Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Friday, August 05, 2005


I thought
No really
I actually thought
I might someday write something
Literate enough
Interesting enough
To get a book deal
To get a sitcom deal
To get a movie deal

I thought
No really
I actually thought
That since there were very few people in my “Business”
Experiencing ‘It’ the way I did
And of those that did
So very few writing about it
That my take on things might be of interest

“What a fool believes…”

I wanted the ‘deal’ because I thought it might be a way to reach minds and hearts.
I wanted the ‘deal’ because I thought (at my most grandiose) that it might be a nugget that brought about change in our paradigm of thought about the relationships between Men and Women.
I wanted the ‘deal’ because I thought it might be a way to transition out of my business.
(Not that I want ‘out’ immediately—but I’m no ‘spring chicken’ and One has to keep the future in mind…doesn’t One?)

Today I hear that ‘Natasha’ not only has a book coming out
But has been on CNN, The New York Magazine, oh and etc.
Along with this piece of gossip
I’m informed (in detail) of the things she’s saying.

I know ‘Natasha’
And I know most of what she’s speaking of is
I also know that the reason she has the ‘book deal’
Is because of the recent arrests and scandals
Surrounding her story.

And that’s the part that irks me
Makes me sad
Deflates me
Sends me spiraling down to that place of:
“What’s the point?”

Here I was, fool that I am,
Trying to tell a story about the challenge to Love
On a daily basis
On an hourly basis
Trying to express the grappling with the meaning of Love
The ability of sex and love to transform and Heal

Again and again it is rejected
Turned down
By Publishers
By Agents
By Producers
By those who ‘Can’
Because it is of no Interest.

But it has never been.
Of interest.
To ‘Money Makers’
In the Time in which it exists.
In the Paradigm in which we Exist.

There are so few Memoirs of Courtesans recorded in Literary History
So few.
I used to wonder why.
I assumed it was because it was dangerous to speak out.
Probably true.
It still is.
But now I imagine it may be because nobody wanted to know about the experiences unless they were

Want to hear the juicy ‘who shot John?’ re: ‘Natasha’?
Sure you do.
It begins with Jason.
Jason, the young rich son of a famous New York Lawyer
Starts a business involving phone sex and the like
He requires investors and somehow gets his father or
His father’s name involved.
Instead of reimbursing the investors
He embezzles the money.
As a result, not only gets his hardworking father dis-barred
But goes to Jail for a time.
(This is not precise. Much is what I heard through the grapevine and News Stories long after I met Jason.)

Fast forward to 2003.
I get a call on my work line from a ‘Jason’ who runs an outcall Escort Service called:
“New York Confidential”.
His ‘rap’ on my work line goes as follows:
‘Hey Geisha! So I read you’re Number One on the Review Boards! Not for long Babe! I got a girl named Samantha and right now—right now—I’m making her Number One! Writing her reviews. Putting her at the top of the Boards. Get on board Geisha. Listen. I made 45 thousand last week alone. My girls are seeing Sports Figures, Politicians, Everyone. You NEED to be with ME! Call me.”

I do call Jason back.
Although I’m not sure why.
Invite him to my place
Give him the opportunity to pitch me
You never know

He arrives on my break time in between appointments
Nice enough
Short, skinny Jewish boy
Clever and ambitious
Don’t know anything of his past yet

Tells me of the money he’s making
Asks why I don’t become a Madam?
Maybe go into Partnership with him?
Mumble a reply
something that includes the word ‘Felony’ and ‘Jail Time’

Offers to put me on his Website

Express to him I can’t imagine how this would work as, by now,
Most Trollers already know me by my website, photos, reputation
And would find it odd that I’m suddenly connected with a Service,
An Agency,
as it were.

No Problem.
He’ll just tell them that I’m busy now and have no time to manage my own affairs.

“But they’re not going to want to pay double the price to see me so you can get your comish.”

No Problem.
He’ll figure it out.
He’ got a girl now making 20 thou a week.

20 thou?
With an Agency? Where you have to give 50% away?

“I ask one thousand for two hours.” I say. “If you can get two thousand and manage the calls, I’ll be happy to split with you 50/50.”

“No Prob.”

How is this possible?
I charge a lot.
Not more than some
But more than others
At a rate that excludes yet a rate fair for what I offer
How is it possible?

“Jason,” I say, “I can’t muck around. I have a life. I have others that depend on my income. Everything I make goes somewhere real. Not to Prada Bags and Drugs and Easy Living. I can’t lose even one week of income trying out a new thing.”

“Geisha. Do this.”
“Give me one week. Two.”
“In what sense?”
“I’ll put your picture on my site. I’ll have a separate phone line let up for just your calls.
Come into the office. Meet the phone girl/guy. Tell’em what you want them to say.”
“Jason. I get booked a week, sometimes two, in advance. I’d have to call in every day for revisions in my schedule.”
“So? Do that.”
“I’ll change my number on my website to yours. For one week.”
“Two weeks. Give me two weeks.”
“I can’t lose more than one week of income.”
“Geisha. Give me two weeks. Come see my Office in Tri-Beca.”

I agree.
I agree because
If it works
If it works
I’ll not only make the same or more money
I won’t have to be available at any time
I won’t have to be around to man the phones
I won’t have to do all that I do
That isn’t just Horizontal

Jason’s Office:
I arrive on time.
We are to go to dinner
He and his current girlfriend sit at separate computer volleying phone calls.
He’s smoking a big fat joint.
Offers some to me but I don’t smoke. Pot.
Dinner never happens.

A girl arrives,
“Oh my god! You’re Geisha! You’re infamous! I’ve seen you forever on the Internet! Wow! This is amazing! You’re like, a Legend! What are you doing here? Are you going to work for Jason?”

I feel a hundred thousand years old.
I feel like Meryl Streep who has suddenly gone back to doing Community Theatre.

I remember what it was like when I was with an Agency:
Pro’s and Con’s:
You went out when they sent you
You went out when you were in favor with the phone staff
You went out to whomever and whenever and they had no idea what you’d be like or look like or if it would be a match.
You gave 50% of your income to the Service
You had your life to yourself—your only obligation was to be ready to work at your stated starting time, thus the rest of your life was completely your own.

Week One passes.
I go out for ‘New York Confidential’ Zero times.

By the middle of Week Two,
I place a call to Jason’s home phone
But nice.

He begs for another week.

I cannot afford to lose another week.

We part ways.

My picture,
No matter how much I beg and plead
Remains firmly on his site

Time passes
And every week,
Without fail,
I receive a strange message on my work line from Jason:
“Hey Geish! Jason. Just wanted to let you know I made a hundred 22 this week. Oh and by the way, my girl Natasha is now Number One on the Review Boards.”

Ignore. Delete.
Ignore. Delete.
Ignore. Delete.
Message. Message. Message.
Finally I call back:

“Hi Jason. It’s Geisha. Listen love. Can you please stop leaving me messages about how much you make each week? Please? I’m asking you. I’m begging you. It just hurts me. It hurts my feelings. Jason. I work really hard. I’m a Workhorse—literally. I work as hard as one person can work. I do the best I can. I don’t write or forge my own reviews. I’m just one person trying to make a living. I’m sure you do well. Better than me. I would love to sit at a computer and a phone line all night having others earn money for me but that’s not my work and not what I do. I will never make what you make. So please. Make your money and let me make mine and please don’t flaunt yours in my face. Please?”

The calls lessen but continue in random sporadic-ness.

Then three incidences:

#1. Get a call from a prospective client who tells me he’s been trying to find me for the better part of the year. He thought I was with ‘New York Confidential’. Saw my pic there and asked to see me. They say I’m not ‘on’. Over and over again. (never called me, by the way) and sent another girl instead. Finally, while trolling the Internet, he found my Website and called.

#2. Get a call from a Playwright who has written an Off-Broadway play about my ‘Business’. Says he really wants to meet me for although he never interviewed me personally to write the script, it was my site, my image, my thoughts about the ‘Business’ that inspired him. I meet with him and he tells me he met with ‘Natasha’ and ‘Jason’.
I ask him what he thought of ‘Natasha.’
He says, “Average. Mercenary. She and Jason are involved in some sort of money-making thing together.”
And Jason?
“I felt I was in the presence of the actual Devil—if there were such a thing. In the vortex of Evil”
How Dramatic.
But he is a writer, after all.
I say, “Well, Mercenary in It’s purest form often feels that way.”

#3. My Client, the one who was nearly a virgin when we first met;
the one who is now 23 and exploring the borders of the Universe
has an appointment with me for several hours on a Saturday night.
A few minutes before his due arrival, my phone rings.
It’s my client.
“Uh, Geisha hey its Val.”
“Hi love. Are you on your way?”
“Uh sort of but I just wanted to know if it’s okay if I bring a female friend of mine to your place?’
“What do you mean? Who is she? A girlfriend?”
“Sort of.”
(I don’t want him to cancel but I don’t like people I don’t know coming to my home.)
“Who is she?”
“She’s like this really cool girl who works for like this agency and I think it would be really cool if we could all be together.”
“Val. Are you going to see her or me if I say ‘no’?”
“I mean, we had an appointment and I was really looking forward to seeing you and I blocked the time aside and I turned down other people for the time—“
“Ah man…please don’t be mad at me Geisha. But I gotta see her.”
(Tight voiced) “Why?”
“I mean, cause, she’s got like, you know. ‘Party-Favors’ and I need some.”
“So she’s bringing you a bag of MJ and that’s it. Right? And she’s really good horizontally.”
“Sort of. I mean ‘horizontally’ forget it, but I want the delivery—“
“Okay? You’re mad.”
“I am. I understand but I’m mad.”
“This Agency’s really cool you know? They deliver and shit.”
“Uh huh.”
“Do you know ‘em? You might know her. If you know her, maybe she could come over?”
“Who is it?”
“The girl’s name is Natasha and the service is ‘New York Confidential’.
“Val. You choose what you want. I’ll see you another time.”

Hang up.
Black smoke in the ‘thought bubble’ above my head.
Decide to use the evening to write
But first
Place a call to Jason.
Get his machine:

“Hi Jason. It’s Geisha. I just wanted to let you know that a client of mine let me know that you are delivering drugs. Delivering drugs to clients. Personally, I don’t care. I am not the morality police and I have nothing against party nights, but just as a friend and comrade in the business, I just wanted to warn you that if I know, other people know and it won’t be long before the authorities know and I would hate to see you go down for something like that. Just letting you know so maybe you should tone it down to a whisper. Anyway, I’m just letting you know for your own safety. Okay. Bye. Oh and by the way, could you please take my photo down from your site? I keep calling about that but no one seems t do anything about it. Thanks Love.”

Return Call on my Machine:
Hey Geish! Nice to hear from you. Sounds like sour grapes. Working on taking the pic down. Called my Web guy about it. But hey, by the by, you’re missing out. We’re throwing these amazing parties in Tri-Beca. Clients are paying ten-thou a head just to get in and party with my girls. And the girls are making 5 a night for nothing- just partying and once in a while laying down for a few minutes—easy money Geish! Your loss! (Pause) What was it? Some client of yours over at my camp? Yeah. Jealously? Losing Business? Door’s still open Geish. Call me.”

I never called Jason again.
But I continued hearing stories of the raucous debauchery’s that I did not and could not provide from new and older clients.
I know
I know fair well that part of this ‘Business’
Is based on Fantasy and Escape

Jason provides the non-personal,
The Dangerous Edge

I provide only the two-hour Concert of the divine in which the best of Fantasy becomes safely a Reality.

‘Apples and Oranges’.
“Apples and Oranges” I tell myself and try to let it go amongst new phone messages from Jason re: how much money he made this week and etc.
Amongst calls from clients telling me about amazing Hedonistic parties had at Jason’s place.
Amongst calls from the Playwright telling me of the wild conversations he’s had with the slightly dysfunctional ‘Natasha’.

The Playwright gets his play produced off-Broadway even though the take on my ‘Business’ has nothing to do with the reality I know, understand and have lived.
The play is touted as a truthful exploration of the ‘Underground’.
It is easy to swallow as it portrays the Prostitute as one in constant emotional pain and confusion.
Just what the World wants to hear.
I love him.
I adore him.
I admire his work.
I am happy for his success.

Apples and Oranges
And my busy Life
And I
Let it go.

Six months or so later,
It hit’s the papers.
I am bombarded with emails linking me to the story.
Jason and Natasha have been busted.
Jason, mostly for trying to carry loads of Ecstasy across the Border
And that,
Of course,
Opens the can of worms.
No one is loyal to him
So all spill their guts.
Jason’s horrifying-looking mug shot is publicized
Along with his past dealing and
His father’s downfall years ago.

I wrote a Blog on it a while back when it occurred.
Even provided a link to the online News Stories.
And for all that occurred,

Still, I feel sad for his demise
I hate to see anyone in my ‘Business’ take the fall.
It casts a black shadow,
A confirming shadow
On the rest of us.

The Fall-Out?
His partner in Mercenary ventures…
Gets a new lease on Life

In one sense
I am not Scandalous.

I am an ordinary woman who made different-than-ordinary choices
I am an ordinary woman who believed that by making
Out-of-the-ordinary choices
An ordinary woman could become an extra-ordinary one.

This is not of interest.
It is the opposite of Scandal.
Or perhaps it is Scandalous in its unbelievable Purity
But it is all I have lived for so very long

To stop the expression of experiences
Is to die
So I must keep writing
Even as I abandon all hope of rescue from my current Life.

I have always sought mentors.
When I was an actress,
I absorbed the writings of Eleanora Duse; Isadora Duncan
There was never enough to satiate my curiosity
As a Courtesan
I devoured
Any out-of-print Memoir, Autobiography, Biography
Of any woman from whatever part of the Universe
From whatever time period
Who lived within my ‘Business’.
Women who were never famous
Women forgotten in their time
Women forgotten soon after they died
But I am so grateful for the words they managed to put to page
And so
Perhaps someday
There will be a girl
Or two
Or a Society less gossip and trash oriented
Who are curious to know
What went on
Behind closed doors
And the further befuddling relationships between Men and Women
In a puritanical society
Before Women had complete rights over the use of their vaginas

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Epiphany on a Jet Plane

I am on a plane getting drunk on the vinegar Chardonnay
served in a one-tablespoon-at-a-time bottle in Coach Class.
I am heading Home.
Or Back.
To New York
After an absence that seems eons longer than the actual one month I’ve been away.

“Feel like a plant torn from the soil, dangling by twitching roots.” I say to the client I speak to before boarding.
“Can’t wait to see you.” He says.
“Me too.” I say.
“I live vicariously through you and your glamorous life.” He says.
And I laugh. Hard. A belly-full.
He doesn’t know.
Very few people know.

Take another sip.
Think about the new car I suddenly had to start driving in my new locale
(I haven’t driven a car in ten years.)
Makes me think about the Navigation system in the car that talks to me and tells me where to go, without which I’d be utterly and hopelessly still driving in circles.
(Although, oddly enough no matter what I program in, she always lands me back at Cosco.)
(I say ‘she’ because it’s a woman’s voice on the Nav Program)

I need a Navigation system in my head.
This much I know is true.

Another sip makes me wonder how I ever got by in L.A. with just the Thomas Guide on my lap for the first two years.
Which makes me think about how poor I was and astonished at how I ever got back on my feet again.
And this makes me think of my Dad
(who I always think of when I think of poverty)
And who came down to my new locale to help me out.
Thinking about my Dad makes me laugh causing the eyes of the passengers around me to stare my way.

In an attempt to share the wonders of the Navigation System with my father, I program in our destination.

“Make a U-Turn if possible.” The Car Lady says.
“Do you have a map?” my Dad says.

I say I do but remark he won’t need one using this system,
To which he replies, using the system is just a crutch and he has mighty fears that using this sort of thing could and would become an addiction.

In response, I roll my eyes around several times in 360-degree rotations and say,
“Dad, there’s nothing wrong with a few aids to get through when you don’t want to get lost.”
His answer to this, if you knew my father, is the quintessential boiled-down infusion that defines him:

“Listen daughter,” he say, “I’m not gonna take orders from that little lady there.”

That little lady there’?
It’s a Navigation System.

Now I know why I am the way I am.
Can you see how I got so lost along the way?

My head quiets.
The plane speeds toward New York
I need that ‘little lady’ right now.

Writing this on my lap on a yellow legal pad in handwriting only a Doctor could decipher,
desperately trying to find the words to explain the contradictory absurdity I’ve been living, knowing I should give some accounting for my long silence.

By my second twist-off three-tablespoon bottle of wine, epiphany!
This is the reason.
I am convinced.
Now that my computer in my new temporary home is up and working
(after 7—yes 7—house-calls from a computer tech service—and hundreds of dollars later)
(of course)
Why am I not writing?

I am forbidden to smoke in my temporary home and I like to--
To smoke when I write.
Actually, I don’t smoke but rather light a cigarette, take a drag, place it in the ashtray and repeat the process ten minutes later.
Like a security blanket, I just need it there.
Yeah. That’s it. That’s the ticket. That’s what I’ll say.

Relieved, I put the iPod in my ears and swig a few more spoonfuls.

I set out on a narrow way many years ago
hoping I would find true love
along the broken road

But I got lost a time or two
Wiped my brow
And kept passing through

I couldn’t see how every sign
Pointed straight to you.


Suddenly thinking about Angelina Jolie.
I am doing what she is doing.
I have done some of what she has done.
Wishing now I were Angelina Jolie.
Mad because I am Angelina Jolie.
Angelina Jolie,
of course,
without the great acting jobs, the gorgeous visage, the publicity and the endless money.

If I had her money and her publicity, oh, the things I could do!
Bemoaning my Fate in alcohol-induced oxygen-deprived self-pity.

I think about the years I spent
Just passing through
I’d like to have the time I lost
And give it back to you
But you just smile and take my hand
You’ve been there
You understand it’s all part of a grander plan
That is coming true


I have a confession to make.
I am not who you think I am.
I am not The Happy Hooker.
I am Happy,
And I am a Courtesan.
But I am not just the Happy Hooker.
I am also, yes,
Erma Bombeck.
Not actually Erma Bombeck
But a very life-like simile.

I hardly know where to begin.

Sappy Rewind:
When I was a young soul,
I hoped to become an actress, a writer, an artist.
A being who, through the vehicle of my body and spirit could channel all the horrible wonderfulness of Life in communion with the others who shared the Planet at the same time as I.

That was the road I set out upon.
Somehow, after the usual series of broken hearts, broken dreams and desperate circumstances,
I found myself in my ‘Business’—
A ‘Business’ that initially felt so far far away from what I had intended.

But in essence, it is what I’d wished for:
I am expressing, feeling, and sharing all the horrible wonderfulness of Life.
And sometimes, it is truly received.

So I stayed.

And I made money.

And for many years, it was enough.

But once I felt safe financially—
Let me rephrase that—

I NEVER feel safe financially

Once I felt there was room to breathe,

I wanted to have something worth having.
Something more than Prada bags and Aubade Lingerie.

I wanted to leave this Business, (when I finally exited), with more than ‘stuff’.

I wanted to do something that meant something.

I wanted to be someone that did something.

A kind gentle selfishness ensued.

This is how it began:
Years ago, I traveled with my clients on their business trips.
We would arrive at a destination, usually in Latin America,
and the client would have to go off to meetings most of the day,
so he would hire a bodyguard/translator to accompany me until I was back in his company in the evenings.

Most often, the instructions to the Bodyguard would be to take me to the beach or shopping.
I love the beach.
But in a new strange place, I itch to investigate.
So after my client’s departure, I would re-instruct the Bodyguard to take me to the ‘real’ places.

On one such jaunt, in Brazil, the Bodyguard, (Juao), and I wander into an orphanage overrun with wilting children of all ages and only several caretakers to attend to all of them.
At dinner that night, I plague my Client with stories and pleas to help me help them.
He is tender-hearted but none to pleased with an Escort-turned-Missionary.

Back in the States, I reel from the researched news that Brazil
as well as Africa and India
have no adoption programs.

No adoption programs?
How can that be?

What happens to all these children?
I don’t even allow my mind to stray to thoughts of 'body part sales'.

What about all those commercials with sad-eyed children with flies crawling leisurely across their dusty foreheads?
Why can’t they be adopted?
I don’t understand.
I feel helpless.
I feel powerless.
I remove it from the forefront of my mind and go back to work.

But it breeds inside me.
Growing like moss, overtaking me.
Until one day,
I do it.
Like Nike says,
"I just 'do it'"

The paperwork and red-tape shuffle takes two and half years.
The cost is over forty six thousand dollars.
In preparation during those two and a half years,
I work 80-hour weeks to save enough to get by once it happens.
I purchase an apartment big enough for more than just me.

April Fool’s Day 2003 I get the call.
We are going on April 8th.

On April 8th, at 6am: Cab to airport.
8am: Board American Airlines to Central America.
6pm: Taxi to Hotel.
7pm: Hold arm of my Representative as she points to a sofa in the corner of the lobby.
Eyes light upon a family of five holding a baby.
Head swirls.
Representative says: “Are you ready to meet your daughter?”
Knees buckle.
Tears well and fall.
Throat clutches unable to produce sound.
Head nods.

I am no longer a single glamorous gal living a life of freedom and hedonism.
I am alone in a Hotel room with diapers, formula and an Orphan.
An Orphan who is no longer an Orphan.


And for all I did wrong in the eyes of the World (in reference to my sordid ‘Business’)
And for all the dreams crushed or abandoned
And for all the broken-hearted moments
There is closure.

I name her “Epiphanie” for she is my epiphany.
This much I know to be true.

and every long lost dream
led me to where you are
Others who broke my heart
They were like Northern Stars
Pointing me on my way
Into your loving arms.

This much I know is true
That God blessed the broken road
That led me straight to you.

Ah, Poetry.
Back to Reality.

Reality is, New York is too difficult a place to raise a child alone.
Too expensive.
My au pairs alone were costing me $3500.00 a month.
And so, I made the move to the land of miraculous places such as Target and Cosco.

(Really. I never saw stores like these!)
After my first one-hour excursion to Cosco,
(one-hour because it takes that long just to get through the store even if you don’t buy anything)
(which I didn’t)
I had to go home and take a two-hour nap.

With the aid of a good friend and lover, Epiphanie and I, Estella and Ophelia-my dogs—(who are really people with fur and tails) made the long journey to a new home and tried with all our might to settle in as we admirably fought battles with Murphy and his Law.

Without an au pair.

I am tipsy.
The plane is in It’s descent.
And my story needs the Nav Lady to sort it out better than I have.
It’s my explanation.
I was away trying to get my adopted family settled into a Home
(still un-built by the #@&*%Builders—another story)

Epiphanie, Estella and Ophelia are with their Grandparents
Safely tucked away in my Vertical Life.
And I am on my way back Underground to earn much needed income.
Back to my Horizontal Self.

My hair is ragged and frayed.
From sleepless days and nights, under my eyes is baggage they could have charged me extra for.
A stress tick shocks my left eyelid, and I know
I have to look like ‘Geisha’.
At this moment,
I can’t imagine how that will be possible.

As the plane touches down
The only question running through my head is:

How did Angelina Jolie manage to adopt from Africa?
And in only three short months?
And why don’t they ever show her Nanny in any of the photos of her looking stunning in make-up and hair and good lighting and a clean white T-shirt, completely un-stressed holding Maddox on the dirty plains of Ethiopia?

To everyone who was concerned:
I thank you so so much.
I promise you future stories with lots of sex countered by stories of dog poop and baby wisdom.


Wednesday, June 01, 2005

A Numbers Game

I am a Woman.
I do not care for numbers.
I know many Women.
Most do not care for Numbers.

Men seem to enjoy Numbers.
I know many Men.
And of the many Men I know
Most like Numbers.

I am trying not to generalize
But I have to say
On the whole,
Women, as a Group are not Numbers People
(Some are. Maybe 10%?)
Men, on the other hand,
(Maybe 90% are into Numbers)

As an exception,
I have a burning desire to talk Numbers.

(This also answers one of the Questions from the Lovely ‘DC/MD’)

I have lived in New York City longer than I have cared to
And longer than I care to admit.
In all that time
(Over ten years)
I have taken cabs hither and fro.
But, for the sake of Numbers, let us just examine the past three years.

For the past three years, I have had two places of residence:
One for my Home, that I own, and is now sold,
And one that is my rental at $2000.00 a month (average NYC price for a one-bedroom)
It is that apartment that I work from.

Every day I take the subway,
For two-dollars, Uptown to my rental apartment to work.
Every night, I take a Taxi home to my downtown apartment.
$10.20 plus tip=$12.00
That’s not the point.

The point is,
I’ve had two separate apartments for at least 2 and a half years if not almost three years.
So, for the sake of Numbers,
Let’s say 2 Years.
That’s what?
Three Hundred and Sixty Five days each year.

(And it is because I work seven days a week and have only called in sick 3 days in 16 years.)

But even to be fairer,
Let’s say, two years at 300 days a year.
That’s 600 days.
In 600 days, I have never had the same cab driver.

Every night,
At 10, 11, 12, 1 at night, I pile myself into a Taxi and say,
(the same as always)
(Pseudo address for the sake of the Blog:)

"20th between 7th and 8th please."

And every night for let’s say, to be kind, for 600 nights, we begin our journey, and by the time we reach 40th Street, the Cab Driver will say to me,

"Did you say, between 6th and 7th?"
"Did you say, between 8th and 9th?"
"Did you say, 19th and 8th?"
"Did you say, 20th and 7th?"
"Did you say, 21st between 6th and 5th?"

And every night,
I say,
"No. I said: 20th between 7th and 8th."

Sometimes, when I’m lost in tiredness and thought and not paying attention,
A Driver who doesn’t ask,
Will somehow arrive at an unknown destination a few blocks from where I stated.
When I tell him of his error and request he take me to the location I originally requested,
An all-out-battle ensues:

"You crazy lady! You tell me -----!"

"No. I said, 20th between 7th and 8th. It’s okay. Just take me there. I don’t want to walk this time of night."

"You say ----!"

"I don’t want to argue with you but I wouldn’t say ----- because I know where I live and I live at 20th between 7th and 8th so why would I say otherwise?"

"You no say that."

"Okay. You win. I must be wrong. I must have said the wrong thing. Just take me to 20th between 7th and 8th."

The only time I have been absolutely wrong and at fault with a New York City Cab Driver was recently when I wasn’t wearing my glasses—
(Due to my vanity)
And actually HIT a Cab with my body and it was completely my fault.
Truly, I didn’t see him.
Or his Cab.
And I actually hit him.
I walked into him.
I am Blind.
I admit it.
And I walked into him.

His Cab screeches to a halt.
He leaps from the Cab yelling,
"You f*cking crazy Lady! You hit my Taxi! You crazy bitch!"
His arms are waving wildly. His mouth is spewing white foam. And in the backseat sits a Man in a Business Suit, Un-plussed, reading the Wall Street Journal.

"Oh God! Oh God! I know ! I know!"

"F*ck you, you crazy f*cking Bitch! What you think you’re doing?! F*ck you!"

"I know! I Know! It’s totally my fault. It’s my fault! I am so, SO sorry. I didn’t mean to run into your cab!"

Eventually he calms down enough to climb back into the driver’s seat and move on.

It takes me a day or so to realize that I was the pedestrian.

But in either case, he was right.
I ran into him.
Because I am Blind.
Because I am Vain,
Because I was not wearing my glasses.
It was, indeed, my fault.

That aside, and back to what I was saying earlier,
I take a cab, at the very Least,
(and that’s being generous with my Numbers)
600 times in the past two years.
And, EVERY time, I am asked at least once, if not twice more, after I have given my destination,
To clarify again,
The destination address.

So here’s the Question:


What the heck is wrong with the hearing of the ears of these drivers?

If it was once….
If it was twice…
If it was 200 times

But to be asked at least twice by over 600 drivers?
One has to wonder.

Doesn’t One?

I mean, is it the high pitch of my voice that distracts them?
Is it that Men and Women just don’t HEAR one another?
Is it that Taxi Drivers are just---I don’t even want to say it…

P.S. In all the time I’ve taken Taxis in New York City, I’ve had 4 Women Drivers.
Never once did they ask me twice.
Which leads me to the fearful thought:
If we can’t even get our Numbers straight,
How can we ever connect on a level so deep as SEX?


Some do.
Many try.
I should just let it go.
It’s late.
Why torment myself?
After all, I have no Cab Driver’s as Clients.

But Golly-Gee!
That’s an awesome Number.


Maybe I'm just making a Mountain out of a Mole Hill.

But 600 times?

Phew...One has to wonder...

Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Q & A's?

The past few months, I noticed many of my Clients, when we chat, begin a mode of converstation by saying,

"Do you mind if I ask you something about your business? I mean, if it's too personal, you don;t have to answer but I've always wondered if and what it was like when..."

So I am inviting anyone who reads this, to ask me any curiousities regarding this Underground Life either through the Comments or via email.

I would love to know what you wonder about and I would love to try and discover what I feel about what you ask.


Monday, May 30, 2005

Honoring a Hero on Memorial Day

Memorial Day—A Time to Honor Remembrance

September 11th, 2001.
Manhattan is hit by a terrorist initiated human bomb amputating and nearly disseminating It’s lower extremities.

Days later, photocopied faces of our beloved missing appear on building walls, on chain-link fences, on mailboxes that flank the veiny Streets and speedy arteried-Avenues.

One life plastered economically close to the next and the next endlessly down one side of the flow of traffic and continuously up the other side bookending the stream of motion.

In the crisp September night, Candles in small round glasses; Candles in tin cans; Candles long and tall all burning the loud prayer, "Please!"

Pretty flowers, any kind, every kind, still wrapped in cellophane or placed in small patterned cones lay under the photos of the beloved.

Markered information, in all handwritings of grief, state the Basics—names, who, what, where, when last seen, phone numbers to call, sometimes personality traits of the missing.

My heart, your heart, what it must look like inside our hearts: Arteries rushing through and veins calmly feeding it but as we grow faces, names, histories of love and deeds;
They line the walls.
Some we will never see again but with candles beneath them—Spirits that can never seem to let go unlit.

Years pass. We go on. What choice is there?

February 2005.
A new Client comes to visit. He is markedly nervous. His hands shake.
Eventually the story unfolds.
He has never seen a Courtesan.
I am his first.
He has studied my Website for a year before calling.
He is married.
He loves his wife. Deeply.
Together, they have a close-knit family of two daughters.
He had a son.
A son that was his best friend and the light of his Soul, the reason his heart beats.
His son died in the Towers on September 11th.
A Hero.
His son escaped but chose to return inside the building and single-handedly pulled many Souls to safety.
On his last journey into the Towers, the building collapsed.
It was only recently his body was recovered.
Since that time, he cries everyday.
He and his wife have been unable to regain romance or intimacy in their relationship.

I don’t want to weep when he tells me the story.
I don’t want to steal the tears from him.
But I am unable to restrain the hot wetness escaping the corners of my eyes, streaming down my cheeks, the salty trails dripping between my pursed lips.
My heart cramps.
I can only embrace him and hope to absorb some of the ache.
In that moment, I love him.
I love him in the way only one human spirit can love another,
I love him in empathy.
I love him in admiration that he was even able to survive such a crippling tragedy.
Is there anything worse than to lose a child?
I love him because in his eyes, there is contained the naked truth of the journey we are all traveling:
We are all so vulnerable. Try so hard. Are faced with such enormous challenges.
We cry out for tenderness. For kindred Spirits. For love and comfort and the chance to come alive again.

In his eyes, through his fingertips, the connected way we make love, I know deeply and clearly he feels me.
He knows I feel him.
I allow his tragedy to penetrate.

And then we learn to laugh.
We find ways to create joy again in a heart that is tattered and broken. His and mine.
And this elation I sense he delights in with me, is a rope,
A rope to God again.

We see one another again, and again.
And again.

In between our meetings, he is so utterly kind to me.
Every week, in between visits, I receive a package of something lovely and precious from Tiffany’s.
But not only a gift of sublime subtle jewelry, but companion to it, a card speaking of the love and new life that I, without doing anything but caring, bring to his Spirit.

I save the cards. I wear the jewelry daily.

I am grateful for the gifts.
And I am grateful for the words that accompany the gifts.
But I am more grateful for him.
Grateful that he trusted me.
Grateful that he held his heart in his palm and trusted I had the sensitivity to nurture it.

Grateful that he saw in me the Spirit I hoped I had become after these many years of struggle.

When I am with him at times, those days following September 11, 2001, when I walked the streets are born again within me.
They are shrunken down to miniature; small enough to be contained within the boundaries of my heart, placed in the now smaller dimensions of my chest.

When I am with him, in his arms, I feel the pace of the cabs racing the Avenues as the fast anxious beat of my blood pulses against my ribs.
The New York City of 2001, living inside my body.
The grief and fear and pleading desperation of all those photos.
The burning heat of the lit candles.
The hope and love in the honoring flowers.

During our last meeting, he tells me he wants to take me shopping.
I have bought nothing in the way of extras, (bags, shoes, clothing) for myself in many many years.
I suggest Louis Vuitton as it is the one designer that fits me perfectly off the rack.

(I am plagued with one of those petite but curvy bodies not in fashion on the runways.)

We decide to meet at the store, shop, go for lunch and then back to my place.
He asks what he will owe me for the day.
I tell him just my usual two-hour rate is fine since we will be shopping.

Before I get there, I tell myself he intends to buy me a skirt and perhaps a blouse.
I also tell myself that while we are there, I might as well shop for myself as well.
All my clothes are old and patched and truly, it’s time to restock.

The day is glorious and so much fun.
Like a scene out of "Pretty Woman".
The fay, wonderfully enthusiastic salesman sits my beau in a comfy seat in a mirrored room next to my dressing room with a bottle of Evian and a book.

Flouncing throughout the store, I pull item after item off the rack.
My Beau suggests that one of the items, a sweater, looks too much like "Westchester House Wife."
I beg to differ, informing him, "I promise you. On me, it will look like Marilyn."
He has to see it to believe it.
In high-heeled, but sturdy and sexy ‘fuck-me’ pumps, I parade out of the dressing room in outfit after outfit, all of which make me look like a Fifties Cheesecake Starlet.
"I like that one!" he whistles.
"Oh really?"
"Umm hmm."
"This is the Westchester House Wife Sweater."

We cannot decide.
In the end, we must take them all.

I know he doesn’t understand the prices of the clothes at Louis.
When we get to the counter to pay, I hand my credit card to the Salesman and insist he put most of the items on my card.
My Beau, being a Gentleman of the highest degree, staunchly refuses this gesture.
I rebut by telling the Salesman,
"If you don’t charge my card, I will never come back here again."
The Salesman responds to my Beau by saying,
"Lord! I have to do what she says."
(He seems to know on which side his bread is buttered.)

With my card safely tucked in the Salesman’s hand, I totter off to the Ladies room.
However, when I return,
I realize my Beau has paid for all the items in full.

I am astonished.
I am speechless.
But I am also feeling a terribly guilty.
It was not my intention.
I do not—I DO NOT—want this lovely man to feel I took advantage of his generous offer to go shopping.
Especially not this man.
This man with the wounded heart.

We go to lunch.
At lunch, I apologize again for the mis-understanding.
I never would have tried on and chosen so many items had I known he would feel an obligation to pay for all of them.
And again, he astonishes me.

"Perhaps," he says, "in the World of the Spirit, the World my Son lives in, Love and Sex are seen differently. Perhaps, my dear son could see the ache and the emptiness and the struggle within me. And perhaps he led me to the one person who could salve that wound. I could have gone to so many others but I didn’t. I was led to you. And you were just what I needed. When I am around you, I am happy again. And that is the greatest gift I have had in so many years. I feel alive again when I am with you. Perhaps, just maybe, my son, in compassion and love, led me to you."

I have no words.
Obviously, there is no way to know if this is True. If this is Wishful Thinking.
But it is too beautiful and so gorgeously Human and so sweetly Religious that again, I can only hold him close and feel his heart talk to mine.

Men come and go in my life.
Some, who do not have the courage to understand their feelings simply dispose of me.
Some have the warmth to say ‘goodbye’.
I have no idea when I will see this man again.
Or hold him.
Or comfort him.
Or laugh with him.
But we touched eachother’s lives in so many ways.
I will not only never forget him,
But I will always grateful to him for allowing me to be what I always hoped I could be,
Especially within my (sadly disdained) Business.

Remebering on Memorial Day

Where were you when President Kennedy was shot? Martin Luther King?
I am too young to answer.

From 1999, since returning from L.A. and re-planting my feet back into the New York City concrete, through most of 2001, business was better than I’d ever remembered it being. The Internet had already taken off, but the Review Sites were at the height of their swing causing a naughty excitement among patrons. Suddenly they weren’t alone with the Yellow Pages ordering escorts, harboring their shameful, delightful secret. Instead, they were chatting to one another on message boards, wielding power by writing reviews, relishing the vast array of choices, ‘holding hands’ with their new ‘hobbyist’ buddies.

From my side of the sofa, bookings were solid two months in advance. On the occasion of my birthday in the year 2000 my apartment looked like an Italian Funeral Parlor, there were so many flower arrangements.

On the other hand, the buzz in the hive of my apartment was so loud and busy that my landlord’s suspicion meter was on high alert. He consistently refused to give me heat or fix anything in the apartment, including my always breaking phone line, giggling with a sheep’s grin,

"Oh, you have-a too many visitors ah you apartment. You no like, you move. I fix nothing. You no like, I have you evicted."

I wake up at 8:35. I remember it clearly because I was supposed to wake up at 8 but had pressed the snooze button too many times. The roster that day was full. First a three hour appointment with my favorite client who although I loved him, exhausted me because I loved him. After him, a short break, then a two hour and a two-hour with two new clients.

8:58 I lift the receiver to my phone to call the hairdresser to say I will be a few minutes late. No dial tone. F#ck! Still in my nightgown, I storm down the one flight of stairs to my landlord’s apartment below. Knock. Gonna tell him about this darn phone line--AGAIN.

Door opens. In back of him, the TV on. CNN playing a news clip of a plane exploding into the World Trade Center.

"Hi John, Sorry to bother you but my phone is down again."
"Oh probably because the plane."
"What happened?"
"A plane fly into the World Trade Center."

Oh my god.
I stand in my nightgown in the hallway. He stands in the threshold, the door open. Together we stand frozen watching and listening.

It’s not a private plane. It’s a jet. It’s a commercial airliner.

I go back upstairs, turn on my TV.
Within the next hours the horrifying infamous nightmare unfolds.

I am on the airplane. I am on my cell phone on the airplane, trapped, no way out, calmly but not so calmly calling my parents to say good-bye for the last time. I can’t believe this is the end. This is how I am to die. There is no way out. I am in a tin can and this will not be sudden. I must know, be aware of my fate. I want to vomit. To shit. To wail. To pray. I have children. I have parents. I have siblings. I have hopes and dreams. How is this the end?

I know people in the building. I have clients who work in that building. I have clients who work next door. I am in the building, shocked, heart-pounding, trying to be non-chalant, taking the stairs two-by-two, unsure of what is really happening. People above the impact hold hands jumping for their lives to their deaths. The building crumbles. The world watches in disbelief. As it becomes smoke and particles we know how many souls are being crushed inside the disintegration. No air will fill lungs. Not theirs. Not mine.

NO cell phones. NO land lines. NO communication with those who need to know you are alive. Can’t find your car. Buried under rubble if you work downtown. All bridges and tunnels closed.

'By the way', CNN reminds us New Yorkers, 'Manhattan is an Island. We may be the target of a war.' No one else hears this. It is only broadcast locally in New York. I hear it. Over and over.

We are in a war zone. Will car bombs start detonating sporadically all throughout the city, they ask, in that ominous newscaster tone that ends on a low note no matter the sentence?

Oh my god.
Stay in your homes. Manhattan is under siege.
Images of all the stories I’ve heard from A. during her years in the war in England. WW2. It could be true. We are an island. Easily cut off. Easily attacked and destroyed. Will Militants soon storm my little apartment? Will a bomb go off on my street? There is no where to go. There is no where to hide. There is no escape from New York.

Images of people in suits, both men and women, running through an unimaginable cloud of destruction toward anywhere.

Toward Uptown.


Images of lines in front of the one working payphone in New York. Lines hundreds long.
Dust-covered human beings boarding the one bus in service. Walking statues in coated in concrete, filling the Avenues of New York, in absurd and unusual silence. Not a sound in the streets. No taxis. No words. Manhattan has never been so tongue-tied. Just a quiet moving exodus walking en masse uptown toward ‘safer’ ground.

"Don’t leave your apartments." CNN instructs. "This may only be the beginning. Manhattan could be at war."

There could be building bombs. Car bombs. Store bombs. Bridge and Tunnel bombs.
Again and Again they play the clip of the co-workers, man and woman, who hold hands as they plunge out of the one-hundredth floor.

I am still on the plane. I am terrified to fly anyway. The thought of being trapped in what I know to be certain death, won’t take its horrible fatal grip off my heart and throat. I am not weeping, I am sobbing so hard my body spasms but no sound will come out.

My doorbell rings.


My doorbell rings.


Couldn’t be.

Who would be ringing my doorbell?

I am still in my nightgown. My hair is up in a ponytail. I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet. My face is red and swollen.

Glance at the clock. Surely it is not a client?

I buzz the door anyway. (We have no camera so I have no clue who it is.)

Open my door and watch as the security door below opens.

A man.

Any man.


In a suit.

Covered head-to-toe in cement, walks slowly up the stairs apologizing all the way.

The only flesh I can see is two long stripes beginning at his eyes, trailing down past his chin where his tears have worn away the dust. The stench is pungent, almost unbearable. Something chemical, unnatural. By the top step I realize he is a Client of mine. One I’ve only seen twice.

"I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry." He repeats, rasping.

I have no words.

"I didn’t know where else to go. There was no place to go. Everything is closed. I can’t find my car. All the bridges are closed. I’m so sorry."

"No. No. Come in. Please. Don’t worry. But let’s take your clothes off here."

He undresses in the hallway. Goes into my shower. Wraps himself in my robe.

"I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry." He keeps saying.

"No. I’m glad you thought to come here."

"I guess I could have gone to the lobby of some hotel…"

"No. It’s good you came here. Sit down. Come here. Let me hold you."

And he does.

Together, silent on my sofa, the sofa we used to sit and flirt upon, we watch the news as it unfolds.

Approximately a half-hour later, my bell rings again. I buzz. Another client. Not covered in dust but just as shaken. Works in mid-town East Side. His building was cleared out.

"Didn’t know where else to go. Can’t get home. All roads out of Manhattan closed."

"It’s okay. Come in."

He notices I have a visitor in a robe.

"Oh Jeez. Sorry."

"No no. Please. Come in."

(Later, when I revisit the scene, I remind myself of the character of Belle, the Prostitute in 'Gone With the Wind.')

Three of us huddle together on the sofa watching CNN. No one speaks. All have silent tears running down our faces.

2pm. The time of my first booked appointment. Doorbell rings. Notice the time. Couldn’t be. Couldn’t be my client showing up for his appointment—would be too absurd.

It is.

It’s the client I love with the 2 o’clock appointment. Watch him climb the stairs.

"Hi?" I say.
"Hi. I didn’t come here because we had—I had no where to go—couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Knew you would take care of me. Felt safer here."

I begin to sob, fall into his arms. Close the door behind him. The embrace winds down as he notices the ‘full house’.

"Oh sorry."
"No. It’s okay. Come in. Please."

The afternoon wears on. The worst is over. For the moment.

The men begin to talk. Exchange business cards.

The man in the robe, it turns out, is in the same business as the last man in the door.

CNN announces the bridges are re-opening.

The man in the robe has no clothes now. The man who came in last has clothes in his car that may fit him. They decide to exit together. Will walk to the car, share clothes and attempt to get home.

We kiss goodbye although my heart can almost not bear their parting.

The last man left says he will walk home over the Brooklyn Bridge. A crowd of people seem to be on a mass hike doing the same and he will join him. Every cell in my body wants to beg him to stay. I cannot be here alone. But I embrace him and let him leave.

For two weeks, I lay on my sofa unable to sleep, to eat, to breathe, to answer my phone.
I am on that airplane. I am trapped on that first airplane, knowing there is no hope. Knowing I am to die at the hands of madmen. Knowing my family who needs me will never have my love and help again. There is no escaping the nightmare.

In an attempt to distract myself from the re-occurring nightmare visions, I decide to watch one of the Dvd’s I’ve collected but never seen before. Mistakenly I choose, "Fight Club", which, if you haven’t seen it, is basically about an insane man who hates Capitalism and in the end, blows up Wall Street and the World Trade Center.


Inability to function for another two weeks.

New York City, once I do venture out, is dour, but not dour enough for my spirit. I hate anyone who has the audacity to smile.

A month passes. I check my voicemail expecting no calls but check just in case.

Hundreds of calls.


What is wrong with men?! How can they think of sex at a time like this? I am furious. I return only one call—a call from a client I love and respect. He wants to make an appointment.

"You know I love you but I just don’t think I can right now." I try to explain to him.

"Geisha." His voice is solemn and sincere. "You can’t know how much I need a tender touch right now."

"A tender touch, I can understand. But I just don’t think I could have sex right now."

"But it’s what I need most."

"Sex?" I am almost outraged but trying not to let my distaste seep into my tone.

"Please don’t hate me for saying this."

"I won’t." I lie.

"For a man, or at least for me, sex makes me feel connected with life. I need to make love to feel life is okay. That it will go on. I need it to re-cover. Can you understand that?"

I don’t understand it at all because it is not what I feel at all. But what I do know, intrinsically, is that men and women are very different in this regard.

He comes over the next night. We make love and I cry as we do. I can’t help it. It is too painful for my body and spirit to affirm life when there is so much death and tragedy. It feels sacrilegious to my soul.
He holds me tight to his chest afterwards.
He asks and I tell him why I am weeping. I tell him about the day of September 11th. Who came here and what happened.

"So, yes." He says.
"Yes what?"
"You don’t see it? You don’t get it?"

I shake my head.

"They could have gone anywhere. A hotel lobby. A restaurant."
"Those places might not have been open."
"Hotel lobbies were open."
"What are you saying?" I am too emotional and confused.
"They came to you. They came to you. In the middle of the biggest panic in their lives, as they ran or wandered up the street, not knowing what to do, where to go, where was safe, where they could find comfort, shelter, they came to you."

After that day, for over a year, business dropped off significantly. Many girls in my business left town. Luckily, my neurotic fear of poverty had me stashing away much of my income throughout the past years of plenty instead of spending it on Prada bags, that I was able to hold on.

During that year, because of my visitors that day, a feeling of peace in regards to my business, infused my spirit, so that whenever anyone looked down on me for what I did for a living, I no longer looked away or made excuses. I knew that whatever I felt I had done or given translated to the hearts of those that saw me through my work.

And that was all I needed to know.

The two clients who exchanged business cards that day allied in a business venture forming a very successful private investing firm together.

All three are still regular clients of mine.

Memorial Day Weekend--Grrrrrr!

Do me a favor as you read this Blog:
Try to read it without judgement.
Just take it in.
It is going to sound self-aggrandizing at first,
But trust me, that is not the purpose.

I love my job. I hope you can tell that by now. But bottom line, it is a job in which I earn my livelihood. It is a Business.
In my Business, just as in every Business in which one is an Independent Contractor,
Money is only earned when the Client and I are present at the Job.

Like the rest of the world, I have monthly bills that must be met and financial goals to reach in a Business with a limited life span,
Therefore, it is imperative that a certain salary is reached every week.
To accomplish this, I must schedule and work a definite amount of hours.
Sometimes, I am booked fully, so when new calls come in; I must turn them away as I have no extra time.
Thus, when a Client cancels at the last minute, I have lost not only the income from that session, but other possible replacements for that time.
Not to mention possible Clients forever, as since they cannot see me, they will most likely find someone else and perhaps never return to see me again.

Last minute cancellations cause great grief.

A call comes in from Winnipeg, Canada. (That is where Winnipeg is, right?)
Sounds very nice. Sounds older. Respectful.
Books a time with me for May 20th.

On May 20th I arrive at my apartment two hours in advance to prepare for him.
I have given him the same instructions I give to all my first time Clients:
Go to the corner and call me on my cell phone when you arrive.
From there I will give you my exact address.

At 2pm, his appointment time, I am sitting, bathed, perfumed, coifed, in a long velvet gown over sexy lingerie surrounded by a waft of incense, music and dozens of flickering candles.
By 2:08, I am concerned.
On a hunch, I call into my work line.
(I never call my work line once I am booked, as there is no reason to.)

Message received at 1:48pm (same day):

(and why not on my cell so I would have gotten the message?)

"Oh…uh..hi..Geisha. This is Leslie Tomas from Winnipeg. I can’t make our meeting today. My plans changed but…um..could you call me? I want to arrange something for the 29th..thank you."


But I do return his call.
I give him one more chance.
We arrange a meeting for the 29th of May.
He asks for my email address (something not included in my Website, as I prefer to hear voices.)

Between the 21st of May through the 27th of May, the following exchange takes place via email:

Hi Geisha,
Once again it was so nice to hear your voice. You certainly seem to be as beautiful on the inside and you are on the outside, which is very, very special and highly impressive.

I was quite disappointed that I had to postpone my trip to NY not only from a business perspective, but very much so from not being able to see you today. However, I take comfort from knowing I will be able to see you next weekend. There certainly is truth to the statement that anticipation is half the fun. I do enjoy my thoughts of you (good thoughts... perhaps a little bit naughty)

Anyway, yesterday I was thinking of you and all of your ambitions and goals in life that I read on your website... this led me to put thoughts of you into words... it became very obvious to me that you are the type of person who leaves a mark in the lives of people you meet, whether they be male or female... however, obviously more so with men.

I do a lot of writing as my creative outlet... it helps me keep in touch with who I am and what things in life are important to me. As well which people are important. Knowing you has become important to me and due to your very interesting and creative manner through your website writings, it has reinforced my thoughts of you.

Here is a poem I have written for you... because of you... as a result my thoughts of you will now be with me forever, as any time I read this poem, I will be able to reflect upon this beautiful young woman who has impacted me, even from a distance.
I know all of these feelings to be true...

In case you are interested my business in NY is due to expansion into the US which has already begun and looking extremely promising.

Part of what I wished to say is that I would like to assist you in whatever manner possible in making your "better world"... wouldn't this world be so much better if all were of your mindset... I would love to work with you in developing a business plan for your quiet retreat in the Caribbean. It sounds delightfully peaceful.
Leslie T.

A Special Place
There is a special place where love surely grows
Finding the peace you always wished to know
Embracing tranquillity… so soft and serene
Forgetting other places where you’ve been

Your mind will open to all life has to provide
Joyfulness will surround you and never hide
Feeling a gentle breeze against your brow
Whispering to cast away all your troubles… now!

Your eyes will see beauty captivating your heart
Dreams of life eternal will never ever part

Reaching out to feel its gentle touch
Caressing your soul… pleasure is so much
Your heart will no longer need repair
Love is the fragrance floating in the air

Feeling birth of your new life… so sublime
Finding freedom… no boundaries of time
This special place is meant for you and me
Sitting with dreams of all we wish to be
Opening our hearts, let love consume our souls
Walking hand in hand to our lifelong goals!

Dear Leslie,
How utterly moving…thank you for such a lovely tribute--and golly-we haven't even met in person yet!
You are very kind. I just hope your expectations of me are not disappointed by reality.
Can't wait to meet you…I will cherish the poem

Hi Geisha,
I am pleased that you enjoyed the poem. You already have given me so much joy with wonderful thoughts of you. I have absolutely no doubt whatsoever in my mind about what you will be like in person.

After reading your thoughts in your website and then hearing your voice in the brief chat we have had, my instincts will not deceive me. You have an overwhelming soft gentle manner to you filled with immense compassion and love, which erupts from your soul, as you speak. When God made you, he obviously did not spare any of the good stuff! You are a wonderful person!

Did you get my phone message about whether or not you might also be available on the Monday evening? I am having difficulty in sorting out my travel plans to NY. However, if Sunday the 29th is your only time then, so be it... there are simply some things in life a man can't live without... and for me, you are clearly that for me!

I know this may be silly of me, however I wanted to send you this particular poem I had written some time back. After reading of your plans for that special retreat for those who wish to get away from it all... this poem reminded me of that particular place you write about.

I promise to not flood you with any further poems at this time.
I hope your day goes well... full of sunshine, laughter and smiles.
Hugs to you.


My dearest Geisha,
I have been working very long hours these past few days and will continue through this week. I just took time to pause and reflect upon something that I knew would bring a smile to my face... I went to your website...

I can't even begin to consider how many men have fallen deeply in love with you over and over again... you truly are amazingly beautiful... I look into your eyes and I find myself getting lost in you... I honestly have never come across a woman who has such alluring eyes...
I can't believe any man could ever say no to you...

I know that I already am feeling nervous about seeing you but in a very good way... I will feel very humbled in your presence...
I hope all is well with you.
See you soon.
With huge adoration & devotion...


PS. I couldn't resist sending you another poem... it definitely is a reflection of you...

Angels of the Heart
Angels often come in an earthly form
Never to say that is the norm
They bring sunshine into our life
Freeing us from toil and strife

They are there to share our woes
Why just for us, nobody knows
We gaze upon their beauty, so sublime
Taking us away from all traces of time

In their presence we sense no fear
For we know they are always near
They place a smile upon our face
Worries are gone without a trace

God’s special angels sent from above
To fill hearts with a great love
They come to give birth to a life of joy
Like the innocence of a newborn girl or boy

Their grace and beauty does shine so bright
Like the stars so brilliant throughout the night
Giving hope and peace to those who dare to see
To simple folk… just like you and me

For you see, they are angels of the heart
Once we embrace they will never part
They are simply answers to our prayers
A special gift from God above, who truly cares

May they be granted a life of peace and serenity
Their special place in life will surely last an eternity
Blessings brought to them with tender care
Should be theirs as well… it is only fair!

Leslie T.

And so, I did not leave town for the Holiday weekend, as I was booked with Leslie for 8pm Sunday night.

I arrived at my apartment, as usual three hours in advance to make everything perfect.

8:00: Candles flickering, incense burning, air perfumed, music playing, I am waiting for the phone to ring.

8:05. Call into my workline again, just in case. No message from Leslie. Perhaps he is just running late.


8:36 Light a cigarette. Blow out the candles one by one. Turnoff the music. Brighten the lights.

For one brief black-hearted, vengeful moment, I lift the phone and consider calling the work number he's given me, to leave a very indiscreet message for the entirety of his co-workers to hear on Tuesday morning.

My eyes shift to the small photo of Audrey Hepburn balanced on a shelf in eye distance and instead, place the phone back on its receiver.

It is one day. It is one time. It is one appointment.

Before I write this Blog, I send him a quick email:


We had an appointment tonight at 8pm.


What more is there to say?

Friday, May 27, 2005

Tomorrow will be our fourth meeting.
This is surprising as this Client is a man of few words and specific expectations.
That coupled with my innate insecurity and neurotic desire to love and be loved
Disaster should have been imminent.
But for some inexplicable reason, it was not for as I mentioned,
Tomorrow will be our fourth meeting.

Although it is my rule never to mention names,
I feel impelled to give a proximally, not far from the real one
As it is too precious not to.
His last name is very close to: Hornywoodypecker.
Thus, when he first called to arrange an appointment, I was skeptical that he was a ‘real’ Client seeking a legitimate appointment.
But he was real, and indeed, showed at my door at the appointed hour.

He, being not one for words or conversation, the first fifteen minutes of our time was a supreme bust with no intimacy established leaving me in a state of disconnection and confusion as to how to proceed without the next step feeling forced and pre-meditated.

I did however determine, from the brief information I was able to extract, that he enjoyed erotic fantasies and stories and wrote many (published) himself.
Having little else to go on, I chose this as our springboard to the Horizontal.
We played out a short scenario or two, fairly innocuous, mainly involving mild Dominance—
He to me,
And spent the remainder of the time post-climax finally chatting.
I guessed him a Libra and he rolled his eyes dramatically signally he hated that ‘bullshit.’

Surprised to hear from him again, at the beginning of our second meeting, I asked if he had a story in mind.
In fact he did and produced, from his back pants pocket, rolled in a tube, a series of pages typed in script format complete with dialogue.

The fantasy itself was titilating but as we proceeded to play, he quickly became annoyed with me as I didn’t say the lines exactly as they appeared on the page.
I pleaded for time to memorize and we postponed the game for the following session giving me sufficient time to prepare.

For our third session, even though my time is severely limited,
I had memorized my lines and was ready for ‘Showtime’.
(I am, after all, lest you forget, a proud graduate of the RFDS.)
However, this time he was no longer interested in the same game.
Before he arrived, he left me instructions on my machine:
Dress casual. Little make-up.
My interpretation: A long sexy nightgown with nothing underneath and high heels.

As I open my front door to allow him entrance, I greet him with a hug his body stiffens against, and reach for his lips with mine.
He turns his face.
No words answer my vocal greeting.
Only his eyes speak, scanning my body’s length head to toe and back again with a stern look of anxious disaproval.


No answer. Eyes that say, ‘not happy.

"You said to wear something casual so I thought a nightgown was about as casual as one could get."

No answer. Eyes that say, ‘should I stay or go? This isn’t what I wanted at all.’

"You don’t like it?"

No answer. Eyes that say, ‘Just forget it. Now everything is ruined.

With a wry, teasing giggle, "Do you want me to change?"

No answer. Eyes that say, ‘what’s the use. My expectations are forever shattered.’

"Do you want me to wear a skirt and a blouse or jeans and a top or—‘

He nods his head once.

"Okay. No worries love. I can change fast. See?"
I begin to rummage through my closet.
"Why don’t you sit and relax? It’ll only take me a second."

He remains standing by the door.

"How ‘bout this skirt?"
I produce a black mini.

A nod.

"Aaaaand, hmmm, this blouse?"
A sheer white button down.

A nod.

"Okay. Relax. Sit. It’ll just take me one second."
I undress as I talk.

He remains stiff by the door giving me a ‘don’t change in front of me’ look.

"Want me to change in the bathroom?"

He nods.

"Better?" I model the new look.

He nods.

Something in the room has changed in the moments I was in the bathroom.
Where’s the music? Where are the flickering candles?

He has turned of the CD player leaving the room in uncomfortable silence.
He has blown out each and every candle I so pain-stakingly lit to create atmosphere and turned on the Halogen lamp to the highest wattage.

"You didn’t like the CD? Do you want me to put on something else?"

Head shakes ‘no’.

"Do you not like the candles?"

Head shakes ‘no’.

"Okay. Should we sit?"

No answer but we do.

I’m a bit peeved.
It’s a kin to going to the Theatre, taking away the costumes, the lights and the sound and still wanting Magic.
Magic can happen but what’s the point of disarming the Players?

"Would you like something to drink? I have water, flat and sparkling, wine and champagne."

Shakes his head.


Shakes his head.

"Well, I’ll pour you a little water just in case. I’m going to have Champagne."
(I need a shot of whiskey.)
"So how have you been? It’s so nice to see you again. Is work going well?"

He shrugs. His eyes shoot me a ‘who cares. Same old, same old.’

"Same old same old?!" I speak for him. "Now Mr. Horneywoodypecker my dear, how can that be? Do you know how many men would be envious of your job?"

He shrugs crinkling up one side of his mouth as in ‘who cares?’

(Mr. Horneywoodypecker has the enviable job of working for a very sexy Men’s magazine.)

"Would you want to play a fantasy today?"

"Not today."
(He speaks!)

"Okay then, do you just want to go into the other room and let me pamper you?"

"Not today."

Sharp but consciously silent exhale from me.
99.99 percent of the time I never have to ask this, and I hate having to utter the words but I feel I have no other option so I say it:
"What would you like to do?"

Unceremoniously and without me, he heads into the bedroom.
Scooping up the glasses, I follow.
Placing the flutes on the nightstand, wrapping my arms around his fragile shoulders, I begin the daunting task of trying to engage his immobile lips in a warm soft kiss.
His lips too are unresponsive.
Finally and without aplomb we fall clumsily onto the bed.
Somehow we manage to start stroking one another’s arms, legs, backs, torsos.
His touch is light and pleasing.
A sigh; a light moan escapes my mouth.
I guess.
I don’t hear myself.
But he does.

"Don’t do that." He orders.

"What? Don’t do what?"

"Make fake acting sounds like that. I don’t like fake stuff like that."

"I wasn’t. I didn’t. I was just enjoying."

"Just don’t be fake. I don’t like fake."

"Okay. Sorry. I won’t make a sound."

We resume touching but now I’ve lost my concentration into a vortex of self-consciousness and effort to control sounds that may or may not escape me.

Quickly bored with this non-direct sexual play, he rolls onto his back, pulls my hair up in one hand pushing my head forcefully down to his cock.
Closing my eyes, my mouth swiftly sucks his entire member inside, and I begin to imagine my tongue dancing along his shaft as if it were a flute in time to a jazz song playing in my head.

"Stop it. Just stop it."

Startled, his cock still in my mouth, eyes peeking up above his bouncy pubic hair, I ask with my eyebrows.

"What you’re doing."

"You don’t like it?"

"You’re making sounds again."

"I’m sorry."

"Just do it for real."

"I am."

"Don’t fake."

I sit up on my knees between his legs.
"Listen hear Hornywoodypecker," I say playfully, "Just because you don’t make sounds doesn’t mean when someone else does, they’re not genuine. I’m expressive. My body is used to expressing in all the ways it has available. That doesn’t mean it’s fake. It means I’m getting lost in the feeling."

"Don’t do it."

"Okay my dear."

(I’m getting frustrated. I hate that I’m getting frustrated. I try to imagine him as a vunerable little boy and wonder what horrors might have happened to him to make him so stiff, so unable to enjoy, so filled with unnecessary expectations.)

I close my eyes and try again picturing the child in him. Desperately trying to reach to soft center obviously so damaged.

"Forget it."

"What? He likes it. See? He’s getting harder."

"It’s not going to work today."

"It will. Just relax. Close your eyes. Stop your mind. Just feel."

"Don’t. Just get up. Sit here."

"Hornywoodypecker." I kiss him on his forehead.

Actually I kiss the wounded boy on the forehead.
"I want to make you happy. Tell me what I can do. Tell me. I can’t read your mind. I wish I could but I haven’t honed that skill yet. It’s okay. Whatever you want. I’m not judgemental. Just tell me."

"There’s nothing you can do."

"There is. We did it before. Last time."

"It’s not going to happen today. Forget it."

"I don’t want to forget it."

"I’ll tell you a story."


"A man and a boy."


"’The man says to the boy’," he says this with a Yiddish accent, "’You are not wise enough to be a man.’ The boy says, ‘But I want to be a man’.
The man says, ‘Answer this question and I will see if you are wise enough to be a man. What is Blue, Hangs on a Wall, and Whistles?’
The boy replies he doesn’t know.
The man says, ‘A Herring.’
The boy is speechless. When he recovers he says, ‘but a Herring isn’t Blue.’
The man says, ‘You can paint it Blue.’
The boy says, ‘A Herring doesn’t hang on a wall.’
The man says, ‘You can hang it on a wall.’
The boys says, ‘A Herring doesn’t whistle.’
The man shrugs and says, ‘So?’"

I laugh at the last line mainly because I get the Jewish humor but I’m confused.
"So what are you saying?"

"Life. It’s about Life. You can paint it Blue. You can hang it on a wall. But you can’t make it Whistle."

There is a long pause between us. Wetness burns my eyes. I attempt to wrap my arms around his neck. He shrugs me away.

"You’re wrong. Life whistles. It does."

"And the worst part is, even when things are going well and you think you’re happy?"


"The worst part is, even through all that, when it should whistle, it doesn’t."

"Oh god. Oh my god. Hornywoodypecker. You listen to me. I am going to make him whistle."

"You can’t."

"I can."

"You can’t make him whistle and you can’t make me whistle because no one can make Life whistle."

"I can."

"Just stop. That’s Life. No one has the power to make it whistle."

"Now you listen to me. Life whistles. The only reason why it’s not whistling for you is first of all you have to accept that we are all, and I’m sorry but its true, we are all disposible. We all die. And no matter how famous you were during your time, you die and soon so does your memory. Unless you’re like Martin Luther King or someone like that who changed History. But even people famous, or well-loved, we all die."

"I know we die."

"You know but once you accept that you’re disposible, no matter who you are, then you can start to live. And wait. Hear me out. The other thing is, you have to drop all your expectations and disappointments of Life—what it was supposed to be. What you were supposed to be. You can have them and you can grieve the loss of them, but then you have to let ‘em go. If you don’t, its not fair to you and it’s an unreasonable request to make of Life. It is."

"There’s nothing wrong with having expectations—"

"No. Of course not. And being sad and being wronged and being disappointed, but the trick is to let it go. It’s not personal. Learn and move on. Or as Judge Judy says, "Put a period and move on."

"You watch that ridiculous show?"

"I love it. But that’s not the point. I already wrote my tombstone."

"You’re morbid."

"I’m morbid? You’re the one who thinks Life is a hanging Blue Herring! It’s not morbid. I just figure Death is part of Life and once you let it be what it is, it starts to whistle."

"You can’t make it whistle for me."

"Oh yes I can.That's my whole purpose in Life!"

On a mission now, I devour his lips, his cock, his balls.
My nails pull electricity from his pores until his skin lifts with goosebumps.
My heart bangs and pleads and pulses begging the little child within him to trust me.
Finally, his lower head whistles.

Tomorrow I see him again.
My mission?
One head down, the upper head to go.

Keep your ears open for the sound of a Hornywoodypecker whistling,
somewhere in Manhattan around 3pm.

No make-up. Short black skirt. Blouse, not see-through. No stockings. High-heels.
(Meaning ‘ceiling-walkers.)

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Assole Factor Revisited

One of the most difficult and frustrating elements involved in the Life of a Courtesan is getting out.
An Escape Plan is ‘a must’ and yet harder to grasp than imagined.
My 'Autumn' is quickly approaching.
I am now at the stage in which this must become a priority.
If not, I will go to a Hell worse than Hades.
Possibly living in a trailer and working at Wal-Mart.

So with this monster dog snapping at my heels, I ask, I beg, I grovel, (in a very nice Marilyn Monroe way of course) to anyone who will listen.
I’m not asking for ‘a fish’ mind you. I’m asking ‘to be taught how to fish’.
(You know the saying.)

A year ago, I got the brilliant idea of lessening my expenses.
Then I realized I lived in New York City and most of what I made went out the door as soon as it came in.

So then I got the brilliant idea of moving.
The complication then arose that my salary in any other place would be markedly less, in the end, leaving me with less freedom of movement.

So then I got the brilliant idea of having a second place to live, possibly in Florida where the cost of living is less and just coming up to New York once a month to work.
What I needed then was financing. But how?

In the meantime, I was seeing a Client every so often who happened to live both in New York and Florida.
During one of our first meetings, he tells me the Story of his Mistress:

He owns several properties on in Miami. The Hip district.
There, he met a Model/Escort. ‘Gorgeous’, he says.
And he repeats it over and over until I am a speck of chopped liver droppings on my sofa.

A Model. Famous. From Brazil. Only 22 years old.
She lives in one of his properties.
Pays her $25,000.00—yes that’s twenty-five thousand dollars—per month.

He’s sitting on my sofa. He’s paying me for my time. This isn’t the moment to get upset.
In his presence, without words, I feel him, I know him.
The need in his Soul is clear.
The warmth from his Heart pulses out around him.
I understand all without having to inquire.
But still I must know.
Like the strange pleasure/pain of biting your lip in stress until blood is drawn.
I must hear it.
I want to know what her secret is and why he needed that particular Pandora’s Box.

Jealously chokes my words to a whisper: "She must be amazing in bed for that much money."
"Naw. She’s not really into sex. We only had sex maybe two or three times."

"Two or three times? Huh. If she’s so gorgeous, why do you come to see me?"

"The sex. You blow my mind. You take me to another place. I never had sex in my entire life like I have with you."

"So why don’t you keep someone like me, who makes you happy?"

"Hey Geisha, no offense okay?"


"I only need good sex once in a while."

"Oh. So then what does she do that’s worth so much money?"

"I told you."

"You did?"

"She’s Gorgeous. She’s a Model. Tall. Guys like that."

"Ah ha. But, do you and she have a lot in common? I mean, do you laugh together? Does she like you? Are you friends? Do you talk and share things?"

"She’s twenty-two. Naw. You know more about me in two hours than she does in the years I’ve known her."

"I don’t get it."

"You’re not a man."

"Thank you. And very True."


"I like to have her on my arm when we go out. Everyone looks at us. At me."

"Oh. Okay."

"Here’s the problem. I gotta let her go."

"You’re firing her?"

"C’mon. Don’t say it like that."

"But you are. Right?"

"In a way."


"I don’t know. The last time I was in town, it was like she was too busy to see me. I finally got the feeling that she only likes me for my money."

"What? Finally? I can’t believe you’re saying that. Gio, you're a smart man. How could you ‘have just figured it out’?"

"You don’t get what it’s like to be a guy. To walk into a restaurant or a club or the beach and have this deluxe babe on your arm."

"It’s an ego thing?"

"I guess."

"And the ‘ego thing’ is worth that much money?"

He shoots me a look that says, ‘give me a little break here’.

"No really. I’m not judging but I want to understand. I could see taking care of a woman that takes care of you in so many ways. But just to have an ‘arm-piece’? And nothing more?"

"She’s a sweet girl. I put her through College. Anyway, that’s what it is."

"You really are so kind to her. Really. She’s very lucky to have you. You have a big heart. But, so what are you going to do?"

"I gotta give her the apartment and the car and a last months—"

"Severance pay? Why? Why do you have to give a twenty-two year old a million dollar apartment and a Mercedes just to say ‘good-bye’?"

He doesn’t answer.

"Seems to me she’s been treated pretty well all along. Twenty five thousand a month and she only sees you every three or four months for a night and then, there’s not even any hand-holding or any sex. Don’t you think it’s enough? She should be thanking you."

"I have to give her the apartment."

"Oh. Because you’re afraid? Afraid she’ll call your wife?"

"You know how it is."

"I wish."

I am aware Men are visual creatures.
I am, after all, in The Business.
I am aware many men value Beauty above all.
But I had no idea how deep and how far it went.

"Tell me what’s going on with you."

"Well, I’m desperately trying to build a home in Florida or the Caribbean so I have a place to call my own. Some place to retire to that I can live happily and maybe write."

"What’s the issue?"

"Can’t seem to get financing."

"That’s sorta what I do on the side."

"What do you mean?"

"My Cousin Matt finances private parties. I could hook you up if you want."

"I don’t want to trouble you with it."

"No trouble."

"No. It is. I like that you come see me. If you make me a promise to do something and then I call you and you really didn’t want me to, you’ll avoid me."

"I mean it. I keep my promises."

"No. Don’t worry about it. I’ll find a way on my own."

"I’m gonna call you tomorrow about it. Get your Financials together."


"No. Do it. I’m gonna call."

Just in case, I do get my ‘Financials’ together.
And true to his word, he calls.
At his request, I FedX all my personal financial papers to his Cousin Matt in California.

And then, I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait.
Finally I call Gio for an update.

"Yeah yeah. Matt’s on it. He’s got his fingers in a lotta pots right now. He’s comin’ to New York in a few weeks. You should meet with him when he comes."

"Okay. Have him call me and tell me when and where?"

"Will do."

And then, I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait.
Finally I call Gio for another update.

"He’s in town today and tomorrow. Call him and set up a time."

Oh golly gee and ugh!
I get booked a week in advance.
The only way to see him is if he can drop by my work apartment in between appointments.

I call.
Matt agrees on 1pm, my place.
I have from 1 to 2:30 free. That’s it. But this is important.
To me.

One o’clock comes and goes.
One fifteen.
One thirty.
I call his cell.

"Hey, Geish! On my way. Just finishing getting my hair cut."

Who gets a haircut at the exact time they’re expected to be at a meeting?
And a meeting in which he stands to make a hefty profit in interest.
He must be a Libra.
(Don’t misunderstand. I like Libra’s. My friend B is a Libra.)
(It’s just that he reminds me too too much of ‘poop-with-the-door-open’ Jerry Umberto.) (Earlier Blog)
(Also a Libra)

1:50 my doorbell rings.
Up my stairs walks a short, thin, balding guy.
A man who should, by all rights, be plagued with low-self-esteem.
But this man oozes self-adoration and is surrounded by a gooey aura of self-agrandizement that can only come from having oodles of money.
The kind of wads that make up for lack of character.

He ushers himself into my apartment, planting himself on my sofa, pouring himself an un-offered glass of wine.

"Thank you so much for coming. I really appreciate it."
"Wow. You are a babe. My cousin told me about you. He didn’t do you justice."
"Oh. Well, thank you. Did you want to see anything else besides the papers I sent?"
"I know what I want to see. Woe. You are hot. Great tits."
"Did you want to see the plans for the house? I also have the land and property valuations."
"Sure. Show me that."

I stand and walk to the shelf with the paperwork.

"Oh no, no. Walk slower than that. I gotta drink you in. I’m telling you. Gio did not do you justice."
"Thank you. Gio is wonderful. We have a nice relationship. I really adore him. But, so here’s the rest of the paper work. This is my only copy so I made you a FEDX envelope to mail them back to me when you’re finished with them."
"You know what I need though?"
"I need a kiss. Oh man. Look at those lips. Those lips are ripe. RIPE."

I giggle coyly but uncomfortably.
Would he be doing this to a possible client who happened to be a man?

"Let me kiss those fake lips."

I cringe at the insult, choosing to ignore it.

"Now. Oh baby, NOW."
"I’ll make you a deal Matt. You get me the loan and I’ll kiss you until your lips are numb. Okay?"
"Oh no. I need that kiss now."

I kiss him.

I am afraid.
I don’t want to lose this opportunity for my future.

"Better than Gio described. You are so hot. Do you come to Miami?"
"Only if you bring me."

I’m slightly flattered he asked aware he’s an obvious ‘player’ and has been with countless Professional and Real Life women.

"Do you need to see the plans for the house?"
"You know what I need?"
"Do you want to see the plans for building and the estimate of costs?"

Without answering, he suddenly stands.
"I need this."
In one swift movement, he unbuttons, unzips and lets fall his trousers leaving him barelegged before me in just his tidy-whiteys and his pants bunched at his calves.
"Blow me."

"Come on. You are so hot. Blow me."

What to do? What to say?
I know people sleep their way to better positions. I'm not that niave, of course.
Yet I don’t trust him.
He’s treating me like a whore.
Perhaps he thinks I am a whore.
Why not? He’s never been with me. He only knows the box he thinks I live in.
But never has a client treated me this way.
Only men from my ‘real-above-ground-life’ act this way toward me.
What to do?
What to do?
In the few seconds that pass, my head whirls.
I know no other way.
I am trained for no other alternative.
I take the female route.

"Matt. Now come on. How do I know you are even going to get me the loan? And besides, we don’t have enough time."
"I’ll be quick. I’m fast. You’ll see. You’re so hot, I’ll cum in a minute."

There is very little wiggle room.
I’m confused. I’m angry.
I’m caught between humiliation and the possibility of a future.
"I’ll tell you what, when you get me the loan, I’ll not only pay you interest of course, but I’ll put aside two hours to pamper you entirely."
(Which by the way, I don’t owe him since I will potentially be paying him quite a bit in interest from the loan.)

His hand digs into his undies. He pulls his semi-hard pee-pee into the air allowing his underwear to cup his genitals under his balls.
With his left hand, he waggles it in front of my face.
"I need it now."

"Matt, no. We don’t have enough time."
"I’m fast."
"I don’t want you to be fast. I like men. That’s not the way I do things. I like to make things nice. To take my time."
"I don’t care about that stuff. Just blow me. Come on. Where’s the bedroom? Here?"
He leaves me going behind the curtain into the other room.

I sit for a moment starring at the wine glasses.
Deep sigh.
I follow.

He is naked on the bed stroking it, keeping himself ready.
"I’m not going to do this."
"I’ll pay you. How much do you make?"
"A thousand for two hours—two hour minimum."
"Jeezus. Expensive."
"Up to you."

(Expensive? To a man who has Billions? Expensive? To a man who sees hundreds of women? He probably bargains them all down. Cheapening each and every one. Making each and every one feel like a piece of meat at an Arab Market.)

"Okay. I’ll pay you. Just blow me now."

I do.

I do because I know no other way.
I do because at the very least I will have made my few and perhaps,
Just maybe,
Perhaps the afternoon won’t feel like a complete, humiliating waste of time.
I hope.
So I do.

His cock smells like Lentil Soup.
Instead of a hair cut, he should have considered a shower.

But he knows himself.
It’s over in three minutes.
He dresses.
I never got UN-dressed.
I hand him the papers.
He goes to the door.

"When will I hear from you?"
"Soon. Baby you’re good."

"Are you going to…?"


"Pay me?"

"Oh yeah."

He pulls two hundred dollars out of his wallet and tosses it onto my coffee table.
I stare at him, waiting.

"What? Is it more than that?"
"Yes." I say shyly, not wanting to rock any of our many boats in motion.
"It’s a thousand."
"It took three minutes."
"But you were late. I saved the time for you. I have a minimum."
"It took three minutes. Don’t be like that. I’m getting you this loan. Right?"
"Um-hmm. I hope so."
"By the way, just curious, are you a Libra?"
"Call you soon."
He’s a Libra. I know he won’t.

Please understand, I have two amazing Libra friends in my life. But the only times in my Life I have been deliberately ‘screwed’—no pun intended—really! Has been by Libra’s. Jeremy, Valentino, Mark the Builder, and Matt. (All of whom I have Blogged in the Archives) And a few others that have slipped my mind at the moment. So forgive my generalizations if you can.

He leaves and for the first time in my eleven years in the business, I truly feel like a Whore.

I’m sure you guessed by now, I didn’t get the loan.

P.S. I did see Gio again who was and is a Prince.
He loves his Cousin Matt and had no idea of what actually happened that day.
I felt terrible even telling him the details.
I could see the embarrassment and pain in his eyes, that sense of responsibility even though none of it was his fault. (After all, he is not his ‘Cousin’s Keeper’)
But to clear the air between us, it had to be revealed.

And I’m glad we talked about it, for Gio will always be in my heart and I will always be so eternally grateful that he took my situation to heart enough to even try and help.
He is a generous, enormous-hearted Spirit.

His Cousin however is a very young Soul and in this Lifetime, a Villain that hopefully few will have to run into.
Best to keep the reach of his slime to a minimum.