Monday, April 6, 2009

It's a sacrifice working day to day...for little money...just tips to pay

This is the greatest escort story ever told….by me.

Listen, if you went to Arizona State, chances are you might have a few good hooker stories. I get that. I went to school in Boston. We did not have pools in our backyards and we have no hooker stories…until now.

It’s a drizzly March night. I’m meeting up with a friend for drinks. I have not seen said friend in about 12 years but through the powers of Greyskull and Facebook, drinks can be had. Totally normal. Let’s catch up. Absolutely.

We’ll call him: Bold (it’s his middle name, or so he tells me)

I hop on the Orange Line and head in town.

(On the Orange Line, I run into another old friend, who confesses that she reads my blog even though we are not friends on Facebook, but she found my blog through someone else’s profile. I think this is pretty awesome. It made me happy. I like her. We’re FB friends now.)


The location? The Green Dragon. Standard Irish decor. Dark wood. Unfriendly faces.

I take a seat at the bar and order a drink.

Not five minutes after sitting, she walks up. She’s easily 5’11, with very long brown hair. A friendly face, slight sun damage around the eyes. Aged but attractive. Like a fine scotch…only if the scotch was a woman who tries too hard to hold onto her youth.

“What are you drinking?” she asks.

I look at my Guinness. It looks very Guinness-y. It’s in a glass that says “Guinness.” I can see where she would be unsure.

“Guinness,” I answer. She smiles and responds, “You’re much too pretty to be sitting at a bar by yourself.” I laugh politely. “I’m meeting a friend.” “A guy I hope?” “Yes.”

A standard conversation ensues. She’s from San Francisco, here on vacation. She and her friends are fascinated by all the Irish bars in Faneuil Hall and she just thinks everything is so cute.

She hates walking on cobblestones, especially in her Ferragamo boots. I nod, like I would have any idea what the hell she is talking about. I hate walking on cobblestones too, but it’s usually because the little black tip at the bottom of my heel has come off and one of my shoes becomes the slippery exposed nail of death…or because I’m drunk. I play along.

She’s staying in Copley. I inform her that if she likes Ferragamo, she’s staying in a good part of town to go shopping. She says, “I know! I passed a La Perla store on my way in, I’m going to go tomorrow.” $250 bras? We have so much in common!

Then I confess, “I can’t afford stuff like that.” She asks what I do, I say I’m in public relations. She responds, “I used to be in marketing.” I ask what she does now and she says, “I’m an escort. I’m my own CEO.”

Holy. Crap. I can’t speak. Is this real? Do I laugh? And then….

My phone vibrates. Bold is calling. I answer, he’s on his way. I have never hoped, prayed or Care Bear Stared for someone to get to a bar as quickly as possible as much as I did that night. Why? Because no one was going to believe this was happening unless I had a witness. Can I get a witness? Yes. Yes, I can.

“I make 30k a month.”

(Lisa quickly does the math, remembers how much she loves her parents, erases career change from her head.)

Was she lying? Of course not! She’s admitted to being an escort, why lie about the salary? Benefits, maybe. But salary? No. I believe her.

So we continue to chat. She asks my dream job. I tell her I want to be a writer. She asks if I have read Shakespeare. I say yes and we start discussing how much of what Shakespeare wrote is adapted into movies and books of today. Sure.

Then one of her friends walks up. He’s tall. Wavy brown hair that is very styled. Lots of product. His shirt looks like it’s made of gauze. This is comforting, should we need first aid supplies.

He drops a bottle on the ground and picks it up, turning to my new friend, “Is this yours?” The bottle reads: Colon Prep. She (and I don’t know if this is part of Escort 101) doesn’t even bat an eye and says, no, someone else must have dropped it.

Dejected, Gauze Shirt Guy walks back over to his table and sends Plastic-y Blonde. She repeats the same joke. I laugh, “Your friend just tried that.” She says “Oh my gosh, we all know each other, I don’t want you to be offended.” I’m not. Just confused.

Gauze Shirt Guy comes back. We all exchange pleasantries.

Bold walks in. Thank. Gosh.

He sees me, gives the obligatory head nod acknowledgment and walks towards the circus that is now surrounding me.

He looks to put down his bag when Gauze Shirt Guy asks him, this nice boy I have not seen in 12 years, if he dropped this bottle of Colon Prep.

Bold, without hesitation, says “No, I take the extra strength ones, the really big pills.”

Everyone laughs, including me, just happy he did not turn around and walk right back out the door.

At this point, we still have not greeted each other. We’re just engaged in this ridiculous conversation.

I guess I shouldn’t call it that. It wasn’t ridiculous. It actually turned quite serious.

“Follow your dreams,” she says to me, “do it before it’s too late.”

“Too many young people don’t follow their dreams and they end up regretting it later, once they find what makes them truly happy.” Thanks, Gauze Shirt Guy.

I whisper to Bold, “This story is even better than it seems, I’ll tell you later.” Man, I can’t wait to drop the “AND this woman gets paid for sex” bomb.

What is the worst thing that could happen at this point? Why of course my new (and only) escort friend tells Bold that we look great together. I’m pretty sure there was also some mention of me being beautiful on the inside. I’m not really sure. I think I started to block it out at this point.

“Surround yourself with people that will support you, no matter what you do. Surround yourself with good people. Caring people. It’s the only way to live.”

This is knowledge. This is the real deal. This is the stuff you can only learn once a man pays you for your company, I guess.

So after dropping this wisdom, they turn to leave. It was nice meeting us. It was nice meeting them.

“Follow your dreams.”

Got it.

Bold asks, “How does this get better, exactly?” I respond, “She’s an escort.”

“You’re right, it does get better,” he says. “Do you normally attract people like that?”

The crazies? You bet. Like a magnet. I think I’m just friendly looking. This is strange, because I’m so dead on the inside.

Curse you, friendly smile and giggle.

At least it made a good story though.

And yes, we did run into them again at Paddy O’s later that evening.

“Follow your dreams!” Got it, Gauze Shirt Guy. Got it.