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A New York Escorts Confessions
Bait and Switch
The other day I got a call from someone new. He told me that my name had been passed on by somebody I knew, whom he mentioned by name. He asked me if I was available that Thursday.
It was pretty familiar territory and yet what he said struck me. Not what he said really—but how. That voice—the deepest, richest voice I had heard in a long time. A James Earl Jones kind of voice. I pictured him, Z, in my mind. He would be big, at least six feet. He would have big hands, be a large presence both physically and in the way he’d command the bar at the restaurant we’d agreed to meet at, Nice Matin. I knew I’d be able to pick him out right away. It was a sort of game I liked to play.
When I got to the restaurant, he was leaning against the bar, offering me a big smile and an outstretched hand. “You must be Loretta,” he said in a medium pitched and somewhat warbly voice.
“Actually it’s—”
“Alexa.”
There it was again. A voice that could sell 1000 ships. Only it was coming out of the body of what looked like a gangly teenager. “Z?” I asked, completely confused.
“Of course.”
He was wearing what had to be his first suit. It was expertly tailored, true. But why did I get the feeling it was made for a different man entirely?
“Uh huh…Z. How old are you?”
“Twenty. Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you to buy me a drink or anything.”
“Uh huh.” I gave it another pause. A big one.
“Okay. Nineteen. I’m just saying because I’m turning twenty next week.” I resisted the urge to say something else. With more silence just what else was he going to reveal?
“What?” he said, sounding more and more like a kid. “You don’t believe me? I’ll show you my license.”
When he did, I knew he had just put all his cards on the table.
“This isn’t your license “Z”. It’s your older brother’s.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was once eighteen or seventeen too you know.”
“Hey. I’m not in high school.”
Maybe he wasn’t. But I wasn’t sticking around to find out. I may be an escort and not a prostitute. But it’s just asking for trouble to hang out with someone who’s under age.
And that’s a game this girl ain’t gonna play.
It’s Just a Fantasy
So there I was Sunday, just past my third beer, completely miserable. It was bad enough that Shaun Alexander, last year’s MVP of the league, was out with a broken foot for at least two games. Now I had to watch as Seattle, with no real running game to speak of, was getting pounded by the Vikings—at home no less. Was there hope for my team? Maybe, maybe not. But there was certainly Ray.
“You know, Steve Hutchinson used to play for Seattle,” Ray said after he introduced himself. After Seattle just went for three and out.
“Yeah. I know,” I replied testily. Isn’t there a rule that you don’t offer the other guy information about his or her own team? Especially when your star left guard was now playing for the opposing team and doing a great job of blocking your guys, his former teammates?
I looked him over. He was holding a graph-paper notebook with intricate notations in a perfectly rendered table. A fantasy football junkie if there ever was one.
Ray saw my eyes travel to his pad. “Hey,” he said, “Wanna see my stats?”
I was just about to answer with a flip, “Wanna see my ass as I change barstools to get away from you?” when I saw Seattle’s quarterback Matt Hasselbeck go down. And clutch his knee. And pound the grass in front of him in pain.
“No way. No fucking way! You have got to be kidding me!” I wailed and closed my eyes.
“That sucks. I’m going to be in the toilet too. He was my quarterback, see? Oh well. Can I buy you a beer?
Ok, here’s the thing. Men complain that their wives or girlfriends or love interests don’t share their love of sports. They hate lines like, “But you just went to the sports bar last Sunday,” or “You have to watch college AND professional? or the dreaded “When’s the game’s intermission again?” And here’s me, loaded with information, knowing the difference between a false start and off sides, loving my team, worshipping at their altar. And yet, guys just don’t seem respect that.
When I used to watch the games with S, it was amazing how many times another man would come over and talk to him about the game, but completely ignore me. Like I wasn’t even there. Like I was dumb eye candy. I thought that was bad. But it turns out S was doing me a favor. He was saving me from those who thought a sports bar was a pick up joint.
Case in point: last week Seattle was playing the Rams. At halftime, a guy wearing a Rams jersey came in and sat down on the bar stool closest to me. And then proceeded to move it so it was practically on top of me.
“Hey there sweetheart,” he said. “Can I buy you a lemon drop?”
“I’m a Seattle fan. And I’m drinking Yuengling.”
“Ooh. Feisty. I like that.” He turned to the bartender. “Hey can we get two lemon drops over here?”
Maybe men don’t really want women to be sports fans and women at the same time. Maybe, when it comes right down to it, they’re just not that into it.
The Zealot
Sometimes I think pillow talk shouldn’t be called that slip of a name at all. Especially when a pillow is more like a soapbox.
“I’ve been reading about chickens,” E said, a few minutes after he came.
“What?” It was so abrupt I thought I’d misheard him. Did he mean he wanted to play chicken—some kind of sex game based on the concept? Was I going to spend the next time I saw him naked and atop his shoulders fending off some other naked chick as she tried to knock me down? Could that perhaps…be fun?
“Do you have any idea how they live before they’re killed?”
Dear God. What is it about New Yorkers that makes them feel they have to share even when the signals they get are saying are screaming, “Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!”
“Um…I’m sure they—”
“All their life they live in a cage the size of a shoebox. And the warehouses that they are kept in are filled with 10,000 of them. There would be a fire code against there being a gathering of 1/10th the amount of people in the same space. You see? And no one ever really cleans up the place beyond the basics so the whole place smells like feces—”
The use of the technical term here was making this all the worse. That and the fact that I had just consumed a chicken salad wrap at lunch. Or a feces wrap, as it were.
“They feed them stuff so their breasts are so big that they can’t stand up.”
“Okay. Can we just cease and—”
“And sometimes they cut off their beaks so they won’t peck themselves out of their misery. And you know how kosher is supposed to be so much better? Well it is, in terms of their death. It’s a humane death but still an inhumane life. Those chickens only get a cage the size of one-and-a-half shoeboxes—”
Now I can’t look at chicken or at shoeboxes, for that matter. I’m going to have to get one of those plastic shoe holders that goes on the back of the door. And I’m going to try to not imagine little fuzzy yellow chicks peeping and begging in each and every one of them.
E eventually stopped but not until after I was sure I was going to throw up—and on him. And I’m telling you I must have told him to stop a good five times. Why is it that New York zealots never realize that no really means no?
Bad Sex
Something happened the other day.
God knows I’ve had my share of, let’s call it C+ sex. You know it—the ‘going through the motions sex’. It’s a mechanical exercise—a thing of assembly. Insert part A into part B. It’s easy to zone out during the whole thing and think instead of what you need at the grocery and if you have time to hit the vinyasa 2-3 class when you forgot to make a
reservation that past morning.
But then there’s bad sex, the kind that leaves you feeling dirty, stupid, or worst of all shamed. I haven’t felt that feeling in so long…
And I’m not sure what set me off this time. I was with Z, someone new. Everything had been going along pretty well. But there was something about the way, what exactly? The way he touched me with the long nails on his right hand, his guitar strumming hand? The way he grunted, was that familiar, incisive? All I know is it suddenly wasn’t him under me; it was Harry.
Yes, Harry, a twenty-five year old music agent, someone I dated a little over eight years ago. And let me tell you—if you had seen this guy strutting from out of a crowd, his leather jacket showing off his broad shoulders, the 5:00 shadow that made him look like he could book a Schick commercial in a heartbeat, you would have never guessed his name was Harry. Something Biblical like Daniel maybe or Romance-novel masculine, like Harley. But the second I saw him, my body went into overdrive. I became wet. My nipples hardened, my back arched slightly. And if there is such a thing as phermones, Harry was sensing mine pretty loud and clear.
I couldn’t wait to have sex with him. And yet, whenever we were together, just kissing, or maybe brushing past each other, there was something that tightened inside of me. I felt like there was a part of him that wanted to force an entry, break me down, expose me before I was ready. Again, it was just a vague sort of feeling, but one that I could never quite block out or dismiss.
As we got closer and closer to having sex, my hesitation only got stronger. One time in the middle of the day we snuck back to his apartment. He took off my shirt, my bra, and I started to run my nipple from the base of his cock down to the very tip. I pushed my breast together, surrounded him, began to caress him back and forth. He sat up abruptly, thrust me back, practically sneered and said, “You’re not going to do that again are you?”
I can’t tell you the shame I felt in that moment. Like I had been doing it wrong all along. That I was awkward, unsexy, stupid, foolish, just…stupid. So stupid I ended up having sex with him just to prove to him that I wasn’t any of those things. which of course made me feel all of them even more, ever more intensely.
Harry broke up with me a week later to go out with a girl who, rumor had it, had slept with the head of her company to get the job she held. Two months later she dumped him and four months after that Harry was fired—after punching out the glass in the door of his office. He was just an angry, unhappy guy. It wasn’t—
“Alexa,” Z said, breaking the silence. “Are you there?”
“What—what?”
“It looked like I lost you for a minute. You good?”
I was good all right, once I realized where I was. But I’m telling you, the whole thing was so completely out of body. Anyone else been assaulted by The Ghost of Sexual Past at just the wrong moment?
Re-union?
Okay, so my bad behavior aside (I know. I suck. I should have mercy-blew Paul after I dissed him, huh?), I can’t stop thinking about the reunion. It hasn’t been that long since I left those people behind but still, the changes are pretty amazing.
I was thinking about Senior Superlatives, and what a big deal it was in high school to actually be chosen. For what though? For a record for posterity? So you could look back and say, “I did that, I was that, that’s who I was”? It seems in retrospect like some sort of false reassurance.
Specifically I mean this—the guy who was voted ‘Cutest’? Okay, so he came to the party having just had a fish hook removed from his eye (clearly he didn’t get ‘Most Coordinated’). Perhaps I shouldn’t judge. Even so though, time hasn’t been very good to him. And our ‘Most Likely To Succeeds”? Well one was Hobie, who’s now doing commercials for products for premature balding, and the other is a grad student in social work. I’m sure she’s succeeding, she’s fantastic, she’ll make a great shrink, but I’m not sure that was the kind of success anyone thought of back then.
Oddly the guy who really is the most successful now, who’s doing some sort of financial thing involving energy and Africa, I think he would have been voted, “Most Likely to be Middle Management” in high school. And I would now vote him “Best Looking” even if I didn’t know how well he was doing. He just looks like a guy in step with himself—confident, happy, suave. Glen, here’s to you.
All of this is to say that it’s jarring going to a reunion since you sit there trying to reconcile all these people’s past selves with their present ones and sometimes things don’t mesh. And then you feel like maybe you got it wrong the first time.
Like when you find out the male half of “Class Couple” used to come after the female half with a 2 by 4. I mean Jesus, what do you make of that?
Yesterday the subject of reunions came up when I was with a client, G. He told me at his twenty-fifth he cried the whole drive home. I asked him why, what the trigger was. He couldn’t identify it exactly—just this feeling of nostalgia mingled with a confusion as to what he was missing really, what was or what he thought was.
So what do we do with our memories then? Adjust them? And then adjust ourselves accordingly? Or do we let them linger in some sort of hazy place like a dream world, apart, sweet or sour, but stuck forever as they were then?
My Gut Reaction
So this past weekend, God help me, I ended up going to an “unofficial” high school reunion.
I was of two minds when I got the e-vite. On the one hand, I think it’s always interesting to see how people turn out, you know? What they do, where they live, how they look. And since I think I actually look pretty fabulous at least for the moment, I was thinking well why the hell not?
But there was the Hobie factor to be considered. I didn’t want to be cornered. I didn’t want honest confessions and tears and apologies and being scraped raw. I had had enough of that for a while.
And then I thought, you know what? What the hell. I don’t see Hobie actually running around bragging that along with his legitimate acting career that he’s providing voices for Japanese porn anime. It flies in New York City, but where I’m from? The joke would be very very lost. So I knew that I’d be safe.
Once I decided to go, I realized I actually had an agenda. An agenda named Paul. Sigh.
See here’s the thing. We are all The Breakfast Club when it comes to high school, right? And in that case I was definitely Brian—a.k.a. the nerd.
I know. I so wanted to be Claire. I was hoping I was going to get “Best Dressed” for senior superlatives. I tried really really hard on that front, but all for naught. Instead I got—ugh—“Most Scholarly”. A nice way of saying “Nerdiest”. They took my picture between books in the library with the president of the math team.
And Paul, well he, of course, was Emilio Estevez. He had this sweeping blond hair that was always falling in his face. He was on the football team, he had a cool car, a nice smile, and probably a solid C average.
He was never going to notice me.
Only he did. Once. It was a senior class party at Nicole Wittey’s house. She had a trampoline. I remember that. And sometime before the end of the night, Paul the football player took my hand and kissed me sweetly in the woods. It was sheer bliss. It was a score for those who wished to be cute and smart at the same time. It was the height of my high school experience.
And nothing happened after that.
But I was going to correct that. Yes. This weekend, I was going to go back. And as God was my witness, I was going to get my man.
When I got to the bar where the reunion was being held, I did a quick scan. Paul was tall, taller than almost anyone else in our class. I saw the math team president—who was now an OB-GYN resident. Okay, ew. I saw the homecoming queen, who was a veterinarian. I saw the guy who’s locker was next to mine who’s name I suddenly couldn’t remember at all. And then I saw him.
Only he wasn’t him anymore. He was…fat. Bloated fat. Bloated from…alcohol abuse? A tough few years of disappointment? He looked sloppy. His shirt was too small, a button had popped. He smiled wide at me, beckoning.
And I turned the other way.
I know! I should be burned at the stake. But I’m telling you, the whole illusion, the whole romantic picture—it was like it went through a car wreck and someone was pulling me out with the jaws of life from the other direction.
So am I just as bad as the snooty popular girls who used to snub me?
Weak in the Knees
So there I was. Hands working their way along his inner thighs, his skin, his hair. Fluttering, stroking, my nails lightly digging in now and then. I licked my fingers until they they were moist and warm, reached for the underside of his cock, ran them along from the base to the very tip. I bent down letting my breasts rub ever so lightly along his knees, his calves, before I reached the floor. Then I softly, so softly, reached my tongue to touch the very tip of his cock.
I took him in, the whole of him, my wet mouth, my soft lips. I cupped his balls in my palm, sucked, tasted deeply, nipped at him. I heard him sigh, felt his hand pulling me closer, closer, closer still.
And that’s exactly where I was a good thirty minutes later. When I peeked up at him through my hair, he was looking back at me with a cat-who’s-got-the-mouse grin.
“Viagra baby,” he whispered, giving me a wink. “Rock on. Rock on!”
Twenty minutes after that, I was sweating, cramped, stiff, but Mr. Viagra hallelujah! no longer was. When I went to get up, my knees felt cold, like the circulation had been cut off. I knew something was very very wrong. In fact, I dare say, there was a definite breeze coming through on both of my knees.
I excused myself to the bathroom where the tragic truth revealed itself. I was looking in the mirror at me—me in my favorite pair of Paper Denim Cloth jeans. Which now had holes in both the knees.
Cursed Viagra! Cursed Mr. Chesire Cat!
And then two miraculous words hit me: Denim Therapy. Hadn’t I read something about some company that could actually reweave your favorite jeans? Were they saving casualties from Viagra use from coast to coast?
Rock on baby. I was right. demintherapy.com right there on the web. A cool $36 and my jeans will be all mine again in a mere two weeks. I’ll let you know how it goes. Anyone ever use them?
Thank God they’re not skinny jeans. When I wear them again, you can be sure I’m slipping some knee pads underneath.
5767
I wanted to be quiet.
I blurted it all out to you. The anger, the hurt, the pain at being dropped by M well before he should have had the power to do so. And then after being so very out with my emotions, I needed to curl up and be small.
I thought about it. Why was I so upset? Why had he affected me the way he did? I made myself go inside of it even though I didn’t want to.
And I knew what it was, of course I did. M had a quality that all the people I have ever loved had. He was magic. He lived by his passion, was made of them—they formed the core of his being. People like him are electric, addictive. You want to get inside of them, see what they see, feel what they feel, experience life from that kind of height.
And then I thought about that analysis. “People.” “People like him.” Meaning there’s more than one. Right?
Woody Allen supposedly once said that, “All New Yorkers are Jewish.” I think he was thinking of bagels and words like “schmuck” and “schlep” that have worked their way into our collective vernacular. But on Monday for Yom Kippur, I took that statement one step further. The day before I had been nursing my troubles over a soy latte when I overheard a conversation between two women who were going to be observing the holiday. Even though I’m not Jewish, there was something about their commitment to starting anew with the new year that really struck me. I decided to fast the next day, just as they would. And during all those ensuing woozy hours, I thought about what the last year had brought and how I could do better, be better, in the year to come. Then at sunset, I kissed the year—let’s see if I get this right—5766—goodbye, and made a move to move on.
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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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