believe you me I had a full on make up session at Bendel’s last week complete with three make up artists fussing over me and pitching me products, all of which I later bought. But sometimes I miss real Boho New York. No one calls me up and offers to take me to a place where you have to leave the restaurant to get your alcohol next door.
Maybe that’s a good thing. Because after dinner my heel caught on the step leading down from the restaurant. I grabbed M’s arm to steady myself.
And then it was all Ivory soap and curry and alcohol and mint gum. The bone of his shoulder blade. His chapped lips. The cool of the lens of his glasses on my cheek, his rough working calloused hands entwined in mine.
Perfect.
To Be Blond At Heart
Synchronicity is the darndest thing, isn’t it?
A few days ago I ran into my friend Janey. Only I didn’t recognize her even when she waved, called out my name, and ran over to give me a hug. It was only when she pulled back and wrinkled her nose that her features pulled into focus.
For Janey with the light brown hair was now a platinum blond, eyebrows and all.
According to her she was platinum all the way. I decided to take her word for it.
“Wow,” I said trying to readjust. “I can’t believe it. You’re like a completely different you.”
“I know. Sometimes I forget I’ve done it and then I look in the mirror and I’m like whoah.”
“Yeah. Yeah! It really looks fantastic though. What made you decide to do it?”
“Oh I don’t know. A pre-spring thing. I needed a change. You know I broke up with Ralph and—”
“No!”
“It’s okay. Really he kept talking about the suburbs. But Alexa you wouldn’t believe it,” she said looking around discreetly. “In the month that I’ve had it like this? 15% more clients.”
“Get out.”
“Would I lie about something like that? They eat it up. It taps into all their fantasies. The cheerleader. The homecoming queen. Barbie. Jean Harlowe. Madonna. Nicole you name it.”
“People want you to be Barbie?” I mean really. No one asks me to be Raggedy Anne.
“You should do it too. You’d be great as a blond.”
She’s not the first to say this. That was pretty much the standard response when I made the mistake of dying my hair black—a long pause and then, “You’d look great as a blond.”
15%. 15%. Dollar signs flashed in my eyes. My pulse quickened. I could have a two bedroom apartment. In Paris!
I was still thinking about 15% on Sunday when I shuffled out into the hall in my robe and slippers to get The Times. There in the City Section was a full page shot of a luscious blond mane along with an article, “The Golden Girls”, about New York society blondes.
These women have lives that are as platinum as their hair. They live on the Upper East Side, work in the fashion business or are execs on Wall Street. They are the “Bergdorf Blondes” of Plum Sykes book. The Power Blondes. The great blondes of the society pages. Ordinary blondes are mere tawdry flotsom in their wakes.
And banish any images you have in your head of the blond bombshell. These blondes are refined and upper crust. More Gwyneth Paltrow than Scarlett Johanson.
Well I’m really more long and lithe than petite and curvy so I fit the profile there. Hmmm. Could I really pull that kind of a change off though? How would my life be different? It sort of intrigued me. Like a new way to go undercover.
And then I read further. For that kind of great hair with all its requisite touch ups? We’re talking $500 a month. Hello! Can anyone say “new dress” or “new shoes” or maybe even “rent”?
Then again, if I picked up a few more clients a month, what’s $500? Pocket change I guess.
What do you think? Is the universe trying to tell me I’m really a blond in a red-headed body?
web designers
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)
friends
raunchy humor
sexy stories
archives
- March 2007
- 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
