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A New York Escorts Confessions
The Days of Wine and Risotto
I can barely bring myself to the keyboard today. I spent the morning throwing up.
Okay—fuck. Fuck! I saw M last nite. Remember M? M who I kept meeting cute in several downtown coffee shops? M the famous war photographer? M who actually took me out two times?
Some of you wrote me privately to ask what had happened to M, since I seemed to abruptly stop writing about him. You wondered if the relationship went underground, was suddenly too private or too dear for blogging. You wondered if he were away on some kind of extended assignment. Some of you might have even had the passing thought that something awful had happened to him in some far away place.
Well, I had a reason for not writing. I had no idea about M either.
We went out that second (last?) time to see that double Catherine Deneuve feature. Granted I was a bit of a freak since it suddenly occurred to me that suggesting a movie about someone’s double life was a bad idea when you were actually living one. But it wasn’t like I was so weirded out that I completely lost my cool. I was charming. I was vivacious. I touched his arm or shoulder enough times to show I was interested but not clingy.
But maybe the signals got crossed. Because I called M about a week later and never heard from him. Never saw him, never heard his name mentioned, never got an email, a telegram, an obituary. The guy had vaporized.
Until last night. I comfort myself by at least knowing that I looked like a million bucks. I was on my way to a fancy dinner party in the West Village and popped into a neighborhood wine store for a gift. I was knee deep in the Washington Merlots when something made me look up.
And there we were, face to face. It took me a second to realize I wasn’t imagining him. It seemed so ordinary and so extraordinary at the same time. And then it hit me—this was weird. This was awkward.
“Hi,” we both said at the same time. And then we said nothing.
He actually flushed. I looked down at the bottle, like there was some important information I could glean from the warning to pregnant mothers. For the life of me I couldn’t think of one thing, intelligent or not, hurt or carefree, to say. I felt the blood pounding in my temples and all the moisture go from my mouth.
We were rescued by—his girlfriend? His sister? His date? Someone who he introduced and I shook hands with, but I couldn’t tell you anything about her, except she was a her and it was her that he was with and not me.
And then somehow I was at the party. And they were serving risotto. And it was made with butter and cream and like 10,000 kinds of cheese. And I hadn’t been eating dairy since the flight back from Prague for God’s sake, but I didn’t care. I just stuffed myself. I just wanted to fill up with something, explode, have it overtake me—I don’t know.
And then I was outside throwing up, sometime later. And then I was home. And then I was getting sick some more this morning.
You know, people ask me why I’m an escort. And I talk about freedom and money and my own schedule. But you know what? Maybe this is why I’m an escort. Because no one makes you feel like this kind of shit where I live.
I’ve discovered I like to hurt myself. A lot.
I always thought I was a fetish-free kind of gal. I cast myself over and over again as the observer. I’ve had men that wanted to bite my shoulder until they drew blood. Women that were all about leaving marks, a trail down my back for others to follow. The spankers, the impalers, the clothes-rippers, the pubic-hair-pullers all.
It’s not that I didn’t derive some pleasure from these acts, mind you. I did—but they were more about watching the other person get off than reveling in the pain myself. But all that changed when I started doing yoga.
Isn’t it funny? Yoga is supposed to be all about letting go. You experience a feeling, a memory, a moment and you cast it off. At least that’s what you’re supposed to do. But me? I find myself lingering in the pain. And then lingering and lingering some more.
Last week I took a class with Debi. She’s a truly gifted, focused teacher. But I’ve noticed she’s far from impartial. Whether she knows it or not, she’s drawn to those who are the most pliant. And I easily fall into that category.
If I’m a masochist, Debi is my co-dependent, my aggressor, my sadist in disguise. when I walk into her class, she gives me a sideways glance then cracks her knuckles and neck.
We did a straddle facing the wall. We grabbed our hands behind our backs to draw our shoulders together. And then we bent over and tried to get our hands to touch the floor in front of us. Debi came by me. “You’re almost there,” she whispered. And she drew my shoulders even closer together, closer than I thought possible. Slowly and surely she thrust my knuckles to the floor.
She never pushes, and yet that’s all she does. She’ll lay the full weight of her body on top of mine in a downward dog. And with each breath, my heels at last ease to the floor. And then she’ll stay there that extra second so that I get that intoxicating rush of adrenaline and the lust for more.
There are times I know I should tell her to stop. Sometimes my right hip gives out, a result of childhood scoliosis. But I let her push my back to my knees anyway. I let her turn my rib cage like she’s winding a clock. I let her wrap my legs around my head, even when I hear a strange sort of pop from somewhere around my right knee.
I wonder sometimes what Debi would be like in the bedroom. Could she teach me the secrets of the kama sutra? Would she tease me with her tongue while I held a handstand against her bed post? Would she stroke my nipples with her palms while I pushed into her for a backbend?
Maybe. But I wonder if it would really be the same kind of rush at all.
Love At First Flight
So I’m moving to Seattle. And Portland.
It all started back in lovely, clean, and heart warming Newark Liberty airport. Ah the joys of choosing between Starbucks, Cinnabon, and Great Steak and Potato! The awing rotunda blocked by construction! The scenic views of highways!
We’re all use to it, the unceremoniousness of arriving and departing in the New York area. But the new heightened security has brought things to a new low.
I was making my way through the metal detector machines. Jacket off, check. Sneakers off, check. Laptop out of the bag, check. The floor was cold under my feet as I piled not one, not two, but three separate containers of assorted Alexa-swag through the Xray belt. When I got to the other side, one of the security officers screamed accusatorily, “Who’s bag is this?” She held up my Kooba bag by one of it’s straps. As if it were particularly repellent road meat.
“Uh, that’s mine. But—”
“Well you put it in wrong. It’s gotta go through again”
I was about to ask what the right way to put a bag in through the X-ray machine was (left side down? right side down? upside down?) when she THREW my sneakers about five feet down the belt. In my general direction.
Everyone going through the line stopped. They stared at them, my cute gold and yellow Pumas splayed out willy-nilly, disgorging my well-worn orthodics out of their mouths. D started to laugh.
“She threw my sneakers,” I said in disbelief. That only made D cackle harder. “No. That’s wrong. That’s—she shouldn’t be able to do that. It’s dis-.”
“Come on Alexa. I’ll buy you some Cinnabon sticks.”
Three thousand miles away quite a different experience awaited us. When I exited the gate at Seattle Tacoma airport (Sea-Tac), I wondered why the airline had dropped us off at the mall. The main terminal had soaring ceilings and pristine stores, including a Washington State Craft Store, a Puget Sound Nature Store, a nail salon, docking stations and places to charge your phone. There were restaurants that you’d actually want to eat at—like one that served fish and chips that you could watch them make in front of you. And all of that is to say nothing of the stunning views of Mount Rainier poking through the clouds that greeted us from the plane just before we even landed.
No Seattle Seahawks (GO HAWKS! GO SHAUN!) wear to speak of though, which seemed like such an obvious misstep. My vote may have to go to Portland’s airport, which we hit on the way back. This time we flew over breathtaking views of Mount Hood. And when we exited our gate this time, we entered a great airy atrium, in the middle of which was a grand piano. With someone playing it.
I stopped in my tracks with my mouth open. “There’s a piano player,” I finally said.
“Yes Lex. There is a piano player.”
“But. It’s. It’s an airport.”
“It’s Portland,” D said with a shrug.
New Yorkers pride themselves on being exactly what they are—brash, energetic,no-frills, no apologies. And certainly LaGuardia, Kennedy, and Newark are perfect expressions of that. But God, once in a while, it’s sure nice to have that lovely ole’ red carpet rolled out for you.
Secrets and Lies
On my trip I’ve beheld the treasures of Ponderay Lake. I’ve gazed on endless upward sweeps of majestic evergreens. And I’ve seen first hand why D didn’t want to invite E.
In my experience, every person reveals their secrets eventually. A gesture that belies someone’s youthful appearance. Words here and there that tip you off to a long-stifled regional accent.
But D was different. You would swear he was a city kid. You’d put your money on a top-notch, impossible-to-get-in public high school like Stuyvesant or Bronx Science. And even though I knew what he really did for a living, I wouldn’t be surprised if he told me he secretly had a trust fund.
Out here in the west though, I’ve seen D and all his tricks laid bare. D doesn’t come from money; if anything he comes from public assistance.
There was never any father in the picture. His Mom lives three doors down from an abandoned shack that was condemned as a meth house. I saw a neighbor come by to drop off a quart of milk.
Rather than be shocked or surprised or thrown to learn the truth about D’s background, I found myself feeling…flattered. Touched that he would share parts of himself with me that he clearly didn’t reveal to most people. And I also felt a sick pit of despair about his relationship with E. She actually would be very shocked. She would try to cover it up. But ultimately she would never be able to look at him the same way. Not that she was a bad person. She just lacked a certain…adaptability, to use D’s word for me.
On the way to Montana, we stopped about a half hour before Sandpoint to pick up D’s uncle and aunt. And here was another surprise: both of them were mentally disabled. D’s uncle had had scarlet fever when he was a kid, was nearly blinded by it, and now needed help to do almost everything. D’s aunt was only slightly more functional than he was. The were able to live on their own only because his D’s aunt’s parents lived in a house just down the road from them.
D’s aunt wanted to be sure she gave me a tour of her double-wide trailer. It was neat, and much-loved, but reeked from the stench of cat litter. Apparently neither she nor her husband had any sense of smell. When D’s aunt’s mother came by a little later to say hello, she teasingly reprimanded D’s aunt. “Susan dear. You know you have to turn on the air conditioner on days like this. I’m sorry about this,” she said turning to me.
“Oh,” I lied, “It wasn’t on? I didn’t notice.”
“No. I keep telling her. And you know how it is. You know how trailers get.”
We’re all so tucked in our own reality, aren’t we? Of course, I would know what a trailer was like—even though I had never stepped foot in one until that very moment. Of course in E’s eyes D would be able to buy her a two-karat diamond ring—even though he probably was living check to check. It made me feel lonely, really, all of us so separated.
But that wasn’t the script I was sticking to after all. “Yes,” I said looking directly at D. “I know exactly how trailers get.”
Um…so somehow I find myself in Spokane, Washington. This has surely been the year of random cities.
It all started when I got a desperate call from my friend D a few days ago. “Alexa,” he said. “I—I need to ask you a favor. A, well, it’s kind of a big one.”
“What’s up?” I wasn’t used to hearing D so rattled. He’s one of those guys who’s so good at taking everything in stride and cracking a joke at just the right time to make everyone else comfortable. But now it seemed it was he who needed some comforting. And fast.
“Okay. Well, I have this family reunion, right? In Montana.”
“Oh Montana! You lucky dog. I hear it’s just beautiful.”
“Great. Wanna go?”
“We leave Thursday at 3:00. Do you like window seats?”
After I finally managed to get him to take a breath, I got the backstory. It seems that he told his relatives that he’d be bringing his girlfriend to their upcoming family reunion. Only he never actually asked her to go.
“And why was that exactly?”
“I meant to. I did. She hasn’t actually met my family. But every time I tried to bring up the subject, I just froze.”
“But she wants to marry you, right? I mean she’s going to have to meet your family eventually.”
“Don’t bust my chops.”
“No, no. Just trying to follow. Why don’t you just bring C?”
C, for those of you who don’t remember the daisy chain progression of this group, is the woman who pays D to be her escort. She in turn is the kept woman of A, a powerful lawyer in his sixties. I was going to go on and say how much C would probably love to go as D’s girlfriend—since sometimes I’m pretty sure she thinks she IS his girlfriend—when D interrupted me.
“Are you kidding? What if she said something about how we know each other?! I mean Jeez, Alexa, this girl is no rocket scientist.”
“Okay. But—I just—here’s the thing—I don’t want to BE E, you know? That would be weird.”
“I don’t want you to be her. That’s why I called you in the first place.”
I thought about that for a minute. Something wasn’t quite clicking.
“But I don’t understand. Why me?”
“You,” he said. “Are the most adaptable person I know.”
Indeed. I think I am.
So A is the rich husband and B is the aging wife, and C is A’s young mistress, and D is C’s male escort and E is D’s girlfriend, allow me to introduce you to F. Agent F that is. Me. The Friend who said she’d go to meet D’s family in lieu of either C or E.
Well, I have always wanted to see Montana. I wasn’t kidding about that. And most of my clients are on vacation, so I’m not being terribly irresponsible. And D’s paying…
And who doesn’t want to go undercover once in a while, huh?
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
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- January 2006
- December 2005
- November 2005
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- August 2004