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A New York Escorts Confessions

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.