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A New York Escorts Confessions
I had a sighting a couple of days ago. Of my ex-roommate. Who hates me.
We were good buddies from college who decided to live together once we moved to New York. And all was well until John came into her life.
I should have known. I should have expected it. I watched as countless times before Jet systematically shut down friendships when other people in her life disappointed her, inadvertently insulted her, or crossed over some unseen line. I remember one time after she stopped returning her friend Cassie’s calls, someone from her childhood, I turned to her and said, “Hey. Just promise me something? If I piss you off in any way, will you tell me? Will you talk to me about it?”
“This has nothing to do with us.”
“I know. I’m just saying.”
I guess if memory serves she never did promise me anything, did she?
About six months into our time in New York, Jet started dating John, a high-powered attorney. I wasn’t crazy about him in the first place, but as time went on, I started to actively dislike him. There was this time Jet was running a 105 degree fever and I rushed us to the hospital. Turned out she only had a bad case of the flu and was dehydrated. The next day John sent me a huge bouquet of flowers to thank me for taking care of Jet. I was outraged. Thanking me? I was her friend. That’s what friends do. I had this distinct feeling that there was some kind of possessiveness going on here. She was his. And I was just borrowing her.
Jet must have sensed my lack of approval. And soon she was making plans to move in with him. She shut down her land line account even though it was our land line. Same thing with the cable. When I called her to get the info, her parents wouldn’t let me talk to her.
About this time, I was traveling a lot myself. In the process I left my toothbrush somewhere in parts unknown.
So here’s the yucky part: I started using Jet’s. I don’t know why I did it exactly. Was that an act of possession too, a sort of counter attack to John’s? A desperate cry to get Jet’s attention? A female-centric pissing contest? All I know is a few days later, I couldn’t find the toothbrush when I needed it. She had hid it. And a week or so later, she hid herself. Away with him, and away from me.
Yesterday I saw her hand in hand with John as they rounded a Soho corner. I wanted to go up and apologize. I wanted to ask her—them—how they were. But how do you say I’m sorry I used your toothbrush?
They just don’t make Hallmark cards for that.
The Fast and the Furious
As the saying goes, there are those who teach and those who do.
So if I’m in the former camp, do I have any responsibility whatsoever to be in the latter when I encounter the clueless, the misguided or the just plain bad?
Take E. Here’s a guy with imagination, rambunctiousness and cool. I never know where I’m going to end up when we get together. He’ll sneak me into a 1970’s Volkswagen van decked out in all its finery in one of his neighbor’s driveways. He’ll find a way to secret us into the model apartment in a new building in Tribeca. He’ll take me to a lingerie shop then have a quickie with me while the saleswoman goes to get me a different size.
Oh did I say “quickie”? Herein lies the problem.
E is all build-up and no follow through. Once he takes me through the elaborate paces, it’s all downhill after that. One time I seriously saw him twice in three hours? The commute took me longer than the act. He’s got the build-up-excitement-ejaculation stages all down to a cool fifty seconds.
The thing is, I think if E had to describe himself he’d say he was a good lover. In his book he gets high points for creativity. But come on. Even gymnastics’ has got two sets of scores—one for artistry and one for just doing the damn skills the right way. Or any way at all.
When he’s done, E always says the same thing—“God that was great. Wasn’t it?” I go the smiling-an-enigmatic smile route, which seems to satisfy him. But I do wonder if one of these days I should set him straight and teach him right. After all, wouldn’t that be a generous service to all the poor women who are going to get him after me?
What Would Freud Do?
This past weekend I flashed a four-year-old.
It starts like this: I spent the weekend in New Paltz at Rob and Cate’s house. The weeks around Labor Day make up, from my experience, the prime part of the yard sale season. And someone had told Cate that a NY Times stylist was getting set to unload a whole designer and vintage wardrobe in Woodstock. I was planning on setting up camp at 7:00 AM if I could help it.
Anyway, after we got back, I went to take a shower while Rob and Cate took off for a farmer’s market nearby. After ten minutes, I heard someone walking around the house. That was weird. Maybe they forgot something?
So I pulled back the shower curtain.
And stood there naked.
In front of a little boy.
“Do you have the playdough?” he asked.
I was so stumped on so many different levels I just stared at him. “No I don’t have the playdough,” I finally managed.
“Oh,” he said, and walked out of the room.
I stood there under the shower jet contemplating the whole of what had just had happened. Who was that little boy? Where had he come from? Had he understood what had just happened? And shit! What was he doing right now? Playing with knives in the kitchen? Falling off a high countertop? Telling his mommie I showed him my boobies?
I rushed out of the shower, grabbed a towel and ran into the kitchen. The boy was calmly drawing a picture at the table. At least I hadn’t killed him.
“You have soap in your hair.”
So I did.
At that point, Rob and Cate came returned. “Ahh. So you met Abel,” Cate said, ruffling his hair. “He’s been experimenting with walking into other people’s houses. Haven’t you Abel?”
I tried to mouth to her what had just happened. “What?” Cate asked. I tried to say it again, this time through my teeth. “Alexa I can’t understand you. What?!”
“He. Saw. Me Naked.”
Cate started to giggle. “Give me five, buddy!” Rob said. “I’ve been trying to do that for ages.”
Later when I met Abel’s mother, she was similarly blase for him. She was though quite mortified for me. “I’m so so sorry sweetheart! I’m trying to get him to knock. I don’t know what—can I give you an apple muffin or something?”
I suppose it was kind of nice that nobody made a big deal out of it. And true to form, Abel didn’t seem to have taken it, this transgression of normalcy, in at all.
Still though, I wondered about the subconscious implications. I was the first naked woman this kid had seen other than his Mom. Would his first crush now be on a redhead? Would he always be looking for my boobs when he slipped off another girl’s bra? And would he later on, for no reason he could understand, feel the need to sneak into other people’s houses and bathrooms?
And as for me, was I ever going to be able to take another shower without feeling that if I pulled back the curtain I would come face to face with a staring toddler?
To Oblivion and Beyond
I remember this one time I went to visit my brother Pete at University of Michigan. We were walking through The Diag, the main crossroads on campus, which as usual was filled with a crowd of protesters. Protesters arguing for the legalization of marijuana, protesters opposed to the first invasion of Iraq, protesters demanding lower rents in Ann Arbor, pro-Palestinian protesters, pro-Israel protesters, and several people who seemed to be occupying their own territory in shanties. Most of these power shouters were invariably drowned out by those protesting something else right next to them. But there was this one guy off in the grass who managed to get a whole crowd gathered around him, despite the competition. His cause? Popcorn.
The guy apparently worked at one of the multiplexes around town and was outraged by the list of ingredients of the ‘butter flavor’. He was madly waving a bottle of the stuff which did in fact have a scary yellow-orange highlighter tint to it.
“FLAVACOL!” he yelled, dousing the sidewalk in front of us and staining it. “YELLOW #5! YELLOW #6! You see that? It takes more than one yellow to make yellow! And DIACETYL—do you know what that is? It give you lung cancer man! The people who make this stuff are getting sick!”
I was mesmerized by something—the weird color? The inverted holy water pageantry of what he was doing? I don’t know. But a whole bunch of other people seemed to be as captivated as I was. I turned around to look for Pete and instead saw two sorority girls with their heads down.
“He killed popcorn,” I heard one whisper to the other.
“Pete—Pete—did you see?” I asked him when I finally found him. “That guy—”
“Don’t tell me Alexa. I don’t want to know.”
Pete was on to something. To this day I can’t even look at movie popcorn without seeing that horrible-colored bottle. Pete on the other hand gets an extra large and smiles down to the very last kernel.
I thought of that experience the other day. I was meeting Ruby who was finally back from touring with her band. I couldn’t wait to talk to her. Not only was she doing well with her music, but her writing career seemed to be taking off as well.
Instead of the fabulous, invincible, cooler than cool Ruby I knew and loved though, I got a pale comparison. She wasn’t wearing her signature eye glitter, her hair was pulled back severely, and she looked completely deflated. “Hey. What’s up honey?” I asked her, trying to not appear too concerned.
“I’ve been betrayed,” she said in her little girl voice.
So Ruby started talking about how four years ago she brought this story to a producer for a movie idea. That producer was hot on it and brought in another producer who then set it up at a studio. Ruby spent all this time talking to the actual people in the case and getting all the necessary releases. But when it came time to sign everything, all the witnesses had demands that the studio couldn’t meet. The deal fell apart.
As Ruby continued telling her tale of woe, something about the movie story itself started sounding awfully familiar. Where had I heard this before, I kept thinking? I seriously KNOW this story.
When Ruby came to the big finish—apparently the second producer screwed her over, went around to her sources and now was in production on the project without Ruby’s involvement—I knew where I’d heard the story before.
From the producer.
Who is a client.
Ruby never used names—it’s not her style. But it was unmistakably the same guy.
And the thing is? This guy is nice. Smart. Respectful. I actually enjoy spending time in his company. But now the thought that he completely fucked with my friend is the only thing I can think about.
He killed popcorn all over again.
Shit. What the hell am I going to do when he calls?
I should have known I was putting out bad karma when I wrote a post called The Smeller’s The Feller.
Meet K. A successful commercial producer. Five foot eleven with washboard abs. A loft in Tribeca, a house on the North Fork, a 1969 MG MGC in perfect condition.
And a guy with a pretty mean Paco Rabanne habit.
I just can’t figure it out. The man’s objectively attractive and objectively with it. So why is he stuck on a scent that I’m told had it’s heyday in the 80’s? And not just stuck mind you. The better word would be doused. Immersed. Swimming In It. I.e. the man stinks.
It amazes me that K doesn’t seem affected by his smell. I’ve seen people turn around in restaurants when he’s walked in. I’ve also seen said people in said restaurants literally ask to be moved to a different table when we sit down next to them. One time we walked through Barneys and the perfume sales people, I kid you not, leapt out of our way. And through it all K seems completely oblivious.
When I know I’m going to see K, I always try to come prepared. I’ll work out elaborate stripping routines so I’m out of my clothes before K actually touches me. I bring my extra strong anti-bacterial lavender soap. Still he’ll want to dress me before I leave. He’ll engulf me in a bear hug as I’m about to slip into the hallway. He’ll run his fingers through my hair.
The other day I went to meet my friend Cat at the lounge at Aquavit. I was all in a flutter at the idea of some juicy girl talk over a flight of their signature drinks. Before I could even greet her, though, Cat was eyeing me suspiciously.
“Fuck. I washed this. Twice. You’re kidding me. I still smell?”
“The better question would be why the hell are you seeing someone who wears Paco Rabanne?”
“I’m not seeing someone,” I lied. “It’s this guy I work with.”
“Well. He likes you.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“He’s marking you, you know.”
“He’s marking you. Like dogs, animals. Like peeing on his turf.”
“He’s peeing on me? You’re saying he’s peeing on me with Paco Rabanne?”
“Well isn’t he?”
It’s an interesting thought. The question would be, I guess, if he does this all of the time or just when he knows he’s going to see me. Or if it’s even conscious. But it did make me think about the concept. Is wearing cologne just a dressed up way of reverting to the animal kingdom?
The Good Fairy
Once upon a time there was a man who had prostrate cancer. The man was sad, so very sad after his operation. As much as he tried he couldn’t, didn’t, wouldn’t get an erection.
The man thought about what he could do to solve his problem. He considered seeking out his wife. She was getting on in years, though, had gained a lot of weight, and didn’t seem to be excited to be with him, even before they found the cancer. Her vagina was as dry as dry could be. He didn’t think she could help him.
He thought about his girlfriend, who he had spoiled with many a precious bauble. The girl seemed to like her baubles, if he really though about it, a lot more than she liked him. He even suspected she had been faking her orgasms. She was as sly as sly could be. Somehow the man thought she couldn’t help him either.
The man sought out his best friend, the person who always knew just what to do in times of trouble. When the man finally got up the courage to tell his tale of woe over fish tacos and Tecate with lime, the friend had just one word of advice: “Alexa”.
So the man journeyed to a hotel room where he could meet the girl he thought could be his heroine. For a while they petted and kissed and wound their toes around each other. Then the man began to talk. He told Alexa how he had slept with woman after woman after woman. He told her about one who he seduced by giving her English lessons. He told her how he had slept with three sisters in the same week, without any of them knowing about the others. He told her he had had sex on a piano, in a cave and in the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
He told her about the breasts he had known. Large, pendulous breasts with enormous nipples that looked like pasties. Tiny, pert breasts that were almost pre-adolescent. He talked about the legs, long like gazelles, the ripe funky smell of the women who wanted him, their moans and sighs and cries of expectation and delight.
And as he talked, Alexa began to stroke, and stroke and stroke and stroke and rub.
The man felt pleasure but he was nervous so nervous. Alexa told him not to look, to keep talking. He told her about his time living on the Costa Del Sol. About backpacking in Nepal. About the house he wished for one time in Montana. There was a woman who lived next door who made her own yogurt. He told her how he always wished he could have taken a wooden spoon and basted her pussie with warm, fresh, new yogurt then licked it until it was clean and she was damp and spent with perspiration and her own moisture.
They went to the shower and turned on the warm water, so warm, so good, so fresh as that fresh new yogurt. Alexa rubbed her hands over his shoulders, his torso, his belly, his ass, his hair. He leaned and put his head on her shoulder, let the water run down the front of his body, caressing him. As Alexa nibbled on his ear he began to stroke himself. He thought of where he was right now, with this girl, this water, how hard her nipples were behind him on his back, how she was slowly moving her hand over his balls. And the man began to get erect.
“Alexa, Alexa do you see? It’s happening. I can feel…oh God.”
And he did cry, how he did cry. And Alexa the good fairy was glad for it.
Hi ho, Hi ho, It’s Off To Work I (Don’t) Go
So I’m back. Back to summer in The City. Back to the best museums in the country. Back to the best shopping in the country. Back to skyscrapers, Shakespeare in the Park, bagels, bialys, and Italian ice fresh from the street corner.
Back to work.
Only…it seems I’ve had a bit of trouble getting my engine revved for gainful employment. I kind of canceled all my jobs for the weekend. I know. It’s not a good practice. It’s hard enough taking a vacation. You’d be surprised—the clients that are really attached to you tend to not take it too well. Many of them crave routine. Alexa, 3:00 Thursday afternoons no ands ifs or buts. It can rain, sleet, hail—or be a million degrees and counting and Alexa will appear smiling and fresh and affectionate and happy.
Except I’m having trouble with all those adjectives.
Not that I’m not happy. I just have a hankering for being a big ol’ slob right nail. Pig tails and cut off shorts and backless tank tops are all I want to wear. I feel like blowing off manicures, pedicures, and facials. I want to be a tomboy. I want to not wear make-up, let my knees and elbows get dirty and totally revel in it.
And isn’t it funny? I headed into this business to find my freedom. No more nasty type-A women with their noses up in the air gliding my destiny. No more being a slave to a clock.
But you know what? No matter what you do, no matter how much you like it, needing it still makes it WORK. On paper I have an ideal lifestyle; I make my own rules and go my own way. But I still have to actually get up and do my job, and do it regularly to survive.
Any advice on how to jump back into the pool after two weeks of not working?
I’m writing this on the airplane, somewhere between both coasts, limbo-land, neither there nor here. I’m thinking philosophically, I guess. Bear with me.
You go to a different place, and you always wonder if or how you see yourself in it, you know? I know who I am in New York. And in LA? Am I someone different?
I always find when I go to another city that I’m doing the comparison thing. Bucktown in Chicago is a gentrifying Greenwich Village. Venice Beach is the East Village with surf and sand. New York always figures in it. It’s my point of reference, my compass.
I like Silverlake because I can see the city in it. There’s a rough and tumble there that I completely feel comfortable with and familiar in. But Santa Monica? The nice part where all those big, beautiful houses are? It feels like suburbia. Is that what people like about it? Is that what they mean by “quality of life”? I don’t know. It makes me feel restless instead of content.
I loved hanging at Deena’s place on Manhattan Beach. Yes, there’s something totally sublime about getting up and hearing the ocean. And then being able to walk there in two minutes. And just hang and read a book and take a quick dip when the heat is too much. But the commercial section? It’s a little too vanilla beach town for me.
I liked the reality of Koreatown. I liked the authenticity of the bubble tea I had in Pasadena. I liked that there were lemon and avocado trees lining the streets in Highland Park. I love the yoga classes everywhere. I liked that I figured out how to get around.
But I don’t know if I could ever get past the “just visiting” phase.
When I was in NYC and mentioned to people that I was going to LA, everyone had to weigh in on it. “I hate LA,” was the most common refrain I heard. The answers were various: the traffic, the lack of seasons, the business, the weather. But you wonder sometimes if there’s something de rigeur, knee-jerk in that reaction. Like, “I’m a New Yorker and therefore I disdain LA.”
And the thing is? The reverse seems to be true too. It’s not, “I hate New York” it’s “I couldn’t live in New York”, but the sentiment remains. Why? “The weather, the expense, the lack of space.” Or really, “I’ve moved here. Therefore I’ve evolved.”
I’m wondering, is it really an either/or? Or can you actually be a New Yangeleno and embrace both?
You know when you do something so embarrassing but so funny at the same time? You wonder whether or not you should actually tell anyone about it, because you know for a fact that everyone will laugh, but you also know for a fact they will be laughing at you not with you.
Well something like that happened…um…to a close friend of mine.
She was visiting LA and she was going from South Pasadena to Santa Monica. Or trying to. She knew she had to get from the 101 South to the 10 West. But somehow she accidentally got on the 5. She went a few exits, then managed to get off the highway and turn around. She saw arrows for the 101 South and got back on that highway instead. When she went to look for the 10 West though, she couldn’t find it anywhere. It suddenly occurred to her that she must have gotten back on the 101 after the 10 exit. So she doubled back again. And finally ended up on the 10 West—in a heap of traffic.
By this time, forty-five minutes had already passed. My friend realized she kinda sort of had to go to the bathroom. Desperately. As the traffic inched along, she wondered what to do. Should she get off the highway and try to find a place to pee? What if she veered onto another wrong highway again? Should she call someone and ask them which exit to get off of in case of emergency? Surely she could make it. She would just push her legs together like a yoga exercise and try to think about something else.
That tactic worked for about twenty minutes and three exits. My friend began to despair. She looked at the empty thirty-six-ounce water bottle lying on the floor and cursed it. Damn it! Why did it have to be so hot anyhow? How could you be thirsty and have to pee at the same time? Surely the body could somehow recycle the fluid she needed? Couldn’t someone come up with a mechanism to do just that—internally of course?
She looked at the bottle again. She began to wonder if there was any way to release herself into it? Cleanly? While still alternating with the brake and the gas pedal? Probably it wasn’t that good of a plan.
But the beach towel in the back seat on the other hand…
My friend grabbed said towel and piled it into as many layers as she could underneath her. She looked quickly in her side mirror and rear view, then thrust up her skirt and down her panties. And then, while simultaneously driving at a comfortable three miles an hour, my friend relieved herself long and good and with perfect aim into her best friend’s borrowed beach towel.
If you see a wet towel in a trash can near Yoga Works on Main Street, I wouldn’t use it if I were you…
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)
- February 2007
- January 2007
- December 2006
- November 2006
- October 2006
- September 2006
- August 2006
- July 2006
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- January 2006
- December 2005
- November 2005
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- December 2004
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- August 2004