Call Girl Confidential (10 page)

He put on some music as I slipped into the shower to freshen up and put on some really special lingerie. An incredible guitar soloist came on. “Who is that?!” I called out. “Al Di Meola,” he exulted. “That's ‘Mediterranean Sundance.' ”

“Wow,” I said as I strutted into the room in a feathery black thong, black-lace push-up bra, and killer six-inch Christian Louboutin stilettos with patent-leather spikes. “He's the best.”

“No, baby,” said Steve as he ran his hand over my bottom. “You are.”

T
he next morning, after a swim in Steve's pool, it was mimosas and omelets made to order by Steve's personal chef. Some weekends we'd linger, but this time Steve had a meeting in the city, and his driver pulled up in an Escalade to take us to East Hampton Airport in Wainscott for the chopper ride back to Manhattan.

“Some of us have to work for a living!” Steve yelled out the window to his buddies as they all guffawed.

Yes, some of us do. After a weekend of partying, I was $10,000 richer.

T
he next day I had my court-supervised visitation with my daughter. A woman whom I apparently paid to sit there and give me stern looks sat off to the side as Isabella and I drew with pastels. Isabella made a drawing of a rainbow with us holding hands beneath it, smiling, and little hearts all around us. Then,
on a smaller piece of paper, she wrote in tiny letters
Take me home, Mama
and secretly passed it to me. It was all I could do not to burst into tears. Trying to keep my two lives separate was so difficult mentally. The character names I went by helped remarkably, but I didn't know how much longer I could keep it up.

A
nna was extremely happy with me. I was “bringing it.” She started a joint operation with a madam in London, and I was one of the girls she sent over. It was a simple matter of going overseas and staying in an apartment for a week at a time and being the “fresh new face.” Being foreign was great. The British men are just like any others; they want and need good sex, and the all-American look was my selling point.

The escorts in London came in from all over the world. They all were doing what I was: meeting the most eligible men in Britain, or at least the men who were in town that week. Keeping their identity a secret is one of the biggest priorities in the United Kingdom, and men pay top dollar—or should I say pound—to ensure it stays that way. The entire purpose was to work. Making money was the goal, not making friends.

The same held true for London as it did for anywhere else. I'd accompany the client to dinner, the theater, or even overnight to Paris for a business dinner. Thank goodness at that point I had the wardrobe to pull it off.

In exchange for sending one of her American girls to London, Anna would get a European or British girl from the madam in the U.K. It was good business for them both, and kept clients on either side of the pond happy with lots of fresh new faces. That's what they loved and paid the most for.

A
few of my clients were very eccentric. There was an Orthodox Jewish man who was always paranoid that there was someone in the East Seventy-Eighth Street apartment where I did the occasional incall for Anna. He'd check every single room, again and again. I would show up, sit down, and watch him run around and freak out, asking, “Are you sure there is no one here? How do you know, have you checked? Did you check the closets? Underneath the bed?” This would happen over and over. Once, he checked the place for the entire hour, never had sex, paid, and left. Best client ever to have.

Then there was the famous classical pianist who would call whenever he was in town to play Carnegie Hall. One time he asked the booker to send as many girls as possible, and we were all to bring our bikinis to wear in his hotel suite. At his request, we set up blankets on the floor and pretended to sunbathe. He started off swatting our bottoms with a towel, and then he would tickle us and chase us around the suite, still swatting us with the towel, and would watch us jump up and down on the bed with our tops off. Then he wanted us to chase him around and finally pull off the towel he was wearing, to reveal that he was aroused beneath. And then the game was over. I suppose everyone has their own fantasy.

S
ome clients needed therapy as much as they needed sex. They needed someone to talk to who was totally out of their world.

One such client was a young Middle Eastern prince. He was in his thirties. He had unlimited funds, but he was still depressed,
because he was out of the power loop in his extended family. Older brothers and cousins were ahead of him in line for the throne. I learned a lot about Middle Eastern politics from him. Unfortunately for him, he developed a real nose-candy problem. He would stay at the Plaza Hotel, and they would hang the flag of his country out front. I wonder if New York coke dealers watched for it and made a beeline for the golden front doors. He did tremendous amounts of cocaine when we were together. The more he talked about his family, the more blow he snorted. He used to be able to go all night, and the last time I saw him he was so dissipated he couldn't even perform. Unlimited money doesn't always bring happiness.

W
hen you're a high-end call girl, you can never let on that you have multiple clients.

No man wants to feel like he is one of many. They want to be the
only
one. The only way to do that is to make them feel special, and that is to offer the true GFE: the Girl Friend Experience. You French-kiss them, cuddle, go out on a date, hang out, talk, have passionate sex—whatever they want to do. You are their girlfriend for the night. Period. And you do anything to make them believe that. You have to
remember
how each and every man wants you to be. Often, their wives or girlfriends don't understand them, or appreciate them, and you do. You remember that they had this big deal coming up. You recall that they were going to Dubai on business. You notice the little things, like their Mercury-dime cuff links. You care. That's where the money is. Every single memory is a dollar sign.

The clients specified to Anna what sort of dress they desired. Some might want casual—jeans and heels with a sexy top; if I
was going on a yacht, resort wear. My Europeans had higher expectations when going out to dinner. Same with the Wall Streeters. Out of necessity, I had to build an extensive wardrobe, and it became very costly.

Certain clients would give me carte blanche to buy whatever I wanted. Once the new Louis Vuitton ostrich boots came out, I told one of my dear clients how much I loved them. He replied, “Then get a pair.” I just had to go to the Louis Vuitton store and charge him. He didn't blink at the $4,500 price tag. As long as I wore them on our next date.

I had three personal shoppers at Saks: one for clothing, one for shoes, and one for bags. And the ladies at the Chanel makeup counter know me well. The shoppers put together matching outfits for me. One of my clients would foot the bills.

My personal shoe shopper really knew what I liked. I'd buy $5,000 worth of shoes at a time. Sexiest shoes ever. She'd ship them to my house and bill my client, or I'd pay for them and he'd reimburse me in cash.

I'd always follow my shopping sprees with a spa treatment or a highlights appointment at Elizabeth Arden—the “Red Door” farther up Fifth Avenue. The aestheticians would see me coming and then surround me and dig through my shopping bags at the trove of goodies and squeal. Afterward I'd just call my client's chauffeur, and he'd pick me up in one of his Bentleys—he had four of them—to take me home. I needed it, because walking down Fifth Avenue in five-inch heels with all those bags was not happening.

Some view the materialism of call girls who have become infamous in recent years as amoral. But my clients required such things in order for me to keep them interested in me. If I did
not meet their standards, I could easily be replaced by one of the hundreds of girls waiting in line to take my place, and I still had to make as much money as possible. Within a couple years, despite all the money I had made, I still had huge amounts of debt that seemed impossible to pay. I was losing my apartment and still fighting for custody of my daughter in court. There was a never-ending demand for money. Yet I was climbing the ladder so high in the business, and I realized there was a formula to making it to the very top.

Eventually, I had a client who set me up in an apartment. He is a major capitalist on a global scale, and sits on several corporate boards. He only had time to visit me two or three times a month, but the apartment's cost was lunch money to him. I refused to live there. It was merely a meeting place.

Once, we flew to Europe on his private Gulfstream to look over a castle. “What do you think?” he asked. “Should I buy it?”

S
ome of my clients said they'd fallen in love with me. They wanted me to stop seeing other clients and be their real (free) girlfriend. I didn't want anyone to fall in love with me. I wanted the money to keep coming in. There was one guy, William, whom I had begun to see in the Kristin days. He was in the middle of a divorce. He was in finance. You could see lines around his eyes, due to stress. He had lots and lots of money. We'd get together at the Four Seasons. Our first night together was a lot of fun. I ended up staying most of the night. I could tell he had a good time. He kept coming back. He'd find me wherever I was working—New York, Boston, Philadelphia, D.C. Once, in New York, he called and said, “I really want you to come to this concert
tonight. I don't want sex. I just came to town to ask you to go to the concert with me.” He felt I was in the wrong industry. This may sound harsh, but he is what we girls in the business call a Save-A-Ho guy. Like Richard Gere in
Pretty Woman
. They want to make “honest women” out of us. But I didn't want to be saved. I didn't need to be saved. I needed to save my little girl.

T
here was one client who tried to monopolize me. He was the man who set me up in an apartment. He also paid me a large sum of money at the beginning of every month. Yes, he was extremely generous. But I didn't feel that that entitled him to be my only client. He tried to own me. He felt he should be able to pick up the phone and that I should be ready in ten minutes. Twenty-four hours a day. He'd send his car and driver on a whim, and I was supposed to jump in and get over to him to have sex. There actually weren't many times when I felt like a prostitute. But one day he made me feel like one. He said, “I don't pay you to piss me off.” He made me feel just horrible. I just hung up on him. That was the end of our “relationship.” It was early in the month, but I kept that money. Screw him. Or not.

O
n the opposite end of the spectrum, I had a client who had inherited his own luxury company. I'll call him Jeffrey. He was married with children. He was a no-intercourse client. He viewed intercourse as cheating. But he wanted oral sex. Very much. His wife would never do it.

He always wanted to finish by ejaculating on my face. I found that somewhat degrading, but I acted like I loved it. He still
would want me to spend the night, though, so he would get a room in the city for us. He commuted in, so I'm not sure what he told his family, but I loved falling asleep next to him. He liked holding me, and I liked it too. I think I was just feeling really lonely, and he was kind. He also liked to e-mail before and after sessions to either get him excited or give him something to keep going until the next time we would meet. He always dreamt that we were married and that we had a family, so I would type out little fantasies for him and he would reciprocate.

He was a generous guy. He paid my tuition to school. He sent the check directly to the school. He also gave me money for books and expenses. He liked that I was a student, doing something with my life. I was a little more open with him for some reason. He also wanted to make sure I had rest time. Whenever he saw that I was getting stressed out, he'd ask me where I wanted to go on vacation and how much it would cost for me and a friend to go. He would messenger over the cash to cover my entire vacation. He sent me to Jamaica and St. Lucia many times. I've met his family. They think I'm wonderful. They don't know who I am to him.

O
ne client had a friend, a very famous mogul, who was very, very rich. But he was lonely. Still active in business, but elderly. An ideal combination for an enterprising girl. Out of chivalry, my client introduced another call girl he was seeing to his friend. He actually gave the girl tips and primed her before the introduction. The call girl and the mogul hit it off and got married, and now she's set for life.

My client offered to do the same thing for me. I knew that
what he was offering would solve all of my problems financially for life. But even though I mentally “flip the switch” to do this job as “Ashley,” when Rebecca is back, I believe in true love and that one day, I will get married, and it will be because I am in love with a man who is in love with me. I still believe that, even after all that I have done and seen. There are actually several famous socialites often pictured in
Town & Country
and the society pages of the
New York Times
who started out working for madams in Paris, London, and New York. I didn't want to be a hooker for life either.

I
had another client who was so dependent on me that he flew me to Tokyo for just one session. I met Edward all over the world, in cities where he would fly on business. He was a major financier and probably bore partial responsibility for the crash of 2008. He paid me big money, more and more over time. But I discovered later that he was a very sick man.

He always preferred it if I came up with a sexual scenario. He liked to be surprised. He gave me an unlimited budget for outfits—leather, rubber, and the like. Toys. I had a closet full of gear just for him.