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A New York Escorts Confessions

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.

“No idea.”

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?