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A New York Escorts Confessions
Barcelonely
Right now, right this very second, I could have been in Barcelona.
I could have been gazing at the melting spires of the Temple of the Sagrada FamÃlia. I could have been taking a deep and satisfying siesta. I could have been eating paella, drinking Rioja, heading for the hills or even the Picasso Museum.
Oh and the money I could have made. Money money money worth a month’s salary. Money towards a down payment. And the baubles that would have been bought for me. And the luxury I would have luxuriated in—
I have to stop.
Barcelona was being brought to me courtesy of R, a regular, who thought it would be nice to make his upcoming business trip one of pleasure as well. He would have been a swell companion too. He’d have given me some time to myself. He’d have wanted to go to all the must-see museums and clubs and shops.
But here’s the problem. He would have also wanted to go to restaurants.
The thing is, R has an eating disorder. Okay, not really. But I certainly have an eating disorder just watching him.
First he has to cut whatever he’s eating—everything—into tiny bite size pieces. Then he systematically will down each and every bite one at a time until he clears the plate. Then he will take a piece of bread and clean the plate even more.
And then he’ll reach for mine. And he does the same thing with the small little bites all over again.
The small bites even apply to butter, which he cuts to fit his morsels exactly. Oh and I forgot to add? He wipes his mouth with his napkin after each and every one.
It is in a word maddening.
I can deal with it. I can deal with it for one meal at a time. But not three a day for five days. I seriously think I would kill him.
I know it’s petty. I know I shouldn’t let it bother me. I know I should have my head shrunk. But seriously, the whole thing makes me want to throttle him, makes me want to scream at the top of my lungs, “FOR GOD’S SAKE EAT NORMALLY!” and then poke him with a fork over and over again until he cries Uncle.
And here I thought myself evolved.
My Cousin Myself
My head is spinning. I can barely type.
My cousin just called. She wanted to tell me she tested positive for The Gene. For breast cancer.
If you’re a guy, you probably don’t know just how frightening this is. Imagine you’re at the scariest movie possible. Imagine that Freddy Kruger and Jason and the pod people and dead people are all in it. And suddenly all of them break out of the screen, three-dimensionalize and come after you all at once.
Sylvia’s mother died of breast cancer ten years ago. The beast wasn’t only coming after her. It was inside of her.
So Sylvia told me she had made a decision. She was going to get a hysterectomy. And after that a prophylactic bilateral mastectomy.
Translation? She was going to get her insides removed. And then she was going to do the same with her breasts.
The operations would immediately cause her to go into menopause.
Sylvia is 25.
Everything she told me came out in one big rush, as if she didn’t want me to interrupt and talk her out of it. That was okay actually since I didn’t know what to say. What do you say to a thing like that? Oh good, I’m glad you’re taking action? Oh well, breasts are overrated anyway? Oh gee, I’m sure you’ll find a man without any of the parts that make you a woman?
I know it’s not about that. I know I’m sounding cruel. I’m just so beside myself right now I don’t even know what I’m saying.
But of course at the time of our conversation I did have to say something. And I did. Something about coming out to be there for the operation. Something about bringing her outrageous thongs so that she could feel like a porn star even on the operating table.
I think that might not have been politically correct actually.
Forgive me. I couldn’t come up with anything better. I was distracted.
My grandmother had breast cancer. So did my great aunt.
Could I have the gene too?
Etymologically Correct
Scrotum scrotum scrotum scrotum scrotum scrotum. Vagina vagina vagina vagina vagina vagina. Scrotum vagina scrotum vagina scrotum scrotum scrotum.
America, what the hell is up your butt?
First there was the controversy over author Susan Patron’s The Higher Power of Lucky which won the Newberry, the most prestigious honor in children’s literature. Only it made the mistake of using the word “scrotum”. In referring to a dog. Who had gotten bitten by a rattlesnake.
There was nothing sexual in its context. And yet, a whole bunch of librarians and parents freaked out.
“Some parts of the body are evil and should not be acknowledged. We should be thankful for the Christian librarians who show us the righteous path.”
“As a father of a daughter, I am thankful that this is being discussed. Maybe there should be separate shelf in the library where particular books that have questionable content are shelved or maybe some sticker that would alert a parent that there is something in this book that needs to be reviewed beforehand.”
Then there was the latest brouhaha over what the Atlantic Theatre in Atlantic Beach, Florida had once called The Hoohah Monologues when a complaining motorist objected to its sign. That would of course be The Vagina Monologues. This time three students in Cross River, New York were initially suspended when they dared to read a passage from the play at an an event sponsored by the school literary magazine.
Remember when writing things like tits and ass on the bathroom wall was the thing that was bad?
We all know we come from Puritan roots in this country. But still it never ceases to amaze me how much people get their panties in a snit when actual biological words are used. What are we so afraid of? How far would a little actual knowledge take us?
Maybe if We The People learned to say “scrotum” and “vagina” aloud we wouldn’t have priests abusing little boys on the sly. Maybe there wouldn’t be as many teen pregnancies. Maybe there’d be no rape.
At the very least maybe I wouldn’t have to listen to the kind of conversation I overheard at a cafe recently:
“Well what do you call it then? In front of Josie?”
“We say “poop” and “sissy”.
“‘Sissy’? You say “sissy”?
“That’s weird. Most parents say “pee” or “pee pee”. Although I’ve heard “wee” and “wee wee” too.”
I don’t know. In my house we called a BM a BM.
But that’s just me.
The War Comes Home
Morning emails are about Daily Candy, sample sales announcements, and how deodorant can absolutely positively cause breast cancer. They’re not supposed to be about someone you know. Who’s going to Iraq. For six months.
Sean is a psychologist who got his degree through the military. In exchange, his first five years post schooling were to be served on military bases. And that’s what he was doing in Washington State. He had another two years to go, and then he and his wife Marianne were going to move back east.
It never occurred to me that east could mean East. As in Middle.
And yet that’s what Marianne’s email said. Sean had already left. He would be stationed at a base in Iraq. But every once in a while he would have to be “in the field” attending to his patients.
It’s an ugly reality that for many of us the war in Iraq is something happening far far away. We read about it every day, we watch the broadcasts, the growing list of documentaries on the subject. We disparage the administration, we go to rallies, we make our votes count in elections.
But seldom do many of us actually know someone who is going to be directly involved. Seldom does it hit home in quite that way, black and white turning deep foreboding colors.
It made me want to do something I never do. Pray.
The Real Estate
Maybe it’s because my birthday is coming up and fast. Maybe it’s because the market is supposedly in decline. But the fact remains that lately all my dreams have all been about real estate.
There’s the one I’ve told you about—where I open the door to a closet and find a whole other room that I never knew was there—or did know but just forgot about it somehow. There’s the one where I own a mansion and every interior design fantasy I’ve ever had is realized. The leopard room. The spare bedroom with a double whirlpool tub opposite the bed. The meditation room. The one made entirely of crochet and filled with brightly colored hammocks swinging this way and that.
Dreams are funny. Like I know how to or even like crochet.
The need to own something has been bleeding into real life too. I’ll go back to a client’s apartment and try to slip in questions about how much he paid for what he’s got. The cocky ones are all too happy to reply—being able to put out financially, after all, is the equivalent of having a really big dick. And then there’s the ones who brag about what a great bargain they got—to the tune of a two-bedroom that’s just under 1 million.
I know. It’s a little crazy to be thinking about real estate—1 million’s worth or otherwise—when I just cried poverty.
There’s something I’m wondering about though. Maybe my problem with saving is not really about saving at all. Maybe it’s just I never had a concrete goal to save for. To save for a rainy day? To save for medical emergencies? To save for the future? They’re all so abstract. Whereas EIK and WFP and four closets—dear God—four—that you can touch.
I wonder what compromises I should make. Does size really matter? Could I stomach spending $580K for a studio apartment just to stick around the Upper West Side? Do I settle for a place in the east 30’s in Murry Hill—a neighborhood with so little personality that you might as well live in another city altogether? Do I finally suck it up and make the move to Brooklyn?
Don’t I actually need a kid and a dog for that last one?
Spare any change anyone? Like a cool $80,000 for a down payment?
The Skank
“So do you guys like…clean your butts?
Eliza did a perfect spit take. Cat made a whoop noise that had everyone in the teahouse looking in our direction. I was laughing too hard to make any noise at all.
“I’m serious,” Agatha said. “I mean, do you?”
“How can you be serious about this?” managed Eliza.
“Oh that was a good one. Oh,” Cat said, wiping her eyes.
Agatha looked like she was going to start crying any minute. “Well I do,” I offered when I was finally able to speak again.
“You mean, with soap?”
“Yeah. Yes. With soap. Why honey?”
“And do you too Cat?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“Does it look like she’s trying to entrap you?” I growled. As funny as the topic was, Agatha was nothing if not serious.
“Yes. I clean my butt. With soap.”
“Eliza?”
“I—I can’t talk about butts. Not when we’re eating scones.”
“What happened?”
“Okay. Well I was with Marshall…you know. And afterwards we took a shower. And he used one of my washcloths to wipe—to clean himself. And I was just like—gross, you know. Because he doesn’t live there. I have to wash it. And it has to dry first with like butt stuff—”
Cat began to whoop again. I shot her another look.
“—before I can put it in the hamper. So I was like, um do you have to do that? And he was like, “Well yeah. You got to clean your butt.” Like it was a given. And then he said, “Don’t you clean your butt? And I said well no—
“You guys come on. I have a chocolate chip scone!”
“—and he was like, what do you mean no? And I got embarrassed so I said, I mean no, I mean I don’t use a washcloth. So that was like—it satisfied him and it went away and everything. But then—am I weird? My parents…they—it was like a self-cleaning thing. They told me soap could irritate—
By this time there was no helping Cat. She was so red from laughing she had put her whole face into her napkin. Her giggles were catching. I stepped on her foot hard to stop her.
“It doesn’t irritate me if that’s any help,” I said. “It can feel kind of good actually.”
“Okay ew. I’m sorry,” said Eliza, pushing away her scone for good, “But why would it be self-cleaning? Does a toilet self-clean? Does your mouth self clean?”
“Well I mean some gynos say you’re not supposed to douche because the good bacteria—”
“Douche! Bacteria! We’re in a restaurant for God’s sake.” She made a grand gesture and completely knocked over Agatha’s tea.
The waitress rushed over. “Oh dear,” she said looking right at Agatha. “Do you need some napkins?”
And that was it. We all lost it.
I don’t know if Agatha took the waitress up on her offer. I certainly hope for her sake—and Marshall’s—that she did.
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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)
friends
raunchy humor
sexy stories
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