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A New York Escorts Confessions
Alexa’s Peep Show
So there I was yesterday skipping my way to the salon before the big holiday weekend. My head was full of barbecue dreams, of splashing around in the ocean and the pool, me and my teeny weeny ginghamy bikini. I was going to look smart, sophisticated, summery, and fun.
Apparently I was also going to look hairy. Because when I finally arrived at the salon, I learned that the woman who did my bikini line for the past three years had up and left the day before.
“What?! You’re kidding me. But what happened? She didn’t say anything about leaving.” What was I going to do now—shave? Ugh. I bristled at the thought. Nothing gives you a sweet red rash faster than a shave and haircut down there.
The salon owner cut the receptionist off and fast. “Solange would be happy to see you—”
“She’s very good. Much better than Maria.”
“Hey. No one’s better than Maria.”
It was true. I’ve learned to think of the talented people who go into waxing as true artisans. I’m sure that sounds way overblown—until you have yourself a bad eyebrow experience. Before I found Maria, someone crafted mine into straight lines instead of arches. I spent a month looking like something dreamed up in Jim Henson’s muppet studio.
Maria was great with eyebrows, but even better with bikini lines. She was gentle, quick, had an expert line, and most of all, was funny and fun. I trusted her. No one but no one was going to make me switch to someone named Solange.
Afterwards, I dejectedly made my way to the back of the salon to use the bathroom. Once there I pulled up my dress, pushed down my panties, and took a good look at the situation. Maybe I could go wax free. I was a redhead after all. It wasn’t so dark and scary down there. I snapped my thong back in place. Then again, a good waxing really does a girl good.
As I exited the bathroom, the receptionist practically plowed her way into me. “Hey—” I started to say. Before I could get another word out though, she was putting something into my hand—none other than Maria’s business card. I mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ as she quickly closed the door behind her.
I was punching the numbers into my phone even before I left the salon. “Maria? Maria! It’s Alexa.”
“Oh! It’s so nice to hear your voice! What happened?”
“The salon owner. He—he’s not so nice.”
“I know. He tried to pass me off to someone named ‘Solange’.”
“You know. She’s not so bad.”
“She’s not you!”
Maria laughed. “Thank you sweetie. So what do you need from me, hmmm?”
“Oh! Oh I’m so relieved I got you, you have no idea. A bikini.”
“I can do you around six today? That good?”
“Perfect. Where do I go?”
“Give me your address.”
That stopped me. “Wait. You’re—you’re doing house calls now? For bikini waxing?”
Why not indeed.
So that evening Maria came over, her wax, her strips, her towels in tow. What she hadn’t had time to get though was a portable table. Which meant we were confined to the couch. In the living room. Where I have no blinds.
“Oh no. I didn’t think about that. We could try your bed?”
“The light sucks in there really. I’ll just—maybe if we—if I have my head facing towards the kitchen okay, and I could just—”
“And you could hold your dress up like a tent, you know?”
“Yeah. No one will really be able to see…” Except the people across the street on higher floors. And we’d probably look a bit suspect to the people on the same floor across the street for that matter. But hey, after all, it was New York. Hadn’t they seen me like a million times before when I forgot something in the living room after I had already gotten naked for a bath?
We laughed about it the whole way through. I told her about the people across the street who were forever watching porn movies on their plasma with the blinds up. Now they were getting one live and in person.
I mugged for all it was worth. Each time Maria put her hand under my dress to apply the wax, I licked my lips and closed my eyes. Each time she ripped the strips off I arched my back and pointed my toes. I spread my legs wider than she needed. I ran my fingers through my hair and down my front.
When we were done, I turned around on the couch just in time to see a man two floors up above hanging out of his window smoking a cigarette. His eyes seemed to be trained right on my window. I rolled over and ‘accidentally’ caught my dress on my arm, exposing the new neater and more geometric me. Maria started to laugh.
Well what can I say? I was only trying to show off some really fine work.
Feast or Famine
I am seriously so overworked I can’t see straight.
It all started about three weeks ago. Coincidentally or weirdly or karma-icly—take your pick—one by one I lost a bunch of my regulars. One got transferred to Seoul. One decided to give his marriage another try. One said he needed to cut back on “extra” expenses, since he had been looking for a new job for four months and still hadn’t found one. And one just suddenly stopped calling. Maybe he talked to the other three?
Anyway, all of this made me feel terribly off-balance, as you can imagine. Sure I had actually managed to put money into my savings account despite overwhelming urges to hit all the summer sales with a vengeance. But that money was for buying an apartment or taking a trip to the South Pacific. Something dramatic. It wasn’t supposed to be for rent, or God help me, for something mundane like coffee.
The drop in income made me suddenly remember the realities of my past fashion rag existence. I thought of how back then I would NEVER take a cab. It could be four in the morning, I could be drunk, and sick and cold, but I would still take the subway no matter what. I felt like I simply didn’t deserve it any other way. I would bag my lunch instead of going out when I felt like it. And I never ever considered taking a real vacation.
Escorting was supposed to be my escape from all of that. And it has been. But the thought of losing my lifestyle kicked me into overdrive.
Usually I’m very careful about references and referrals. This time, though, I’ve gone out with everyone who contacted me. Two Thursdays ago I seriously had four different appointments within ten hours, which is just insane. I didn’t even care. I was determined to make up for the loss at any cost.
Working this much has it’s effects. My jaw has been killing me from smiling so much. My personality feels like it’s on overdrive. I’m talking faster and walking faster and I’m so completely wound up it takes me hours in front of the television just to get back to whatever normal is. I wake up in the middle of the night bolt upright thinking, “WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO?”. I know it’s unhealthy, but there’s a part of me that just can’t stop. I’m afraid if I start to say no, that all of it is going to go away again.
It does seem like some of these guys are heading towards being regulars. So maybe soon I’ll get back to that comfortable and familiar place where I didn’t think about it too much. Or maybe someone will ask me on a big trip. That always feels like winning the lottery.
Until then, will somebody please get it into my head that it’s okay to say no?
Over the years, I’ve had my share of the intimate post-coital confession. There was the guy who told me he believed he was THE Cassanova in a past life (really), the girl who wondered if I had noticed that she had two vaginas, not one (It’s an internal medical condition. I checked), and the guy who admitted he had lost his virginity to a llama at sleepaway camp—and has been turned on by petting zoos ever since. But nothing really prepared me for what C said to me the other night.
I secretly refer to C as “middle management guy”. Think of that moniker and you’ll have a perfect picture: the oversized glasses that were popular (maybe) fifteen years ago, a slight paunch, a receding hairline, and a tie collection that can only be described as The Seventies—the unhip version. But C does have his charms. He’s thoughtful, a good listener, reliable, loyal. What he also is, clearly, is unhappy.
C is a CPA in a large firm, and has been doing the same job for decades. He lives in the same rent-controlled apartment that he grew up in with decor that hasn’t been changed since. He eats the same foods, buys the same brand of briefs, watches television during time slots regardless of what’s actually on.
C’s always very grateful when we get together. Most of the time he’s very quiet, but sometimes out of nowhere he’ll just spill. He’ll tell me childhood memories of growing up in the bad old days of Hell’s Kitchen, how he managed to save a client thousands of dollars on his last tax return, or describe in detail a birthday cake that he had when he turned thirteen.
He was on such a jag the other night, telling me of his idea to market a home-made mosquito trap he had designed as a kid. It had something to do with yeast and a bottle—I don’t know I started to nod off once he started talking about carbon dioxide. At one point he broke off mid-sentence, got quiet for a moment, then said thoughtfully, “I’ve always wanted to kill a man.”
I was about to respond with a default “uh huh” when the meaning of those words clicked into place. I rolled onto my other side and looked at him. “What did you say?”
“It’s got to be a two-liter bottle. That’s really important.”
And then he continued on with the science experiment talk like nothing strange had happened. Now I know when I start to nod off I can make stuff up. My college roommates used to beg to see my notes from Econ 101, a class that was at 8:00 in the morning. In the midst of all that guns and butter talk I would write down some pretty hilarious dreamy digressions. It’s a wonder I managed to pass at all.
But I was pretty sure I heard him right. Maybe I scared him with such a direct confrontation, with my surprise. And I really don’t think he’s the type to actually do anything. But still, a bit unsettling, no?
Beauty Is The Beast
For a while I kept in touch with Ellyn, one of my fellow assistants (read slaves) from the fashion rag. She eventually decided that she had had it with fashion and was going to work in film instead. I remember when I met her for a drink a few months after she left that she seemed no happier working for her new large media conglomerate than the one she and I had both left: “I tell you Alexa, you could kill yourself reading the scripts that come in. Nine out of ten times the lead woman is described as “beautiful”. Seriously. And that’s it. No personality traits, no quirks, nothing. It’s like real characters have been replaced with Stepford Wives.”
“Uh huh,” I said. I was kind of perplexed actually. Ellyn herself was absolutely someoneyou would describe as beautiful, in that Ivory girl meets California blond kind of way. I wondered why she was so offended, especially coming from the magazine world where I’m sure it was much worse.
I thought of Ellyn last weekend when I went to visit my friend Cindy, who now lives outside Chicago. Cindy is a fabulous sculptor who’s just starting to get into some decent group shows. She’s also the divorced Mom of two little girls. And a stripper.
Cindy’s having a hard time right now. She’s been working at two clubs for the past four years. At the first one, the money was always really good. There were only six girls working there and although two were prostitutes, the rest, like Cindy, weren’t. Over the years though, more and more of the girls who replaced them were prostitutes too. Soon Cindy was very much in the minority. The clientele began to change and she began having to fight off customers who of course had the wrong idea. So she quit.
The second club, unfortunately was in a much less traveled location. Cindy realized she had to find another club to subsidize her income. No problem, she thought, there were plenty in the greater Chicago area. Little did she know what a tough road she had ahead of her.
Club after club refused to even entertain the idea of having her dance there. Why? Because Cindy has dread locks.
The club owners didn’t see how striking she is, or how unique. That she had a knack for style, which would certainly reveal itself in her dancing. They didn’t see her long legs or her impressive nails. All they saw was an outsider.
Many of them said they would reconsider taking her on if she cut her hair, then came back again six months later when it had grown out. She should also start hitting the tanning salon and get a boob job while she was at it. That in their mind was beauty.
Cindy was crushed, but adamant. No matter how badly she needed the money she wasn’t going to cut her hair to do it. She was who she was—a sculptor, a mother, and a stripper WITH dreads. Groovy long blond dreads that she tied back with ribbons or with a funky scarf. And made her in my mind the coolest kid on the block, as well as the sexiest.
I guess this is what Ellyn was all up in arms about. Beautiful doesn’t really mean anything after all. It’s a blank canvas that everyone can project something onto. It may be cliche to say beauty comes from within, but unfortunately it’s a cliche that no one in America seems to be buying into these days.
The Ultimate Kiss
Apparently it’s a slow news month. Didn’t seem like it, huh?
Since I’m still fat lobster girl, I decided to take the week off. Which gave me license to go over to Barnes and Noble and buy every magazine known to God and man, then plunk down on my couch with a big bowl of popcorn and read ‘til I could read no more.
When I got to Vanity Fair, I nearly fell off my couch. Neo-con Christopher Hitchens, he of The Trials of Henry Kissinger fame, has a probing, detailed article—on the history of the blowjob. Really.
I guess everyone needs a hobby, huh?
It’s actually a pretty—um—penetrating read. Hitchins calls the blowjob an American phenomenon. It’s about time we got credit for something other than bad movies and invading third world countries, huh?
Personally, I hope to never meet the guy. In the article he talks about how as a Brit, he’s obsessed with the average American woman’s mouth. When he sees all that great dental work, all he wants to do is unzip and thrust.
Sigh. Brings back memories of the old 04’ Republican convention.
Give it a read. And should you miss it this time around, don’t worry. Wikipedia’s already got the link in Hitchins’ bio.
Yours truly. Featured on Playboy Radio. Check it out…
A million hugs and kisses to Meme from girlspoke for reviewing my site. Meme, I still love you even if those playboyz didn’t believe my true story! :P
A Real Redhead
So late last week I got a call from B, someone I had been seeing for a few weeks. He told me he wanted to take me away for the weekend. To play golf.
“Oh,” I said. “Well, the away part sounds nice. But I don’t play golf.”
“That’s okay. I’ll teach you,” said B. “I’m practically a pro. You might have heard the term “scratch golfer”?
Turns out B, a copyright lawyer, was invited by a couple of his college buddies for a weekend of golf in Vermont. I had actually met both of them and their wives one of the last times we went out for dinner. Apparently they all found me so charming that they insisted that B bring me.
“Well that’s certainly nice. Are you sure you actually need me to play though? I mean couldn’t I just clap for you from the sidelines?”
“Well, I kind of told them you were on the golf team in college…”
“Oh.” They have golf teams in collge? “Why in the world would you say that?”
“I know I know. It just came out of my mouth. But look, it’ll be cool. You’ll be fine. We’ll just go up there a day early to practice, alright?”
So Friday morning, I found myself in a silver Mercedes driving north. I had decided I wasn’t really sure about this game, since in my book the clothes weren’t half as cute as tennis whites. I was making do with a pair of retro plaid shorts and some stylish polos. I knew I probably wouldn’t fit in, but at least I’d feel like me.
The first thing I learned about B was that he wasn’t very patient. At all. I’m also not so sure he was a “scratch” golfer, since he spent a lot of the time cursing at his own shots and yelling at the group in front of us to hurry up. In short, he made me more than a little nervous.
“Keep your head down! Don’t—no! Don’t break your wrists for Christ’s sake! I told you that already three times. Release the club. Yes yes. Alexa—flex your knees. And stop thinking so much, would you?”
And I thought this game was supposed to be serene?
Four hours later with my wrists and lower back absolutely killing me, we went back to the hotel. When I stepped into the bathroom and took a look at myself, I noticed I was kind of flushed. That was weird, I thought. It wasn’t like it had been that sunny. And I was wearing a hat. And sun block.
As the night wore on, my cheeks started feeling tighter and tigher and my eyes smaller and smaller. I kept sneaking into the bathroom and not liking at all what I was seeing. I was beet red. What the hell? All I had eaten that afternoon was a turkey sandwich. It couldn’t be food poisoning. Was I just really embarassed by my attempts to play a game I really didn’t like in the first place?
We met the other two couples for dinner at a restaurant that luckily was graced with dim lighting. Still the whole time my cheeks felt hotter and hotter. I managed to down a couple of aspirins, which at least made me think my face wasn’t going to spontaneously combust. I made a silent prayer that a good night sleep would put whatever this episode was behind me.
No such luck. When I woke up the next morning I could barely open my eyes. But B, he sure opened his—along with his big fat mouth.
“Holy shit! What the hell’s the matter with you? You look like a Gorgon or something.”
I ran to the bathroom. What I saw was seriously every woman’s nightmare. Red raised welts covered my entire head. My eyes were tiny slits that were oozing something green and disturbing.
“Oh no. Oh my God. I need a doctor,” I said to B.
“Yeah. I’d say.”
“Well can you call downstairs? Maybe the hotel has one?”
Since it was Saturday, we ended up having to go to the hospital. B waited with me in the emergency room for an hour before I finally dismissed him. He clearly resented having to miss his first round of golf to attend to his rasberry-faced date.
The doctor who finally saw me seemed to have decided that I was the comic relief of the day. “So what did you do this morning? Stick your head in poison ivy and rub it around?”
“Can you just tell me what’s wrong with me?” At that point I was afraid to look into a mirror. Maybe next I was going to sprout horns.
The diagnosis? It turns out I was having an allergic reaction to something on the golf course. You know why the greens at upscale clubs always look so nice? There by the grace of God—and a whole lot of nasty pesticides and chemicals. You pick up your ball, you wipe your face, and voila. Instant allergic reaction.
Unfortunately the cure was even more distasteful than the problem. Steroids.
“Oh my God. You’re kidding me. Aren’t I going to blow up?” It wasn’t bad enough that I was going to be colored like a rasberry. Now apparently I was going to be plump like one too.
“Some do, some don’t. But you’ll be a lot less itchy and uncomfortable.”
And that was supposed to make me feel better?
Needless to say, I left Vermont shortly thereafter. B was so eager to get rid of me that he sprung for a car and driver. And as to the drugs, they kicked in pretty quickly. Now I’m just red, but not welty. And fat. Yay.
Golf and me? I guess it’s safe to say we don’t really get along.
Alexa and Eva
Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words. And sometimes it ain’t worth squat.
I was lucky enough this week to get a private tour of the Eva Hesse exhibit at the Jewish Museum. I say lucky in retrospect. A private tour of a museum, of course, is always a difficult and wonderful invite to receive. But as to the show itself, I went in pretty medium about it. I’d seen picture of Hesse’s sculpture before, and was pretty sure I knew what they were about. She was a minimalist. She worked with repetition. She used industrial materials. Her forms were suggestive of the body. End of story.
I was so very wrong.
There’s something about seeing the dozen of her works together in a gallery that is so incredibly evocative. Hesse was clearly obsessed with texture. She has this series Repetition 19 III, of nineteen molds of dented buckets, which she cast out of polyester resin and fiberglass. They were just crying out to be touched—luminescent and strange and compelling somehow. You could see where her hands must have run over the material. And then there was this other piece Ascension V where she threaded rubber tubing through this cube. The outside was slick and smooth, but the inside was like one of those sea urchins with all its little feelers sticking out. I was having a whole lot of trouble resisting plunging my hand inside when nobody was looking. Finally I couldn’t contain it any longer.
“Um. Sorry,” I stammered.
“Yes. You had a question?” our guide asked.
“I know this is weird. But can I reach in and touch it?”
“You’d be surprised. Not so strange actually. Everyone asks that.”
“OK. So can I?”
“Alexa—,” said C, my now horrified date.
“It’d be quick and clean. Promise. I just went to the bathroom and washed my hands. See?”
“Sorry. The works are delicate.”
I knew he was right. In theory. This wasn’t the children’s section of the aquarium where you got to pet the horseshoe crabs. But still, industrial tubing was delicate? Since when?
The point was, I’d seen lots of exhibits of pieces by Donald Judd or Richard Serra, the big minimalists, and I’d never wanted to touch them before. There’s something about minimalism’s interpretation through the hands of a woman. There’s soft as well as the hard. There’s heart as well as intellect.
My biggest shock though came at the end of the exhibit where they had movies of Hesse. The story is that she escaped the Nazi Germany in 1938 and settled in the Washington Heights section of Manhattan. She grew to prominence in her twenties and then tragically died of a brain tumor when she was just 34.
I’d seen pictures of Hesse before. Lots of black hair and eyeliner. The kind of picture where you think she was a part of then the Sixties. But there’s something about a film that was so different.
I saw a woman in her late twenties with a chic hair cut, a cute mini and fabulous heeled and tailored loafers. Something I might wear myself. And there she was smiling and walking through all of the oversized and strange fiberglass and resin pieces. I loved that even though she was “serious” and an “artist” and that she was working in the milieu of men, she still wanted to look nice. I liked that about her.
We were just saying our goodbyes and thank yous when I realized I couldn’t yet leave.
“Oh shoot! I forgot my scarf,” I said, grabbing my neck.
“What scarf? You weren’t wearing a scarf,” said C.
“I must’ve dropped it in there. Be back in a jiffy.”
I ran into the previous gallery. I headed straight for the little box. I stuck my hand quickly inside. Cold metal squigglies. Smooth and bouncy. Childlike and funny.
I looked up to see the guide coming right for me. I was a kid caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Or the proverbial cube with rubber tubing.
So I’m probably banned from the Jewish Museum for life. But at least I got to touch a little part of Eva.
Merriam Webster’s Dictionary defines “glitch” as “a minor problem that causes a temporary setback .” Yet that’s the term AOL used last Thursday to describe what happened when tens of millions of people could not access their email for at least 5 hours and some as long as a few days.
Call me crazy but “tens of millions” and “a few days” does not “minor” and “temporary” make. Especially not in the virtual world which is all about instant access.
That though wasn’t the half of what went wrong at AOL. When users tried to access their email, they were directed to a page that said something to the effect that “the service was not currently available” and members should “try back in a few minutes”. That message never changed during the whole incident. And neither did the AOL homepage, which instead featured articles on such topics as who was a more watchable leading man, Vince or Brad. You wanted to know what was going on with your email account? You had to go to The New York Times or CNN website to find out.
Those who didn’t think to check other sources for info were forced to call AOL’s 1-800 number, where they were similarly left in the dark. There was no recorded message on the automated system to tell users that their problem was a systemic one. Instead they had to go through a five minute set of automated question designed to direct them to the right department. Then they were put on hold for the standard 2 1/2 minutes…which sometimes turned to 25…to be told to sit tight.
CNN and The New York Times announced at around 4:00 that afternoon that AOL spokespeople were saying the problem was solved. That didn’t mean though that users received their mail or that information. As late as the next day, some users were being directed to the classic AOL email site, which when I checked it out looked to have been designed in 1997. Sure you got your email, but you could no longer determine just by looking at them which emails you had already read. In some cases you couldn’t download anything with a picture. And the thing timed out after x number of minutes if you didn’t use it—after which it bumped you to the regular site, which of course didn’t work.
Strangely, if you go on the New York Times website today and search for the story, nothing comes up at all. Last week there were four stories on the incident. This week none. Why?
Why is this being treated as a non-story?
I had a host of tasty prospects for Memorial Day. A Parisian getaway. A pre-opening invite-only dinner in a hot new restaurant. Tickets to go see Billy Crudup in Awake and Sing!
I did a very un-Alexa thing and turned them all down. I couldn’t help it. Lured by the prospects of the first good yard sale weekend upstate, I decided instead to take Pete’s friends Rob and Cate up on their offer to come visit them in New Paltz.
The sales didn’t disappoint. An Ella Moss shirt for $1! A Calphalon griddle for $15 (I don’t cook but I sure do like my pancakes). Vintage Miu Miu heels for $40! Aside from the fact that there was no way I could make the shirt and shoes work in the same outfit, I was a pretty happy girl.
Saturday night, one of Cate’s book club buddies was having a party. She asked if I wanted to possibly haul myself out of the hot tub already and come with her. I didn’t know. Book club party? Weren’t those mutually exclusive terms?
Rob’s reaction, though, made me want to reconsider.
“You do not want to go to that Alexa.”
“Don’t say that. You like Wendy.”
“I like Wendy fine but she has some really weird friends.
“I’m her friend I’m not—.”
“I’m sorry Sandy? Who won’t shake my hand because he doesn’t touch people?”
“He’s not in the club. His wife is.”
“And that Susan woman with her smudge sticks purifying everything before you can walk in—”
I laughed, then covered my mouth when Cate shot me an annoyed look.
“Okay she did that once after she went to this Native American cleansing retreat. I’m not going to tell you these things anymore if you’re going to throw them back at—
“C’mon Cate. Your book club crowd is like half Chess Club half Rehab.”
“That’s not—,” she got kind of quiet, mulled it over. “Actually that is kind of true. Wait. Which half does that make me?”
“Chess club,” we both said together, then guffawed. Cate looked momentarily peeved but eventually joined in.
After that description, I of course wasn’t about to turn down a chance to see the Chess Club/Rehab crowd in action. And let me tell you. They didn’t disappoint. There was a Vietnam Vet who talked incessantly about how he had managed to translate his Agent Orange flashbacks into watercolor still lifes. There was the groundskeeper/radio personality who regaled passerbys with his deviled egg recipe. There was the nurse who I was sure was actually a transvestite. Cate assured me my perception was only the fault of a really bad dye job. I wasn’t convinced, but I took her word for it.
And then there were two others that seemed a part of the group but also not. She was over six feet tall, at least 200 pounds with a mane of dark hair. And the biggest set of natural boobs I had ever seen in my life spilling out of her shirt. She wasn’t fat either—just really really shapely, like one of those Renaissance nudes. He was almost her size with a handlebar moustache and a tatoo of her—and her boobs—on his bicept. I wondered if he could flex and make them move.
“Now who are they?” I asked Cate.
Before I could make a move to introduce myself, Wendy, the hostess, rang a little bell.
“Okay! Well welcome everyone! Happy Memorial Day.”
“Happy Memorial Day!” we all chimed back.
“I’m Wendy, your host. I see we have a lot of guests here with us tonight. So I thought we could take a moment here to go around the room and say what we all did. Let’s start with you Shawn.”
Ugh, I thought. Where’s the nearest exit to the basement when a girl needs it?
I HATE speaking in front of groups. I’m great one on one, great at a bar, great even at a dinner party. But give me a room full of people all looking right at me? I tend to stammer and blush like the true redhead that I am.
As my moment of honor or shame came closer and closer, I began to panic. What if someone asked me questions about what I supposedly said I did? What if I forgot my standard well-rehearsed answers? What if I completely choked?
“Hi,” I offered when it was my turn. “I’m Alexa. And I’m…I well… I—I write. Things.”
There was a pause
“She’s in fashion. That’s why she looks so great,” Cate offered, trying to save me.
“I got a pair of Miu Miu’s for forty dollars at a yard sale today?”
Well, I’m pretty sure the reference was lost on the group but I got a laugh nonetheless. I smiled and wiped a bead of sweat from my brow. A few minutes later, we got to the striking couple who no one seemed to know.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Laura. I’m a promoter, model, and a professional fetish wrestler. I do films and private sessions. Oh and I’ve written for Erotic Punishment Magazine and Juggs.”
I nearly fell out of my mules. I looked around to gage everyone else’s reaction. Either they were all really good or saying you were a professional fetish wrestler carried about as much weight as being a corporate litigator.
Throughout the rest of the party, I kept stealing glances at Laura. She just looked so comfortable in her skin, all of it. Her attitude, despite whatever anyone thought about what she did, made it seem okay. Normal even.
She was an inspiration. She made me want to get up there and proudly say, “Hey. You know what? I’m Alexa. And I’m an escort.”
Would they give me an enthusiastic “Hi Alexa!” in return?
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)
- 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