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A New York Escorts Confessions
Let’s Talk About Sex
So I found out over Memorial Day weekend that my friend Cass is truly a lucky girl. According to reliable sources, she’s now seeing Rich, this unbelievable guy who we all know from our college days.
Rich was, in a word, smoky. Hazel eyes with a dark Italian complexion. He had a furrowed brow, an expression like his wheels were always turning, intense-like.
And a butt that should have won itself a Levis contract.
As soon as Tash told me the news, I practically bounded for the phone. “You’re seeing Rich?!”
“Yeah.”
“As in ‘now that’s Rich’? That Rich? ‘From college Rich?’
“Yeah.”
“Oh. My. God. You little weasel!”
“I know.” And she began to giggle like a school girl.
“Sooo…what’s it like?”
“You have no idea.”
“Oh believe me, I do. I have several.”
“Well, do you remember how he used to work at Morgan Stanley?”
Um. How was this pertinent? “Sure…yeah.”
“Well he was doing really well, kept getting promoted, raises, titles and one day he just quit. Like that. Pretty great, right? I dig that about him. And now he’s working as a ferrier. You know, one of those guys who shoes horses?”
Oooh. I could work with that. Rich as a cowboy, with some shit-kicking boots, wiping his brow in the sun…
“So, without knowing any of this, I decide I want to take horseback riding lessons again. So I go out to the ranch and as I’m gearing Calistoga up for a trot—”
“Cass. This is all great. We can get to all of this in a sec, I promise. But come on, tell me already? How is he in the sack? What does he look like naked?”
“Alexa!”
“What? It’s all we talked about in college. When we’d go to his school to watch him play soccer with his shirt off, don’t you remember? We fantasized about tag-teaming him, wrestling him to the ground, so we could check out his—”
“Will you stop it?!!!”
Her tone was emphatic, shrill and above all incensed.
“It’s different this time. It’s private. I think…I think I’m in love with him.”
Again, I wondered how this was relevant.
This was so not Cass. Cass was always the first one to talk about sex. No matter what kind of relationship she was in, be it a fling or long term. How the guy kissed. How quickly he got hard. Which fingers he’d use to touch her nipple the first time. How many times she came and in what positions. She would always have us rapt, giggly, enthralled. There was no detail she wouldn’t provide.
I remember one time she was dating this real guy’s guy, Kip. He rowed crew, drove a pick up, smoked like a Marlboro man. And apparently had the smallest dick in the history of mankind. Cass went to no end to give us metaphors. Smaller than the cork from a ‘98 zinfandel. Thinner than a penne pasta. A head the size of a nipple on a badminton birdie.
And now she was taking away all the fun, all the bonding. Because this time she was apparently ‘making love’ instead of having sex.
I wanted to cry foul. I didn’t begrudge her her feelings in the least. I was happy for her. In fact I did want to hear the movie version of the first meeting, the courtship, the weak in the knees first kiss. All of that.
But first I wanted what was mine. The porn movie version of events.
As Cass went on about their sweet night of miniature golf, the stolen kiss in the rain, the bouquet of freshly picked lilacs, my mind started to wander. I started to wonder if maybe I could make up my own story using everything she was omitting. That night at the golf course? Maybe he used his club to lift up her skirt? The lilac bouquet? Did he go into a bush to collect it? Did the prickly branches tear at his t-shirt, exposing his lovely brown flesh? One thing was for certain though.
I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a small dick.
The Cheapskate
When I was first working at the fashion rag, there used to be this cart that came around in the morning. With these absolutely disgusting pastries.
I know. “Disgusting” and “pastries” in the same sentence. It’s a crime.
Seriously, though, these were mass-produced, unnaturally made, personal pies, muffins, “buns”-all brown mind you-wrapped in some kind of shrink-wrapped plastic. You were allowed to take one plus get your coffee or tea. All gratis from the company. It was a weird idea of course for a fashion business, but clearly something the building offered for all the tenants. But what self-respecting 5’8” fashionista weighing all of 103 pounds and terrified to even speak the word ‘carb’ was going to bite?
There was, though, this older man in accounting-Leon, I think his name was. I’d watch him as at least a couple days of week he would either talk the cart guy into giving him an extra “pastry” or swipe one when he wasn’t looking. And Leon was as thin as they come. I always wondered where the hell he was putting all of them.
Turns out not in his mouth. When Leon got canned a few months later, they sent a team of people to help him clean out his office. What they found along with the dust bunnies and receipts was about 250 of those pastries tossed behind a file cabinet in the closet. Still wrapped of course.
I thought about Leon the other day, because I’m realizing there’s a part of me that’s a lot like him. No I’m not a child of parents who lived through The Depression, like his did. But something happens to a body when it first gets to New York and has to live on a salary just under $30,000. It does manage to put you in touch with your inner cheapskate.
Years later here I am raking in the big bucks. I have no problem dropping $500 for really cool boots, joining both a gym and a yoga studio, and taking cabs whenever I feel like it. But I seem to have this problem with, of all things, toilet paper.
I don’t buy it. I steal it.
I know. This is weird. How can someone who is so obsessed with personal grooming be content to pinch rolls from Starbucks, French Roast and the neighborhood shoe store? I can’t explain it exactly. It just irks me to spend money on something so mundane. If they made cute pink toilet paper with adorable designs or upscale logos on it I’d probably turn over a new… square.
The other day though I think I might have been shamed into changing my ways. I got home late at night and had to pee so badly that I ended up using the staff bathroom in my lobby. Just before I left, I noticed they had a big stack of toilet paper rolls by the door. I started to slip one into my bag when I caught a glance of myself in the mirror.
Stealing toilet paper from my own DOORMEN.
How could I have sunk so low?
Today I’m mending my ways. I’m walking down the street to Duane Reade with my head held high. I’m going to look my demons in the eye and buy myself a 24 pack of double rolls. I’m going to place it not in a cabinet, but out in the open, in front of God and everyone. It’ll be a kind of personal product shrine.
But what about my inner cheapskate you may ask? How am I going to keep her satisfied as I finally cross the great toilet paper frontier?
I’m thinking pens. I am never buying another one again.
The Grate
Two days ago my Mom called with bad news. Our old neighbor, Mr. Marcus, had died.
What does my nine-year-old brain remember about Mr. Marcus? That he was nice. That he used to walk his two dogs Mike, a border collie, and Mike, a miniature poodle, around the block in the morning. That I would see him from the bus stop and he would always greet me with a, “Hello Alexa of the Red Hair.”
I never did learn why the two dogs had the same name. That’s the thing about nine-year-old brains. Stuff like that just doesn’t register as weird.
Mr. Marcus was a father. And here’s the thing about every father’s death when you just had your own pass in the last year. You relive that first death, every bit of it, all over again. I remembered just how much my own father disappointed all of us and just how much I missed him.
And then I thought of the three Marcus kids. There was Caroline who was two years older than me and easily a candidate for most popular. She was stunning, a student council president, a state ranked gymnast. And boy did my brother Pete ever have a crush on her. He used to walk our dog around the block just to try to get a look at her through her bedroom window. She was way out of his league, though, and he knew it. The fact was, she was way out of my league too. Sometimes I would walk the dog to try to get a look at her wardrobe. She always had the best clothes.
The younger Marcus daughter was Callie. I don’t remember much about her at all since she was three years younger than me. But I think she was a tomboy. I remember baseball hats and that maybe she ran track.
And then there was Jesse, the middle child, who was my age. And who was retarded.
I remember Jesse was especially close to Mr. Marcus. He would sometimes go on those morning walks with him and Mike and Mike. And when Mr. Marcus would address me, Jesse would repeat him, “Alexa of the Red Hair.” And I would say, “Jesse of the Black Hair” back and he would laugh.
I think after Mrs. Marcus died he was Jesse’s primary caretaker. I wondered who would be responsible for him now. My heart went out to him.
It’s funny. I hadn’t thought about Jesse in ten years. And now all these specifics came back to me. How he had ears that stuck out and a big gap between his front teeth. How he rode a big red bicycle. How when his body started changing he turned out to be really good looking—a strong masculine build and an a killer jaw.
But when I went out over the weekend in the midst of the intense rain and looked at the overflowing sewer grates, I remembered something else. Jesse’s favorite thing to do was to lay down over the grates just like those around our block. He would lay there for hours and hours and watch the water rushing by underneath.
I think my nine-year-old brain did think that was weird. But now? Wouldn’t it be great if something as simple as that could be so mystifying and involving? It was almost a perfect zen exercise.
But the thought of Jesse over the grate also made me also feel sick to my stomach. It was such a lonely image.
I called my Mom and asked her if she could find out where Jesse was living now. I wanted to send him a condolence card. And not just any old one from the store. I wanted to make him one. With a picture of a red bicycle on the front, and a picture of me as a nine-year-old on the inside. I would sign it “Alexa of the Red Hair”. And I would tell him just how much I was going to miss his dad too.
Yeah. We Got That.
We were late for dinner at Bombay Talkie—his fault not mine. As we were rushing down 6th instead of where we should have been on 9th, A suddenly stopped in front of Staples. “Hold on,” he said. ” We gotta go in there just for second.”
I was confused. “I thought we were late?” I mean really. What gizmo could he possibly need right before dinner? Did Staples sell sporks?
A grabbed my hand and lead me in. Just inside he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Mmmm. Don’t you just love that?”
“What?”
“That. That office supply smell.”
I looked at him blankly. He stared back. “Well don’t you?”
“I actually hadn’t really thought about it.”
His eyes brightened. “Oh,” he said. “You gotta follow me”
First he lead me to the the whiteout. He waved it slowly under my nose. “Bluch.” I said jumping back.
“You’re kidding me, right? You really don’t like that?” A held it to his nose and breathed in deep. “Mmmm. I just can’t get enough of it”
Next he took me to the paper section. He looked both ways then boldly ripped a open a ream. His action startled me. It was so…weirdly dangerous and unpredictable somehow. “Go ‘head. This is the best. The house brand. 100% recycled too.”
I bent down to sniff. A grabbed my shoulders. “No. You really got to get close to it. Go all the way. Get right up against it, you see?” He began to push my head down.
“Wait. I don’t want to get a lipstick print—” A rolled his eyes dramatically. “Okay okay.”
I did as I was told. And while I’m sure I didn’t smell what he did, I kind of got it. The hint of it anyway. That newness—the same way some people get off on new cars. I was intrigued. “So what else do you like?”
That was all A needed. “Oh just wait right there. You’re not going to believe the smells they keep in here.
So while A strutted off to fetch God knows what, I was left to take in the scenery. Which of course wasn’t much. Staples is nothing if it’s not antiseptic. I couldn’t imagine actually having sex there. All those bright lights and scratchy carpeting and—And that was when I saw the Easy Buttons.
The Easy Buttons—you know. The actual buttons from the commercials. I picked one up and laughed to myself. Who was stupid enough to actually buy one of these? Before I could answer myself, I frisked one.
I opened the package under my coat away from where I thought the cameras might be. Then I set off to find some double-backed tape. And then to find A.
He was standing in aisle three with a fist full of highlighters, a printer cartridge, a packet of pencils, oversized chalk, and but of course, a box of staples. “Hey there supply guy,” I cooed seductively. “You want some of this?” I opened my coat to reveal that my pants were open. The Easy Button was taped to the front of my thong.
“Alexa. What are you doing? There are cameras…”
“Okay. If you don’t want to press it I’ll just—”
“No no!” A hurried over, looked both ways, then gently pushed the button. It gave a little squeak. We both laughed. Then he looked at me. “So what happens now?” His voice was breathy, expectant.
I juggled the supplies so that A held all of them in the crook of his right arm. Then I slowly unbuttoned his shirt.
“What? What are you going to do?”
I took the yellow highlighter and began to trace his nipple. Around. Around. Around. Slow and light, so light. “You like that?” I whispered softly into his ear.
“Like a…little…tongue.” I brought the highlighter to his nose. He began to softly moan.
“You know what I’m going to do now?”
“Uh uh.”
“I’m going to take the white out—”
“Uhhhh.”
I opened the bottle. “And I’m going to trace your nipple again.” I did as I said, then blew ever so gently on it. “You feel that? How it’s getting hard?”
“On my cock…I want it…on my cock.”
“What? You want it on your cock?”
“ON MY COCK!”
“‘Scuze me!!!!!!!!!”
A dropped all of his supplies and grabbed his shirt to pull it closed. I unfortunately wasn’t quick enough. The Easy Button poked out of my coat like I was the victim of a very very unfortunate tumor. We both looked down in shame at the feet of a very very angry stock boy.
“You gonna pay fo’ all that? Right? You gonna pay fo’ that”
And that is what you call getting caught. White-out handed.
The Tell Tale Heart
Last Saturday my buddy Monica was in town.
You haven’t heard about Monica. In fact you haven’t heard about a whole group of my friends who one by one moved to LA from New York about four years ago.
As any New Yorker with pals who are actors or writers will tell you, this happens. Fed up with the reality of making ends meet while trying to make art, they’ll go off to LA to try and make commerce.
Of course I understood Monica, Priya, Mariah, and Deena’s choice. But I’ll tell you it sure sucked being on the receiving end of a mass exodus. And it certainly didn’t help that they all began showing up as the dead body guest stars on CSI. Really. I’ve collectively watched them be burned, raped, maimed, shot in the mouth, shot in the heart, beheaded, you name it. The next time someone emails me to tell me they’re a corpse I’m instituting a macabre moratorium.
Anyway, I hadn’t seen Monica since her wedding a year-and-a-half ago, so I was really looking forward to spending some quality time with her. We arranged to meet at Cafe Edgar, a fabulous dessert place on 84th Street which is actually named after Edgar Allan Poe, who wrote “The Raven” there when he lived in the building from 1844-5. Hmmm. So much for the macabre moratorium.
I was just leaving my apartment when I realized the dry cleaners were about to close and I had about two minutes to get my one fairly conservative dress for Mother’s Day. I made it in just as they were locking the doors. But then of course, I couldn’t find my receipt and they couldn’t of course find my dress. When I finally ran out of there dress in hand I realized that I better stop and get some gum to counter the the Indian food I had had for lunch first. By the time I reached Edgar’s I was twenty minutes late. And Monica was none too pleased.
“Hey you! You look great. Love the earrings. Is your hair darker?”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Um…I don’t know. 6:10?”
“6:20.”
“Oh. I am so so sorry. I forgot I had to pick up my dress for Mother’s Day and the cleaners were about to close—”
“Don’t give me that Alexa. You were late when we were in high school, you were late for my wedding—”
“Hey. I told you. I got lost. I don’t—”
“And you’re late now even though you live right near here and you couldn’t possibly get lost this time. Why do you keep doing this to me?”
“Monica. What are you talking about? I am not doing it TO YOU—”
“I mean You couldn’t even call? Am I really not that important to you?”
I was stunned. I couldn’t even speak for a full minute. Then I quietly apologized under my breath again. We made an attempt to have a civil conversation after that, but frankly hard feelings don’t go down well with tiramisu.
The second I stepped back into my apartment I broke down crying. How could she even think that I didn’t love her? How in the world could she equate my being late with not wanting to see her? I was dying to see her, see all of them. I was even planning a long trip in July to LA specifically to spend a longer stretch of time with them. What had gotten lost in the translation?
I tried to see it from her point of view. Was I always late? Yes, but with everyone not just with her. Well not with clients. And not for yoga. But pretty much everything else. An old boyfriend used to joke that my problem was that I always allowed a half hour of travel time no matter where I was going. Lincoln Center which was twenty some odd blocks away? Half hour. City Island in the Bronx which required the subway and the bus? Half hour.
But tics can only account for so much in terms of behavior, right? Could she possibly be on to something? Was I late with her on purpose? And if so, why?
The 1701st Man
The sun must rise in the morning. Roosters must come home to roost. And every New Yorker must eventually report for jury duty.
Try as i did to get out of it—or at least delay it indefinitely—i finally got a big FAILURE TO COMPLY stamped across my summons in red ink. It felt like the civil mark of Cain.
So Tuesday morning at 8:45 (ugh) I and 1699 other New Yorkers reported for duty. First I sat in the very hot Central Jury Room. And then I sat some more. And some more after that. For a very very long time.
Luckily I had smuggled some secret contraband in to keep me busy—a copy of The Sexual Life of Catherine M, the Parisian non-fiction scandal of a book about the erotic adventures of Catherine Millet, a famous French art critic. I even made a brown paper cover for it so no one would know I what I was really up to. If the situation itself wasn’t going to provide any real thrill or drama, I was going to have to create one for myself, right?
When we were finally excused for lunch hours or maybe days later, I ambled my way over to Chinatown. The one good thing about jury duty as those in the know can attest to is the nearby cheapo but authentic Vietnamese place Nha Trang. I was salivating just thinking about it. In fact, I had already worked out just what kind of Pho I was going to order. Unfortunately I wasn’t the only one with this idea. As I was getting on the elevator to go down to the lobby, I saw a fifty-something man with coke bottle glasses, old school saddle shoes and misbuttoned shirt watching my every move. I thrust on my sunglasses and bolted out of the building as soon as we touched ground.
Turns out he was more spry than he looked. “Hey there,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t been blatantly following me. “You doing jury duty?”
“Yeah,” I said, quickening my pace.
“You get on a case yet?”
“No.”
“You’ve done it before?”
“Yeah.” Was this guy really going to think my one word answers indicated any sort of a conversation?
“Oh me too. Are you a school teacher or something?”
That made me stop. “What?” No one EVER confused me with a school teacher.
“You were reading a book with a brown cover. Like the kids make in grammar school?”
Okay. That was creepy. He was obviously watching me the whole time. “Excuse me,” I said pulling out my phone and pushing the first speed dial I could hit.
“Oh alright. I was going to see if you wanted to get lunch but—”
When I got back to the Jury Room an hour later, I ended up sitting next to this girl about my age who had just finished a stint as a paralegal. “Lucky you,” I said. “No one’s ever going to pick you.”
“Yeah, I know. But I still have to sit here. I’m supposed to be moving to San Francisco next month and I haven’t even packed. Totally sucks.”
“Couldn’t you have tried to get out of it?”
“I suppose. I thought it might be cool to see how the process worked from another angle. Silly me.” We both laughed. Then she said,”It’s so annoying. There’s not even any cute guys to scope out.”
“Oh well I managed to get hit on by a guy who looked like he was either a rocket scientist or a serial killer.”
“Oh God. You have to point him out. which one is he?”
I scanned the room to look for him. When I didn’t see him on our side of the room, I got up to look at the other side. Nothing.
I came back to report my lack of findings. “I guess he got on a case.”
“Either that or he’s The Guy.”
“Wait. What guy? What do you mean?”
“The Guy. You know, The Guy. The one who hangs around the jury pools every week to try to ask girls out.”
“You’re kidding me. This is true?”
“Everyone in my office talked about him.”
Now I really wanted to find him. That was so wacky and New Yorky all at the same time it was just perfect. I was willing to buy him some Pho just to hear his story.
Unfortunately I never saw him again.
By the time yesterday hit, I was desperate for answers. I approached the main desk during a lull. “‘Scuze me,” I asked a woman who was sorting papers. “I’m just curious. Have you heard about this guy who stakes out jury rooms looking to ask women out on—”
“Is he bothering you?” she fired back.
Before I could answer another court official interrupted. After a quick conversation, the woman scooted out of the room. I never saw her again either.
Anyone else heard of this guy? Or is he about as real as the alligators in the sewers?
Has Anybody Seen My Dog?
So I’ve taken to stalking the Upper West Side dog runs.
It’s kind of embarrassing actually. I always think of my friend Sheila who one year decided to get a subscription to the New Victory, the children’s theatre on 42nd street. “Alexa,” she would tell me, “They have the best programming. And it’s designed for families so it’s really cheap—maybe about 20% of what it costs to go to Broadway. But I always feel so bad going without a kid. People look at me like there’s something really wrong with me.”
Yeah. I know all about that. I myself am not above standing outside the fence trying to make eye contact with a cute black lab for hours at a time. But actually entering the dog run like I really want to without having a pet? No way. I think the owners would kick my ass.
Every year around this time it’s the same thing. While everyone else gets pangs of spring fever, I succumb to the canine variety. Call it pooch envy. Or doggie desire (well, maybe don’t call it that). All I know is I can think of nothing else but how much I want a puppy.
And doesn’t it feel like there are suddenly so many puppies out there now that the weather has turned? There’s a brown and black puggle that I can see playing across the street from my living room window. There was a baby boxer at my friend Kit’s office at NYU when I came to take her out to lunch last week. And my friend Angie just bought a little pug puppy on the street for $300.
Oh man! Why doesn’t that ever happen to me?
And then I think about it. Wait. Would I really want a pug? One of my friends had two, a beige and a black. Two little whirling devils who were constantly running through his apartment, knocking things over and wheezing through all hours of the night.
And there you have it. The problem in a nutshell. You know why I don’t ever get a dog? I can’t make up my mind about what kind of dog to get.
I bet most of you would guess I was a lap dog kind of girl. No way Jose. Whenever I see those glam girls carrying around tiny little dogs in their purse, I wonder why they didn’t just go out and buy a hamster while they were at it.
I like dog dogs. Labs, retrievers, border collies. But they, unfortunately, are fond of space. And I live in New York city. And there’s barely enough room in my apartment for me. And my clothes.
So that leaves medium sized dogs. Cocker Spaniels are great…but they have so much hair. Beagles bay. Labradoodles are too, well, yuppy.
Recently I fell in love with a hybrid called a schnoodle, a cross between a poodle and a schnauzer. They looked so cute on the web. But while the schnoodle can range in size from giant (a cross between a giant poodle and a giant schnauzer) to toy, the only breeders around here only seem to have the miniatures.
One of these days I’m going to have to make a trip to the North Shore Animal Hospital to adopt a stray. I’ve got to do something quick. I’ve been seen hanging around the dog run one time too many.
I think there’s a wheaten terrier that’s on to me.
I Don’t Want To Be Your Wunderkind
I remember how annoyed I was when I first started hearing about Kaavya Viswanathan, the now infamous author of How Opal Metha Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got A Life, I read how during high school Viswanathan had spent time at the Center for Talented Youth, had gone to a program for gifted kids at Johns Hopkins, had been editor in chief of her school newspaper. I saw how she got into Harvard and wrote Opal while taking a full course load in her freshman year.
Just what we need, I thought. Another God-damned overachiever.
Then, of course, the plagiarism charges started trickling in. Forty passages or so in the book were found to be identical to ones in Megan McCafferty’s Sloppy Firsts and Second Helpings. Not intentional, fired back Viswanathan as she apologized, claiming her faulty photographic memory.
I kinda felt bad for her at that point. Maybe I was gullible but I actually didn’t doubt the photographic memory claim. But I did wonder, if you’re that smart and that gifted wouldn’t you pretty much know which photograph you were looking at? As of yesterday, though, the charges got even worse. The New York Times published allegations that Viswanathan also stole from Can You Keep A Secret? by Sophie Kinsella. What had been teetering on the edge of a colossal mistake now seemed nothing short of calculated.
But while everyone else rolled their eyes and damned the publishing industry for being so easily hoodwinked AGAIN, I found my stomach clutching with some kind of recognition. Only one of my friends hit it on the nose.
“Wow. I guess the pressure gets to everyone.”
Kaavya Viswanathan is a fake. And what I’m wondering is if secretly, that’s the way she wanted it to be all along.
Maybe after all the attention and all the hype she needed to pop her own balloon, puncture that nagging perfectionist myth that had been chasing her since she was a kid. Maybe now she can finally have the freedom to be a B student and sleep around a little bit.
Thinking about Kaavya made me think of my friend Mina who suddenly became a commercial agent at a top talent agency at the age of only 24. “Alexa,” she would tell me. “You have no idea what it’s like. I—I wake up at 3:00 in the morning short of breath, my heart in my throat, totally convinced this star’s got a salty snack conflict and I just booked him on a Fritos commercial. And he’s not even my client. I don’t know him.” Mina lived in constant fear that at any moment any person she came in contact with was going to look into her eyes and see IT. The fact that she was a fraud. That she really knew nothing. That she was just a kid bullshitting her way to the top.
And of course, the funny thing about it was she was in a way. All she really wanted to do was act.
A lot of people ask me why I decided to become an escort. I give them the easy answers. I’m in it for the money. I like to figure out how to please people. I’m really good at it. But maybe the truth does go deeper.
Because I myself was a version of Kaavya Viswanathan. I was the straight A girl with the bright future and the parental pressure to go with it. I got into all the top colleges, danced in competitions across the US and was going to design my own fashion line by the time I was twenty-five.
I already blew a big, gaping whole through everyone’s expectations. And you know what? That’s the way I like it.
Curiouser
It is Alice, she of Wonderland fame, who says during the course of her journey: “Things just get curiouser and curiouser.”
Sometimes I’m pretty sure I must be Alexa in Wonderland. How else to explain how I managed to see a double feature of Repulsion and Belle de Jour with M.
He’s been pretty much out of town since our first date but luckily we have managed to talk via cell, email, and IM about every three days. Too bad no one’s come up with technology to make out long distance, huh?
I happened to mention to him off the cuff how funny I thought it was that Repulsion and Belle De Jour, both classic Catherine Deneuve pictures, were playing in New York in the theatres at the same time. I said I thought it would be fun to do the fifty-yard-dash to see both flicks in the same day, sprinting from downtown to uptown and the East Side to the West in record time. Then I’d take myself out to a bistro for a nice burgundy and steak frites. I hadn’t done something like that in a long time, just devote an entire day to being a cinephile. Isn’t it funny how the little things can somehow seem so decadent?
Turns out M is a total Polanski freak. He loves the weirdness of Rosemary’s Baby and claims he still gets spooked every time he has to walk by The Dakota, the gothic apartment building on West 72nd where the film was shot. Then he told me this hysterical story of how his little brother was so traumatized by The Tenant that he wouldn’t put his baby teeth under his pillow for the tooth fairy after he saw it.
Well on the appointed day of my little cinematic excursion, I got a call from M. “Hey!” I chirped.
“Hey yourself. So what time are we going?”
“Wait. You’re here? You’re back?!” Hot dog. This was the best news ever.
“I checked the paper. We could do Belle De Jour at 4:45 and then Repulsion at 7:35.”
“Which puts us downtown near many a fabulous French Bistro.”
“I’ll see you there!”
So I slipped on a little black thing and my fabulous new Corset Belt and set off. It was only as I was emerging from the subway and into the sunlight that I suddenly thought to myself WHAT THE FUCK WAS I DOING.
I had just invited a boy I liked to come see a movie with me about a woman who was leading a double life. Who didn’t know that the girl he liked (namely me) was also living a double life. A different kind of double life to be sure. Belle is an upscale Parisian who moonlights as a prostitute in order to get back in touch with her sexuality. I was an Upper West Sider who worked as an escort, not a prostitute, in order to get back in touch with her wallet.
Wait. What was I worried about? Bunuel, the director, sets it up so maybe it’s all a fantasy anyway. And there’s nothing wrong with fantasies. And there was nothing wrong with seeing the movie with M and—
And that’s when I got all self-conscious and weird.
As soon as M saw me he took my hand, which normally would have turned me as gooey inside as well, a milk dud. This time I just felt like a dud. The whole movie I just sat and squirmed. M somehow took this as being hunger-related.
“You look like a girl who needs a power bar,” he said as the credits rolled.
Really? I felt like a girl who needed a valium.
Afterwards we made our way down to The Film Forum, the site of our happy and carefree first date, for Repulsion, Polanski’s scarefest about a fragile woman who when left alone for a week by her roommate/sister becomes a serial killer. My favorite sequence—normally—is this trippy scene where hands come out of the hallway walls to grab and fondle Deneuve’s character. This time it felt like she was me and the hands were hands from my past, pushing me, dragging me down by the hair. I started obsessing that someone in the audience was going to turn out to be a client and was going to call me to the carpet as soon as the lights went up.
Needless to say, I could barely make it through dinner. And now M hasn’t called.
Do you think I screwed up?
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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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raunchy humor
sexy stories
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