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A New York Escorts Confessions
I’m trying to remain calm but it’s not working.
Okay…okay. So I come home yesterday and there’s this huge flower arrangement on the front desk. Beautiful white roses. And usually my reaction is, huh, I wish someone sent me flowers! There’s so pretty! They smell so good!
But this time, there was MY apartment number on the bouquet. I got so excited that someone was thinking of me. Maybe it was Dahlia apologizing. Maybe it was from Pete as a thank you for giving him advice. Or from D for my shopping expertise.
“Flowers pour moi! So exciting! Yay! Yay for me!”
“You just missed him,” said Leo, my doorman.
“The guy who dropped them off.”
“Oh. What guy? Hey, did the card fall off? There’s nothing on here.”
Leo just sat there looking at me. It was a little bit unnerving. “What?” I asked finally after a good minute.
Okay he didn’t say Lila. But he said my other name. The one I use as an escort.
I can’t tell you—I just—I think I fused with the floor. My breath went out. My stomach lurched. I felt light headed.
Then I tried to right myself. I’m a redhead. I blush. You can read me like a book.
“Lila. When I told him there wasn’t anybody in the building with that name, he described you perfectly. He said he knew you.”
I pulled it together, collected enough oxygen to smile casually. “Well…that’s weird, huh? Oh well,” I shrugged, laughed a little. “They’re still nice flowers. No sense in wasting them.”
I walked to the elevator with my head up, as if it was no biggie. Only it was.
When I got to my apartment I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up. Then I put the flowers one by one down the garbage disposal.
Who the hell had found me? Nobody has my home address. I’m careful. I’m really careful.
And then—was it just a client who simply wanted to do something nice for me? I wanted to think that. But there was no card. The card could have gone missing. It just didn’t seem like that. It seemed like a message—loud and clear, “I know who you are. I know where you live. I know how to get to you.” And I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe there was more to what he said to Leo.
Fuck! I don’t know what to do! Do I sit on this and see if it’s just a one time thing? Do I have to move? What did he say to Leo?!
The Thing About Dahlia
Dahlia is in the words of another friend, “a kick”. She walks around covered from head to toe in the wacky jewelry that she makes and sells. Her stories are gutbustingly funny—the time she was Punk’d at the supermarket and talked her way out of being put on air even going so far as to having all of the tapes destroyed. The time she successfully sued her endocrinologist. The time she had sex with the guy who owned the parakeet—the parakeet that decided the best perch in the house was on Dahlia’s butt.
Underneath all the quirkiness and hijinks, Dahlia is a mess. I know because I’m the lucky one she always chooses to break down on.
Her timing is amazing, actually. She always drops in unannounced when I’m in the middle of something. And she has this uncanny ability to hijack whatever I’m trying to deal with while she loses it in great big crying fits that last upwards of an hour.
I am sympathetic to a point. Her business is booming and with that comes a lot of responsibility. But it’s frustrating to watch a friend make the same mistakes over and over and over again. She keeps hiring students as interns in her office. She doesn’t pay them that much, so of course they flake out, don’t take the job seriously, and tend not to
last that long. So Dahlia is always stunningly behind. She hasn’t paid her taxes yet for 2005. She has back-orders during the holiday season that go back weeks. I keep advising her to find a business partner and she keeps resisting.
But it’s the intangible things that Dahlia puts out that always makes me wonder. Today she came by and did her crying jag just as I was on the phone with Pete while he was trying to talk to me about what was going on with Jen. I told Pete I’d call him back. I know from experience that Dahlia is not so easily denied.
She told me that sometimes she wonders if she’s invisible. She goes to her storage facility and they ignore her. According to her she opens her mouth and the people there literally walk away from her. The super in her office building told her to leave his staff alone. Her web designer forgot she was a client.
I sit there listening and I wonder, didn’t I hear this same story last month, last year? So this time I asked her point blank, “Um, Dahlia, do you think you might be putting something out that maybe is…I don’t know, pissing people off?
“Everyone I deal with is just incompetent! I mean, do your fucking job. My office is literally 90 degrees and the super can’t fix it. Wouldn’t you be pissed?”
Yes. But my super would never know I was. Because I’d bake him brownies.
Let’s face it. In a teeming city there is in fact a lot of people who don’t do their job right. Or they assault you with procedures (i.e. the saleslady in Filene’s who insisted I take a number every time I went into my friend D’s dressing room so he could model the pants he was trying on). But no one wins any friends or gains any points are gets ahead by pointing that out.
I’m serious about the brownies. In my book, the best approach is to kill ‘em with kindness. When you make somebody feel special and appreciated, they will fall all over themselves to please you. It works like a charm.
But honestly, can you teach somebody that quality? If Dahlia took my approach, would anyone believe that she meant it?
I come from one of those families where unless you had a bone sticking out of your arm, you were going to school. Fever? Not a factor unless it was over 100.5. Tummy trouble? Ginger ale is all you need. Mumps, measles, pink eye, flu? Just make sure you don’t breathe on the other kids, honey, and you’ll be swell.
So now when a winter cold hits, I tend to do my best to ignore it. It’s just a cold after all. Nothing a little orange juice and chicken soup can’t kick.
That is until you’re giving head.
I was okay through all the preliminaries. You would have never known anything was wrong through all the petting and stroking and skin. I didn’t even know anything was wrong myself. There I was running my tongue along the edge of his pants. Sliding one hand down his zipper and the other under his boxers. Easing them down to his knees. Skimming the pads of my fingers lightly over his balls, through his hair, kissing him on the inside of
his thigh. Feeling the tip of him with my closed lips, then with the flick of my tongue, then with the inside of my mouth.
Then realizing I couldn’t breathe. At all.
I tried to take big and quiet gulps of air, but sometimes that resulted in a not-so-sexy wheeze. There was no way to clear my nostrils. Whenever he moaned I tried to quickly and quietly blow out, but that didn’t seem to be doing the trick.
Neither were my efforts of trying to keep my mouth partly available for breath. The guy was a plunger, pure and simple.
And then my nose started running. Luckily it’s hard to tell the difference between bodily fluids in the dark.
The Pleasure Pit
So I went back with him to his apartment. It was tasteful, well appointed one might say. Floors so shiny you could probably fix your lipstick in their reflection. Glass and leather with empty spaces between them. Floor to ceilings windows looking out to the river. It looked like a model apartment, maybe even a hotel room. No one really seemed to live there.
And then he ushered me into the bedroom.
Or maybe I should call it ‘the boudoir’. Because for everything impersonal and cold in the other rooms, whoever decorated the apartment had made up for it in spades in this one. The window was blacked out. The walls were covered with red velvet. The bed was sunken, engulfed by fifty some odd pillows in jewel tones. There was a cashmere throw at its foot.
Everything suggested touch, as if clothes shouldn’t even be permitted within its confines. I unlaced my boots, rolled down my tights. He pushed my dress up over my breasts. I felt the lush silk against my bare back, my feet sunk into the creamy throw. I gave in to texture—the smooth tip of his cock, his wiry hair against my thigh, down pillows and cashmere slipcovers caressing my cheek, my waist. My nails slipping slowly down his tailbone until they found their way inside of him.
His girlfriend had had a vision, he told me later. She dreamed about the boudoir, thought they should give it life together. They shopped in secret over the Internet, came home early from work to lay down the velvet, dried roses for potpourri which they then sprinkled around the bed while they worked. When the room was finished, they spent the whole of a week there, watching porn, ordering in food, giving themselves every pleasure they could
think of. Ice cream, chocolates, fried pickles, peach schnapps, whatever whim or memory or thought came to mind.
It was a nice story. When he was done I asked him what had happened to his girlfriend.
“Oh she’s at work,” he said haphazardly.
I wonder if she knows someone else has been allowed into her secret world. I wonder if she’ll smell me when she’s rearranging the throw. I wonder if that’s the way he likes it.
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
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- 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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