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A New York Escorts Confessions
Misty Morning High
I was walking through the park one day,
On a November morn that felt like May.
I was taken by surprise
By a pair of sparkly eyes
On a November morn that felt like May.
Oh drat. Now I’m going to be humming that silly ditty all day long…
The eyes—those blue eyes with sparkly blue eye shadow, reminded me of this girl I went to high school with—Misty. I think at one time she had been Melissa, then Missy. But somewhere along the line that ‘T’ came to pass. It made her cool, unique.
She was also quite a little slut.
She was always a tad undone. Her shirt would have one too many snaps unsnapped. Her jeans were ripped in the crotch and patched haphazardly. She wore a slip over her pants just because.
Who knew that was going to be in style all these years later?
Anyway, I had noticed her, been intimidated by her. There was a rumor going around school that she had been caught in the boys locker room with two guys from the soccer team who were only wearing towels at the time.
That proved to be a boldfaced lie. And covered up the fact that she was actually fucking the band teacher.
I didn’t know any of this for a fact when we first came into contact with each other. I heard her tell someone she was going to the prom with this guy Dave. I happened to be going with his brother Tom. When I finally got up the nerve to tell her, Misty wanted to know if I wanted to come to her house to get ready.
Of course I said yes.
When I got there, she showed me the little liquor bottles she had stolen from her last plane ride. She took me to her room. Her lamps had fabric draped over them. She got out a pack of cigarettes and casually offered me one.
We got dressed later. I was trying to zip up the back of my gown. She came over and did it for me. We were both giggly sick off tiny bottles of vodka.
And that’s when it happened. Just as she zipped me up, her hand brushed against the side of my breast. Time stopped. I felt her touch but I didn’t quite know what it was. We were standing in front of a mirror. I saw that she was surprised too, like it truly had been an accident.
I wondered what it would be like if she moved her band over my breast. I wondered if I could pull up both of our dresses at the same time so that I could feel her underwear against mine. I wondered what would happen if we switched dates midway though, if I would be the one in the locker room with the two brothers with their towels on, if she would kiss me and then kiss Tom and then we’d go onto her parents bed and—
And the doorbell rang. And our dates came. And nothing happened. (Except Tom turned out to be a piss poor kisser—so bad that the towel fantasy up and died in a hurry.)
I thought about her in the park when I saw the girl that looked like her. All those fantasies—did I think them at the time or was that me looking back at that moment? Was I thinking those things but didn’t yet have it in me to form them into coherent thoughts?
I don’t know. Misty ended up moving away over the summer after the prom. I never heard from her after that. But it’s fun to wonder from time to time when I play that game, “What If”.
Good Enough To Give Thanks
Thanksgiving just seems like it’s laced with so many horrors that it ought to be called Halloween II.
Not that Neal was the culprit this year.
Actually, as much as I hate to admit it, he was nothing short of tolerable. First in that I can see now just how much he makes my mom happy. It’s like she’s gotten her smile back—the one she lost years ago when my dad left. Even the Thanksgiving Grinch would have to give him points for that.
Besides he bought me this really cool antique lace shawl. I think that’s good enough for double points. Don’t you?
No, this year it was Jennifer my sister-in-law who was That Thing Most Evil. I seriously don’t know what was up her butt. She was on me from the second I walked in mom’s house.
“Hey Alexa. Didn’t have time for a haircut?”
And then there was, “Of course she looks great. When you don’t bother getting married or having kids you can go to the gym six times a week.”
And then, my favorite and hers, “Those boots are…interesting,” said with a weighted pause and a look of disdain. This statement proved to have innumerable variations: “those earrings are…interesting; “that bra is…interesting”; that ring is…interesting.”
Apparently I have an “…interesting” wardrobe.
Now the thing about these kind of comments is you can’t really address the menace behind them, you know? They’re just short of confrontational. Instead they’re like this mass of mosquitoes following you around all weekend, moving in for the bite anytime you look away. And all you can do is swat them and hope for the best.
Too bad they don’t make Off! for sister-in-laws, huh?
I tried to talk to Pete about it, but he’s pretty useless when Jen is on a tear. It’s like she hooks onto a mood and it automatically switches my brother to the “off” mode. I imagine he’s just happy to have someone else be the chosen target for a little while.
I want to be sympathetic, to rise above it. I know having three kids—one who’s an infant—can’t be easy, even with some help. I tried to play with Tyler and Emma as much as possible and to give her breaks with Buela too. But being around Jen too much just made me want to give her a break—in her arm.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one who had a tough Thanksgiving. D called me a couple of hours ago to see what I was doing later in the week. He’s gotten a group together to go to Good Enough To Eat where we’ll all order the Turkey Dinner with the works. It’s a Thanksgiving Do-over for all of us.
Not a bad idea, no?
“A” Marks The Spot
It’s almost time for Thanksgiving. Which means it’s almost time to spend time again with Neal. Ick
One year later and I still haven’t gotten used to the idea of mom having a boyfriend. Okay scratch that. I could actually get used to that. If only it wasn’t him.
Turns out he’s not a racist. He’s too boring to be a racist. Neal is in a word, pleasant. He will say, “Oh my, weather!” if it’s sunny, or snowing, or raining frogs. He will kiss my mother as if there is no liquid of any kind within his body. He will clasp his hands over his belly after dinner and laugh from his belly when there is no joke.
It all makes a body want to have her pussy monogrammed.
I don’t know what started it, the urge. I found this old typography book at a used book store in the Village. I was looking at all the elaborate A’s. And then thinking how good they’d look in pubic hair.
So I made a stencil. And I called up my roving bikini waxer Maria, who was only too happy to come over and help out.
So now I’m sporting an A. Where it counts. In Bookman Old Style.
My (Beautiful) Brunette
She was the kind of girl you noticed. At least everyone at the bar did. On Sundays she wore her Jets jersey cropped to just under her bra, which showed off her pierced belly. She had think curly blond—locks really, bobbed to her shoulder. Bouncy hair, the kind of hair that someone who wanted to sell shampoo would make a bee line for. She had a spring in her step, a lilt to her voice all topped by an adorable Scottish brogue. What was not to like?
Apparently the hair. Because when I saw her last Sunday, Heidi the blond was suddenly a brunette.
“Hey girlie girl.”
“Hey yourself! Blue Moon with an orange?”
“You got it. Acting gig?” I asked her, pointing to her hair.
“That’s the plan. The right kind of acting gig.”
“What do you mean?”
“I spent all last year working as a dumb blond. One thing after another. That’s the only thing they’d even read me for.”
“Even with the accent?”
“Please. I’m not allowed to have an accent. But I just couldn’t do it anymore you know? It’s not why I came here.”
You’ve got to give it to actors. The shit they have go through just in finding “their look” which isn’t theirs at all. It’s got to be downright exhausting.
While I was bemoaning Heidi’s fate, one of the screens above her head caught my eye. It was that Jessica Simpson Direct TV spot.
Now I have no idea at all what Jessica actually says in the spot. Every time I’ve seen it, it’s been in a sports bar where the sound has been turned off. But does anyone else notice just how much she looks and acts like bobble head doll in it?
Seriously, watch it at home with the sound off. See if I’m wrong.
We all know how Hollywood and Madison Avenue are the myth makers, the Great Creators. But sometimes we need a wake-up all to realize just how pervasive it. If this is what the powers that be are selling, how on earth is Heidi ever going to make it?
To Be Old At Heart
It’s a world of Viagra and Botox and hair transplants and face lifts. Of personal trainers, baby doll dresses, plastic surgery, and Just For Men. And then there was Evan.
I’m always a sucker for the anomaly. And God knows New York City is the best place on earth to find the exception. But there are exceptions and then there are Exceptions.
Evan always wore a suit. An old fashioned one—three pieces that I can remember. He was tall and good looking but odd, off—like he came from another era.
One time I canceled on him, claiming a cold. He sent me roses. But not just roses. Long stem roses. Two dozen. I had to use my bathroom garbage can for a vase since everything else toppled over from their weight.
Evan was rich. His family had a small pied a terre that was decorated to the nines. A white bearskin rug and a white piano. Black lacquer floors. Everything was plush and over the top. It seemed not to fit him. I wondered what the rest of his family was like.
His family’s main house had some kind of name. Storybook? Marbleton? I don’t remember. I just recall being intimidated by the very mention of it.
He was a catch, dear Evan. Except when you learned his secret.
“I can’t wait until I’m forty.”
“What?”
“Don’t you get tired of the way up? Don’t you want to be there already?”
“Um…but aren’t we supposed to be enjoying our youth?”
“Forget it.”
“No. I’m sorry. What do you mean?”
“I want to be done already Alexa. I want to be settled.”
“But Evan…doesn’t it strike you—the whole world wants to be young. Don’t you think you’re missing something?”
“What?”
I couldn’t convince him. Not through ice cream cones or clubbing or skateboards or the circus. Not through jump rope or Scattergories or merry-go-rounds or tequila shots. And with the last botched late night, so too went Evan.
I checked the calendar. He would be thirty today. I wonder if he’s on the way to happiness.
The Undead
OK, in the spirit of Halloween—or not—check this out.
So at that reunion I went to that I told you about? Well, somebody had taken the time to make this In Memoriam board. There were senior portraits of four kids who had already passed away. We all knew about Evan who had died two years ago from an aneurysm. And many of us had read about Alec, the alcoholic who died in a car crash just six months ago. But the other two? No one had any ideas.
People mentioned disease when it came to the one girl Sheryl. Last seen in New Hampshire. Someone had talked to her the year before. She sounded happy, lived near the mountains. But she was one of those people no one really knew that well. I was sorry to hear how things had turned out. No one should die in their twenties.
I was closer to Dead Guy #4, Colin. In his case, people speculated about an overdose. He had been leading some kind of high life, expensive clubs, expensive drugs, partying all night with some minor celebrities. We all shook our heads at the bitter waste of it all.
Only as it turns out—Colin is not dead. Colin is working as a sous-chef in Raleigh. Colin is married and his wife is pregnant. Somebody sent around a picture with him posing while roasting a whole pig.
I wonder, was that supposed to be an ironic comment?
I’ve got to call him. I mean, how the hell does it feel when you find out you were supposed to be dead? Is it creepy? Is it funny? Isn’t he dying of curiosity—tee hee—to find out just how he was memorialized at the reunion?
And who in the hell announced his death based on what? Shouldn’t there be some kind of consequence for virtually killing someone? Shouldn’t you virtually have to do some kind of time?
One thing’s for sure. Colin is definitely going to have to show for the next reunion. Could you imagine the look on people’s face who didn’t get the proof that Colin in fact lives?
Halloween Slasher
Maybe I’ve been watching too many horror films. How else to explain the dream I had last night?
A warning to all who read further: this dream is rated NC 17. And then some.
I dreamed I was having a threesome with these two brothers I know. I have very little interaction with them in life. I know them marginally, haven’t ever thought the first thing about them sexual or not.
I started on the older brother. We kissed. I kissed his neck, his shoulder. He pushed the strap down on my dress. At that point, I had to go somewhere. The bathroom? I just remember a hall.
I started on the older brother. We kissed. I kissed his neck, his shoulder. He pushed the strap down on my dress. At that point, I had to go somewhere. The bathroom? I just remember a hall.
When I came back, the two brothers were kissing like lovers. There was a guy on the floor with a small camera. They were performing for him. It was some kind of Project.
I knelt on the bed and started in on the other brother. He had glasses and looked vulnerabley out from under them. I found the look turned me on. I took off his glasses and kissed his face, ever conscious of the camera following my every move. I kissed his chest, smelled his hair. He reached his hand under the top of my dress and fondled my nipple. I lay on top of him as the other brother pulled up my skirt and slipped his hand under my thong. I felt his weight on top of me and my weight on top of his brother.
The next thing I knew I was going down on the second brother. All the while I kept thinking to myself, “It’s so thin. It’s like spaghetti.” Then the brother started pushing my mouth away from him. But my jaw was locked. I couldn’t release. When I finally managed to open just a little bit, he pulled out. But his flesh was completely ravaged. It was as if a wild animal had attacked him. There was blood everywhere. And he started to cry.
“Oh God! Let me get you an aspirin!” I said, leaping off the bed. I went down the hall where there was a really busy upscale convenience store. I signaled to a sales woman who was on the phone that I needed some aspirin, but she was about to get off her shift and wasn’t paying any attention to me. I tried to motion to the other people behind the counter, but everyone was busy with other customers. Finally after ten minutes, the woman remembered I was there and apologized.
I went back to the bedroom but instead ran into someone I knew, who told me I was in a magazine. There were pictures from the reality series I was in, which I knew to be different from whatever I was doing in the bedroom. There was a terrible shot of me leaning over and my breasts spilling out of another sundress. I kept thinking, “Oh no. If this magazine finds out about The Project they will crucify me.”
I woke up and wrote the dream down as quickly as I could in all its grizzly details. My jaw was actually killing me.
I have this desire to call the brothers, at least one of them, and see if they’re okay. But how do you say, “I’m sorry I shredded your penis. I hope it’s okay. And by the way can you please destroy that video?”
Okay all you Freudians. Go to it. What do you see in my subconscious?
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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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