I never did go inside a building. I met a man outside in a black Audi.
I got in the front seat and he looked at me. “You look good.”
I ate it up. I still look good. At least I have that.
I smiled big. “Thank you! I would love the opportunity you are offering.” [$$$]
“Okay, I think you’ve got it,” he said.
He gave me very little information. The most important being when I got the money. It’s always about the money. There were rules about depositing the money within a certain amount of time. My head was spinning, but one thing at a time.
The next weekend I was on call for my first gig. “But you live in the suburbs,” they said. As if it was a warning blessing.
Beginning of June my ex had moved out. This was a good thing for the both of us; we both needed to move forward.
We settled on 50/50 custody and we were now adhering to the parenting agreement. It was awful. I was all alone in this house. I couldn’t come home from work to this empty house. I spent a lot of time at the bar alone.
The black Audi knew I was only available every other weekend and he was okay with that. It was my daughter’s weekend with her dad. I’m home sipping wine and “on call” for my first date call. I still knew thought this was a service for those awks business men in need of a lady’s company. I mean, that’s why I’m doing this. To help someone else. And to help myself. For my daughter’s well-being.
The first weekend I was doing research – watching a documentary on escorts. I didn’t get a text. I was so relieved. The next weekend approached (two weekends later when my daughter was with her dad) and I was again “on call”.
I kind of felt like a secret agent. Or a doctor. A doctor secret agent that may be needed to rescue someone; you know from eating crab legs alone. At least this is what I told myself. The mind can believe anything.
The fact remained, I could meet a man for drinks and make $1,500. This would pay my mortgage, the gas bill. But again, no text.
Fast forward another two weeks. Now I really need money. I’m not going to ask my family. I’ve got to do this on my own.
I got the a call – not even a text! I needed to be at said hotel in 40 minutes.
HOLY SHIT. I GOT THE CALL.
Can I do this, I asked myself while I swallowed a tequila shot. I wasn’t sure I could. I knew if I did it, whatever “it” was I would never be the same.
But I wasn’t doing this for Jimmy Choo shoes or a Louis Vuitton bag. I was doing this to keep my daughter in our home. The home she’s been in since birth.
I said I’d be there. Two women, how many men?
Oh God, can I do this? Another tequila shot down and I’m freshening up my make-up and putting on my bustier. I’m curling my hair knowing I needed to be out the door in 2 minutes. And I got another call. I was too slow. Well, being in the suburbs. The men didn’t want to wait. They found another girl. I was off the hook.
Another tequila shot out of relief. But still bills piling up.
Fast forward another two weeks. Now I really really needed money. I remember my dear high school, college, and after college friend came over to go out. In college we had the time of our lives together – Jello shots, a genie and Powder. Among other shenanigans.
We’re sitting at the bar top and I get a text. “Can you get downtown?”
Oh God, what do I do? I looked at my friend, and I told him the truth. My body language was leaning in (please save me) and my eyes were fragile (don’t judge me).
He looked at me with a serious expression (I’m not sure he’d ever been serious in all our time together) and asked, “What are you doing?”
“You can’t do this,” he said. “Text back that you quit.”
This friend, great as he was, wasn’t the type to “tell” you what to do. We watched a lot of MTV Music Videos and our serious conversations revolved around him planning to open a cereal only restaurant – yes nothing on the menu except CEREAL!
He told me to text I quit. And I did. I had no fucking idea what I was going to do. We took a tequila shot and I figured I’d worry about it the next day.
