I had a great day in The City yesterday. As a whole, I had a wonderful time shambling around both fore and aft an important meeting I had scheduled midday. Since the client I was meeting with is a total fashionista, I had to dress the part. My efforts paid off, and I have a solid event lined up for March. Oh, the joys of working freelance!
Meeting or not, I wasn't about to kill my knees and joints by hobbling around downtown Toronto on four-inch stilettos all day, nor was I about to sacrifice my dignity by wearing godawful, hideous trainers whilst commuting around on mass transpo. In fact, aside from my beloved black, hi-top Chucks, I don't even own any sneakers. (I hate it when I look over a business woman and she's pretty and respectable from the ankles up. A designer suit and silky hose do not go with sweat socks and Nikes. Ever.) Instead, I paired some super cute flats with my sassy ensemble and lovingly toted my favourite heels in a reeeeally big purse I have just for such occasions.
The red stilettos were a major hit, and, for some reason, this woman was more impressed with my Dolce & Gabbana shoes than my résumé and the glowing referral she got from another client of mine from the fashion crowd. I've always found it funny that people would rather pay people who don't look like they need the money.
It was especially true in the Industry. As an escort, the more luxe your hotel, the more polished and groomed the girl, and the more expensive your clothes and shoes, the bigger your tip, the better your review, and the longer your appointments will be. There were many times that gentlemen brought me wine, jewellery, and/or chocolates, and we whittled away our hour sipping Champagne and talking. I satisfied many a gentleman with my oral skills -- oral communication, that is. (Having an advanced degree is extraordinarily helpful in an industry where many of your peers never made it past Grade Nine.)
Even in my perma-tipsy state, I took great care with my poise, language, and grammar. I almost never wore lingerie like the other girls; I preferred elegant cocktail frocks, especially the perennial hit: the Little Black Dress. I tried to never let on that between each appointment was a frantic scramble to shower, touch up the makeup and hair, gargle with mouthwash, dispose of the used condoms and wrappers, toss his used towel in the closet and get out a new one for the next guy, straighten up the bedding to look completely untouched, slug back more booze, hide away the money, light fresh candles (if necessary), get dressed, and look completely at ease by the next knock on the door.
On occasion, there were also 'accidents' to remedy. Since there's no time to wash your hair, dress, or get a new duvet, semen is just easier to quickly hit with a hairdryer and squirt with Febreeze. Yes, that includes the hair (it brushes out). I always Febreezed the bed between each guy, anyway -- that 'Fresh Linen' scent is a working girl's saviour.
All this behind-the-scenes stuff took place in under thirty minutes, so that by the time the next gentleman was on his way up, I was back to looking like a million bucks. And, at the end of our hour together -- regardless of what transpired -- I often found an extra fifty or hundred on my nightstand. I thought it was fairly normal until I spoke to one of the other girls. I didn't usually fraternize with other women from the Industry (actual friends notwithstanding), but I was bored. She invited me out for drinks after work. Over the phone, she asked that I fetch her from her room after my last appointment, and when I got there, I was stunned.
She was at least ten years my senior, but that factor can be completely irrelevant in a well-preserved, sophisticated courtesan. And with proper lighting. However, she was dressed like a slutty teenager from the 1980's and all the fluorescent lights blazed forth. Strewn about on the bed were masses of cheap, tawdry, novelty lingerie -- like the scratchy kind from porn stores -- and her room reeked of cigarettes mixed with old room service. The beds were both unmade and there were no candles or music for ambiance.
Basically, it was the polar opposite of my room, attitude, dress, and manner of comportment.
I later found out that our starting rates were $100 apart, and that she sometimes 'made up the difference' by allowing the guys to have anal sex with her or by doing what's known as BBFS. It stands for 'Bare-Back Full Service,' and refers to intercourse without a condom. Or, in my translation, Russian Roulette Suicide.
I went out with her that night, but never again. And it also reinforced that it really does take money to make money. All night I wanted to politely suggest to her that she might want to invest in her looks a bit, perhaps work to keep the room fresh and sensual, but I never did. It seemed cruel and would've probably fallen on deaf ears, anyway. Instead, I called it an early night and went back up to my room.
It was a night of platitudes -- not only do you have to spend money to make money, but it's also better to be alone than badly accompanied.
And with that, I think I'll sign off. I have something that has been torturing me mentally, but I'll keep it to myself for now. I won't go scrawling about it anywhere just yet -- not here, not to the man himself -- until I give it some more thought.
Think before you speak, look before you leap, and all that jazz...
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