featured escorts
B&G Club
CityGlamours
Ivanna DiCarlo
Brianna
Jackeline
Tia
Verified
Samantha Knight
Verified
Milady
Verified
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 Skinny
My my my my my! What two solid days of sex will do for a girl. And I do mean two solid days folks. I barely ate, barely showered (except for recreational purposes that is), rarely even left the king-sized, multi-tufted bed (except for earth-shatteringly good recreational purposes). Kowabunga. Sigh.
I now have an open invitation to St. Louis. And to Turin. Guess which one I’m going to take him up on, hmmm?!
Anyway, I was able to hold off on visiting my LA posse for a couple of days by promising to extend my trip for the same amount time—and to give them all the juicy details when I finally came up for air. I was actually thinking of renegging on the second part. There’s something sublime about hoarding those delectable, sweet, stomach-dropping moments all to yourself, you know?
Turns out I didn’t even get a chance to settle on a strategy. “Oh my God! You are so skinny!” Monica wailed when I stepped into her apartment.
Actually she was right. I’ll tell you for me, flying is the best diet of all. The day before I travel all I do is worry about what could happen to the plane. It’s gotten so bad I can’t really eat or even get out of the bathroom for that matter. And then there was that oppressive heat wave last week where all I could eat was salad, salad, and more salad. All that lettuce translated into me being a mean, lean 103, two pounds less than the least Alexa of my adult life.
Monica, on the other hand, was not so skinny. She had definitely gained a few, which surprised me since she had always been in good shape. Then again, she always had the worst eating habits. I would always know when she had touched down in my apartment because there would be a missing Ben and Jerry’s pint not accounted for.
“So tell me. How did you do it? Portion size? Gyrotonics? Not eating carbs?”
“Uh no—nerves, sex, heat, not necessarily in that order. Actually it wasn’t intentional.”
“Oh don’t give me that. Did you give up meat? Do you measure your food? Did I tell you I’m doing a cardio strip class?”
No—no. Egads. So many questions. I stopped even trying to answer them and instead marveled at her downright…obsessiveness on the topic.
Deena came to join us an hour later. Monica didn’t miss a beat. “Oh my God. You’re so skinny,” she cooed as she kissed her hello.
“I’m telling you, you gotta do a colonic. I lost three pounds, and no bloat.” Deena lifted up her shirt to show us the results. Then she turned to me. “Oh my God! You’re so skinny! Do you do colonics too?”
Man. You could smell the desperation coming off their breath and the see the minus signs glowing in their eyes. It was all a little Stepford wifey for me. Yeah I was skinny. But I was also happy. And satisfied and sore and lovey-dovey and and and dear God almighty, suddenly so very—
“You know what guys? Can we go out for a pizza with everything? Like now? I’m completely starving.”
Balls!
“Excuse me,” he said, with an adorable Italian accent. “But I do not see my reservation here on the machine.”
Apparently the airline “concierge” wasn’t as much a sucker for accents as I was. “So you can’t do self check-in,”she barked.
“But you see, I should do it. The reservation, it’s on my computer, you see?” He lifted it up and showed her the screen, presumably with his flight reservation on it.
“Take it to the other line.”
My first thought was, thank God it wasn’t me. Airline travel has become so fraught with delays, lost luggage, and stripping at the metal detector that you’re almost glad when someone else gets saddled with the travel nightmare instead of you. There’s got to be a limit on bad karma, you reason, so the more people around you who are having a bad time of it, the more likely you’ll be the one to sail through with no problems.
My second thought was less philosophical. I marveled at what a cute ass he had.
An hour and a half later I was on the plane fastening my seatbelt, nursing my first gin and tonic and thinking about the virtues of First Class. I had almost forgotten about Mr. Young, Handsome, and Italian. Until—I swear to you—he ended up sitting in the seat next to me.
“So they found your reservation after all, huh?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I was in line in back of you. They couldn’t find your reservation?”
“Oh yes. I was in three lines. But they found it, yes. So I am here.”
Yes, yes. He certainly was.
We didn’t talk so much during the flight. He was engrossed in what looked like actually sending emails. I knew he must in truth be responding to them and saving them to send later. But I kept wondering if he wasn’t somehow interfering with the flight communications, which sort of terrified me. That was when I wasn’t watching his screen, at what looked like pictures of multi-colored vinyl. An artist? I wondered.
Somewhere over the Grand Canyon, he turned and started talking to me.
“You are going home?”
“Oh. You mean to LA? No no. Going to visit. For pleasure. You?”
“Meetings. But hopefully some pleasure too. But I only have two days.”
Two days could pack a whole lot of pleasure in my book. “And then it’s back to home in New York?”
“St. Louis.”
That was about the last place I expected him to say. “What? Wait. You live in St. Louis? But you’re—you’re not from here—there?”
“No. Turino.”
“Oh—oh Turin! The Olympics”
“You watch the World Cup?”
“Oh—hey right! Congratulations!” We clinked glasses to his country’s success. He flashed me a dazzling white smile. So sweet. So young. So—I noticed how the top two buttons of his oxford were undone. A peek of chest hair. Dark curls framing his face. That cute behind.
I’d sort of forgotten about young bodies, young faces. In my business the average age of a client was probably somewhere in the 40’s. It was so nice to be caught up in youth—in my proper age and place in life. I was young, free, and going to California with Mr.—Mr.—um—
“I’m Alexa by the way.”
“Oliviero”
With Mr. Oliviero. Sigh.
We ended up talking about the city—by which of course, I mean New York. He had been on a business trip there over fourth of July weekend. He told me how much he liked the Village and the Meatpacking District. Somehow that lead to me telling him about Chumley’s, the famous old speakeasy down on, what was it—Bedford? For those of you who don’t know it, Chumley’s is an awesome must-see where the floors are covered in sawdust, the tables are carved up by generations of writers using a knife to etch out their names, and there’s no sign whatsoever on the street to identify it. He was charmed by my explanation of Prohibition. I was charmed by his dimples.
“So what do you do exactly?”
“I make balls.”
I broke into a laugh so hard that 3A, B, C, and D all turned around to glare at me.
“No. I do. The balls at Right Aid, yes? You know, the large bouncy balls for kids?”
You just can’t make this stuff up.
Anyway, me and Oliviero-of-the-balls were so busy talking that I completely forgot about my hourly bathroom pitstop. Which meant by the time we were coming in for a landing I had to go and badly. As soon as we touched ground I excused myself and dived into the restroom. By the time I was ready to come out, people were already blocking the aisles. Which meant I lost my sweet sweet Oliviero.
I raced through the airport to baggage claim. It had been a crowded flight for sure. But I couldn’t find him no matter where I looked. I was just about to decide I had bad flight karma after all when he came flying in from outside.
“I went to look for you outside. You have no luggage yes?”
“I went to look for you inside! You have luggage yes?!”
We shared a laugh, then stopped. There was a pause. A flash of dark brown eyes. An awkward grin. “So I wanted to wish you a good trip.”
“You too.” We laughed again. Then he kissed me lightly on both cheeks. And then he lightly touched my chin. And then somehow my hand ended up on his shoulder. And then we kissed the good old fashioned American way. Deep, sweet, full on, an embrace that lasted a full ten minutes. Until the baggage claim conveyor belt came to a grinding halt.
Welcome to LA Alexa. And to St. Louis and the Meatpacking district and Turino to boot.
The City of Angels—and Devils
So I’m off tomorrow to LA. Whooo-hooo! Anyone who has any great restaurant or club or store recommendations, send them on in. Unlike a lot of my other trips, this one is agenda free. I’m just going for some fun in the sun and to visit my friends Monica, Priya, Mariah, Deena, and a few others in between. I’m going to try to go to some screenings, go roller blading in Venice and Santa Monica, hiking in the canyons, and partying everywhere in between. I can’t wait. Sunblock #50 here I come.
I was thinking I was going to stay with my friend Leo, who’s got a three-bedroom house with a pool right on Laurel Canyon. Centrally located, beautiful views, beautiful appointments, and great great food, since Leo and his boyfriend Spence are great cooks. I emailed everyone my itinerary. And that’s when the trouble began.
“What do you mean?” said Monica on the phone. “You’re going to stay with Leo and not with me? I’ve known you like fifteen years longer.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I just thought—I thought me actually staying with you might inconvenience you.” Or inconvenience me—since I’d be sleeping on an air mattress near the dog bed.
“What are you talking about? We’d love to have you. I already bought some scented candles for the bathroom.”
Was that for me or for the dog?
I kinda thought I should say yes to Monica since we had so recently had that knock-down drag-out fight. I could deal with the floor for a couple of days. Couldn’t I?
The floor might have been better than what came next. Priya called me the next day. “So you’re staying with Monica and you’re not staying with us?”
“Well Monica lives in Santa Monica which is more centrally—”
“It’s not centrally located. There’s a whole city east of there you know. I just hate that everybody thinks the west side is LA.”
Okay, I wasn’t actually one of those people. Priya and her boyfriend had lived before in Los Feliz then Echo Park. I actually loved staying in those areas with their rawness and their newness and all the groovy stores. But as of a few months ago, Priya and Sam had bought a house. In Pasadena.
“Look Alexa, I know it’s not the most convenient. But we really want you to see the house. It’s important to me.”
I could come see it, sure. But did I really need to stay there?
Apparently I did. And that’s when Deena chimed in. “You’re going to stay in Pasadena and not Manhattan Beach with me?”
Manhattan Beach was nice. But Deena has a two-year-old who gives new meaning to the phrase Terrible Twos.
“Sure. Sure I’ll stay with you. Of course. Why not?”
While we’re at it, anyone like to recommend a nice hotel?
The Smeller’s The Feller
If love is blind, a love for vintage shopping is definitely anosmiac; even if you do have a sense of smell, you’re likely to ignore it in the face of big game.
I was upstate last weekend with BB, who has been clamoring for more and more time these days. Not so sure how I feel about that—he’s someone great in small doses but a bit waring in larger ones. He does though manage to find really fun things to do—like renting a no-holds-barred modern masterpiece in Woodstock for the weekend. With a pool. And a steamroom. And a home movie theatre. Really, who could say no?
Anyway, when BB finally went off to go play tennis, I in turn went off to find myself some vintage stores. Anyone who shops vintage for sport knows getting out of the city—where there’s other golden-eyed shoppers on the prowl—knows it’s key to hit the places far flung. And me, I hit the jackpot.
It was a little vintage store God-knows-where-exactly packed to the brim with bric-a-brac, junk, and clothing from the teens on. The kind where there’s so much stuff you really do have to dive in. It turns out the woman who owns the shop somehow got in touch with this guy who owned a warehouse. Back in the seventies, there was a clothing store that went out of business, and all the clothing went into storage there. Where it was left for thirty-five years. Completely untouched. Did I mention the word jackpot?
Anyway, among the finds was this adorable stripey dress that looked completely modern. Like an Ella Moss number—for $46—hot dog—that fit me like a glove. Again, who could say no?
I decided to initiate the dress last night with one of my new regulars, N, a spry sixty-something who takes me to the kind of Upper East Side restaurants you would think went bust several decades ago. We’re talking white folded napkins, waiters in tuxedos, women in hats, the whole deal.
On my way over to the restaurant, I was feeling pretty darn good about myself, thank you very much. The finances have evened out. My schedule was again more relaxed. And I was was wearing my new almost favorite dress (my heart, of course still belongs to The Perfect Dress). But really it was close. Until I started to notice something. Each time I turned I got a little waft of something. something pretty awful. Like the most mildewy basement imaginable or the scent of your most ancient relative. I suddenly stopped in the middle of the block when I realized that that smell was actually me.
I had of course washed my new almost favorite dress. In lavender scented detergent. And put it on ‘no heat’ in the dryer with another nice scented dryer sheet. It had no business still smelling like mold. But tell that to the dress. And to N. What was I going to do?
It was at that moment that I passed a cafe I had been in a few weeks before. I remembered they had one of those advertisements with the perfume spritzer in the ladies room. I rushed down the stairs and hit it for all it was worth. That seemed to do the trick, though I wasn’t exactly crazy about the overwhelming floral notes I was now wearing. But it definitely was the lesser of the two evils.
As I continued to walk to meet N, I realized the perfume smell was really no challenge to the mold. It was too late to run home and change. And I didn’t really know N well enough—or think he would even appreciate the word “vintage” in that context—to come clean (or dirty). I was going to have to rely on my wits for this one.
When I finally got there, N greeted me with a kiss. For a while things seemed to go smoothly. Then N’s nose started to twitch. He looked around annoyed, shifting in his seat. He was about to open his mouth, when I beat him to the punch. I leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Can you believe how bad those old women smell?” I motioned my head to the party behind us, where three elegant blue hairs in full regalia were dining. N smiled and shook his head, “Let’s drink to never smelling like that, huh?”
Yes indeed. Let’s do.
Here A Spritz, There A Spritz, Everywhere A Spritz Spritz
Nobody told me that when my ship came in, water guns would also be in the picture.
Last week I got invited to go sailing on the Hudson by BB, someone I’d seen a couple of times before. Now we all know as a New Yorker this is an invitation one can categorically not refuse. Sailing? Water? Sun? All without having to hop on a train or a car to escape the city? Turns out I didn’t even need so much as a cab—BB’s friend’s boat was docked just a hop skip and a jump away at the 79th street Boat Basin.
The day was picture perfect, no humidity, not a lot of wind. I couldn’t wait. BB told me there was going to be a little party on board and that his friend T was some kind of amazing gourmand and cook. Apparently he had just come back from Turkey and was perfecting his lamb kofte skills. Things like that just make a girl happy she never went
vegetarian.
As soon as we got going, I immediately hit the deck and stripped to my bathing suit. There was no way I was going to pass up the opportunity to get some sun in, even though I do tend to be a burner instead of a tanner (ah the true redhead curse). It was so very gorgeous to watch the Palisades slip by, then to turn the other cheek and watch the towers of Manhattan get smaller and more and more like toys.
After about an hour, I decided to explore. Below deck I managed to find some water guns, filled and at the ready. I snuck up on BB and surprised him with a squirt to the left ear. He immediately grabbed the gun and got me square in the belly. Then we surprised T who by this time had donned his chef’s apron. We got him so good and drenched he had to change into his bathing suit.
“You know,” T said after. “When I was living in Japan? They had these strip clubs where men in the audience got squirt guns and just let ‘em rip at the women.”
“No way. And that got them off?” said BB.
“Oh yeah. It’s like simulating jacking off or something.”
“Why do they need to simulate? Why don’t they just jack off?
“Did you squirt some poor Japanese girls while you were there?” I teased him. “Come on. Tell the truth.”
“Nah. Not my bag.”
“I think Alexa could simulate a Japanese Strip Club.”
“It didn’t even get him off. What would be the point?”
“Diane gorgeous, you want to simulate a Japanese strip club for us?” BB yelled to one of the other girls.
“Get a job,” she yelled back. “Come on Alexa. Maybe those Japanese Girls weren’t doing it right. BB’ll put on some good tunes. It’ll be a blast”
Well it was hot. It was kind of a silly idea. And Rebecca, another one of on board posse agreed to give it a go too.
Turns out T didn’t have much in the way of groovy tunes. All he had that was remotely danceable was a Foreigner Four CD. Rebecca and I tried to get down and dirty to Juke Box Hero. I slipped off her string bikini top and she slowly used her teeth to pull off mine. BB aimed for my left nipple until it got hard. T got Rebecca right between her cheeks. She bent over and pulled down her bottoms so he could get better aim. I spread my legs and let BB go for the center of my target. It was in fact getting me off (though the stream couldn’t been heavier and the pressure a little harder), which in turn was getting him off. The problem with water guns though? You just gotta keep refilling them. Which doesn’t keep things so steamy at all.
“Looks like you need a new gun there hotshot.”
“Let’s go below deck and I’ll do it the old fashioned way.”
“Well we could do that. But that wouldn’t be that kind of Japanese strip club, now would it?
“They also had this thing with aprons…”
Well, it didn’t work for us. But you know what they say in Japan?
Whatever floats your boat.
The Commitment Phobe
When it comes to committed relationships, I’ve been saying, “Bah humbug” pretty much since I’ve arrived in New York.
It’s not that I’m against monogomy or love for that matter. Quite the opposite. I’ve had my share of wonderful exclusivity in the past. When it’s good it’s oh so good, right? And when it’s not—well, we all know what that’s like. ‘Nuf said.
But none of that really seems to be relevant. I don’t know—there’s something about the boundless nature of New York that makes me want to sample. There’s always a new area to go check out as it shimmers, changes, and evolves. There are new restaurants to try—exotic cuisines like Ethiopian or homey retro diners or fancy-pants three star numbers. There’s always new spa services, new water sports, new designers, new street vendors, new cocktails, new bargains. Everything seems to scream out, “Take me! Take me now!”
And I do.
Still though, I think there’s something in human nature that makes us all crave routine at the same time. Getting our coffee at the same cafe everyday. A place where you can walk in and people clear “your” table for you. The yoga class you just can’t ever miss—the one you put your mat in the same spot every single time.
I think when I started this blog I was looking for a place to sit back, relax, and just spew. I loved that link to the anonymous parties who would understand, relate, or even rail against me (well, sometimes anyway.) I loved sharing my observations and my stories, making you laugh, nod your head, snort, roll your eyes, whatever.
But the thing is, I realize now that this space is more than that. THIS is my committed relationship. I show up here twice a week no matter what, you know? It makes me feel organized, driven, purposeful, well, committed. In a way that seems exactly right.
Last week was a little experiment. You’ll remember the last time I stopped writing I kinda went off the deep end. Cut and dyed my hair, fled my apartment, put my stuff in storage and just let everything go as I hit the road. That was hell. At the same time, I sure needed to do it right then and there. But what would happen, I wondered last week, if I took my hands off the wheel now?
You know what? There’s freedom in taking a pause, in letting yourself just be from time to time. No plan, no routine, no obligations, no nothing. But it’s sure as hell nice knowing that your partner and your passion are there waiting for you when you get back.
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
