I’m single and don’t know if I could ever get married after sleeping with so many married men — more than I can remember. It doesn’t exactly give me faith in marriage.
I call myself a “freelance escort.” I’m 28, but am told often that I look at least five years younger. I have the kind of tiny but curvy body that drives men wild, with auburn hair and almond-shaped eyes.
The first time or two, I looked at their wedding rings the whole time and they always noticed and then got nervous, as if my guilt was making them feel guilty. So I decided not to look at their hands.
They want to talk a lot more than you think. They want to vent about their kids’ private schools, their bosses, their bonus talks, their friend beating them at squash. I didn’t even know what the hell squash was at the time. Talking, talking, talking, as if their lives were harder than mine and I wasn’t the one there to have sex with them for money. I started feeling resentful of them.
I got into it when I first moved to New York and desperately needed money to survive. Sam, who ran the first escort service I was with, told me when we met that some guys pay $2,000 an hour. I thought he was exaggerating, but I decided to try it. My stomach churned so much before I got picked up the first night that I was constantly going to the bathroom.
“How can I be sexy like this?” I thought.
The driver picked me up in Manhattan, far away from where I lived, and we went to an apartment in Midtown. The guy there said he was an “investor” and offered me champagne right away. He said he had seen a lot of girls but wanted me to be his “special” girl, and that he liked me a lot. We spent two hours together and I got $1,000 instead of the $3,000 I had been promised. I asked Sam why I only got $1,000, and he said it was the cut I got for jobs until I proved that I could hold onto clients.
I was pissed, but also elated going home with ten $100 bills in my bag. I started to fantasize about all the things I could buy myself, getting my own apartment in Manhattan. I worked three nights a week, then five, then almost every night. I actually started getting a rush out of it — these Wall Street men falling all over themselves, paying all this money for just a little bit of my time.
But after a few months it became exhausting. They have big egos and are big babies. If I made any sign that they weren’t the best lover, or that their dick wasn’t the biggest dick I’d ever seen, they started asking all these questions and putting me down like: “Oh, well you’ve just seen more cock than a normal, nice girl would.”
No, actually, you’re really small and you’re bad in bed.
One guy, who said he was a bigwig at a global investment bank, came in his pants when I started undoing his belt. It was so awkward. He had been talking up how good he was in bed in the cab ride to the hotel from dinner, and when that happened, he freaked out. “That never happens! You must have done something to me,” he said. Like it’s never their fault.
Some, though, were animals in bed. It’s like they have all this testosterone and power and it is somehow really hot with the right person. And some are really handsome and well-dressed. There have been a few where I’ve actually been jealous of their wives, even though they’re there sleeping with me. It’s a weird feeling. It’s easier with the ugly or arrogant ones.
Having a cut of my money going to Sam and his crew, however, started getting to me, especially because clients started asking me to book appointments outside of the agency, which was forbidden. I told Sam I was quitting and he accused me of stealing clients.
I was not going to let him push me. I left, but had to handle months of angry texts, emails and phone calls. I finally had to change my number, though that was how I got in touch with many clients so I was pissed.
With Sam gone, I had to figure out a way to keep clients and to get new ones — which was relatively easy. I started looking online and found sugar daddy dating sites in a Google search.
I thought this could be a way to meet men who want something long-term. At first, there were a few possibilities. One guy who was in private equity gave me $5,000 a month for four months, but then he disappeared. These men, it’s like they die one day. They write you all the time and want to see you a lot, but I now know it’s only a matter of time before they die out. I look at it like that because it makes it easier to swallow that this person just drops you. I can’t trust any of them. They’re all liars. Some nicer or cuter than others, but all liars.
As told to Alex Belanger.
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