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A New York Escorts Confessions

“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.