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A New York Escorts Confessions
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.
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confessionsComments
Are there any naturally big boobed escorts out there?
Posted by Big Boobs Are Kind of Neat on Jul 20 05:12PMAs I said in a previous post, I'm not so sure I believe all of these silly escapades. I am getting the sense that the person who is running this blog is an English major (i.e. starving and/or failed artist) who is fabricating stories in order to turn guys (and girls) on so that they might actually order an escort that is so conveniently available via this site. Whatever.
Posted by Big Boobs Are Kind of Neat on Jul 20 05:33PMPost a Comment
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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)
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Yeah, thats like the one downside to buying vintage...the smell. I'd recommend having it steamed or taking it to the dry cleaners, cuz when it comes to style, you should never have to compromise with a bad smell.
Posted by David on Jul 19 02:43PM