Call Girl Confidential (7 page)

T
he judge ordered all of us to have a forensic psychiatric evaluation. This is common in family court: an objective party evaluates family members individually, then observes how a child interacts with her mother, her father, and anyone else who would be in her life on a daily basis. Mike had married hurriedly, right before he filed for custody. Within a year the marriage was over. He was gone most of the time, and Isabella was left with nannies overnight. Surely the judge would see this for what it was and end this entire fiasco. Surely common sense would prevail.

In a thirty-page report, an independent forensic psychiatric evaluator concluded that Isabella preferred to be with her mother and did not seem to have a connection with her father. He recommended that the child be returned to me. The judge ruled that the report, from her handpicked evaluator, was not admissible and would remain sealed. No one was to receive a copy, and it could never leave the courtroom. I was floored. She actually said that the evaluator must have not understood his job. I knew right then that I was screwed and that this was a setup. I was going to go out and get so much money that I would be able to fight this all the way to the Supreme Court if I had to.

T
he huge legal bills appearing in my mailbox terrified me, so I worked for Kristin whenever I could. Isabella wasn't allowed to be at my apartment, so that made it easy for me to work for Kristin. For a while I was working at my day job until five, and then at night I'd work for Kristin until four or five in the morning. Then I'd get a couple of hours' sleep and get to the office by eight thirty a.m. The next day I'd do it all over again. Court appearances had started to eat up my vacation days, and I was on thin ice at work.

I was very tired, and my work during the day suffered. Finally my boss fired me. But by then I was making so much money
at Kristin's that it more than made up for that paycheck. The money was far better than anything else available to a girl who had not finished college, but still, Kristin took half of everything I earned. And beauty costs money: I had to make sure my hair was always touched up at the roots, that I was tanned and manicured and waxed properly, that my clothes were pressed. It was expensive, but I was able to pay rent and the ever-looming legal bills.

From Kristin I learned how the escort business worked. She had me doing both incalls and outcalls. With incalls we worked at the madam's locations—the media revels in calling them brothels—and we literally worked eight-hour shifts, like secretaries and cashiers do. It's typically at least a two-bedroom apartment, and there is usually another girl there with you for company and some security. The madam has a booker, who is careful to stagger the appointments so that clients who do business together or are in the same social circle are spared the embarrassment of bumping into one another coming or going, or in the event that they want to take a shower.

When you are on incall, you are expected to stay in the apartment the entire shift without leaving, to calm the suspicions of the neighbors. Chances are their eyebrows are already raised by the gentlemen coming and going at all hours, not to mention the loud moans and shouts of orgasm and the sound of headboards knocking against the walls. Kristin just asked us to keep it down as much as possible to reduce the risk for all of us. You can see how well that worked.

Incall is like a factory: you work as much as you can, and see as many people as you can. The price per hour is lower, but you can make thousands and thousands of dollars in one day without ever leaving the apartment. Kristin's apartment at the
Corinthian was a two-bedroom, so she could have two clients in at a time. There would usually be two girls there, and sometimes other girls would stop by to chat and keep the others company. It also provided a bit of security, especially at night. There was no security man or bodyguard at all. If some big guy got rough, you were out of luck. I did the same for the others. We'd sit in the living room and chat until the client arrived.

I did more outcalls, where I went to the client. Outcall can be either to the client's home, a hotel room, or even to a yacht or a private jet. In town, we might meet at a bar and go out to dinner, a party, or a concert. The money is much more per hour, and—depending on the girl and how she is ranked by the madam on sex-for-sale websites like eros-ny.com and backpage.com—a girl can make a lot doing very little and actually have a great time. Outcalls were expected to be stretched out as long as possible because they are hundreds more per hour.

When I met a client at a hotel, the only security I had was the phone call Kristin would make to ask the front desk for the guest in his stated room number to see if he was really who he said he was. It could have been Jack the Ripper posing as John Doe for all I knew.

I quickly learned how to be discreet in upscale hotels like the Waldorf Astoria and the Pierre. Going to these places in the beginning, I felt it was obvious who I was and what I was doing there. I'm sure the doormen and concierge in particular saw us coming a mile away. In my five-inch Jimmy Choo stilettos and form-fitting Marc Jacobs sheath, it was clear I wasn't a delegate to the actuaries convention. I didn't look like a hooker, but usually a woman dressed that alluringly does not come back to her hotel room alone.

Discretion was crucial for me, so I decided that the best approach was not to duck and run but rather to engage with them and look them straight in the eye with a “Good evening.” I always wanted to look assured and as if I knew where I was going, even if I had no clue where the elevators were. It was all about projecting confidence, pretending that I belonged in that world.

Upon arriving at the client's room, I'd introduce myself with my nom de guerre. Kristin had told me not to give my real name and not to ask theirs, but most of the time they'd give their real name anyway. If they were famous, obviously I'd recognize them. And I'd hope that, whatever the booker told the client, I was playing the right part.

We all had to give Kristin a schedule, which gave windows of when we would be available to be called at a moment's notice. I might get a text saying
Be at the Waldorf in 20 minutes
and I'd have to be ready.

And just because you did your job, it didn't mean you were done for the night. You could be called to do another. Outcall money was amazing if we were on the good side of the booker, Lucy, or Kristin herself.

As a high-priced call girl, it actually helps to be a decent conversationalist. These are sophisticated men. They don't want bimbos. There are some men who want the bimbo type, but they are not willing to pay big money for it. Yes, they want sex, but they don't want to feel as if they are slumming it. They want companionship. If you follow what's happening in the world and are cultured, well, the sky's the limit.

Why do these men pay so much for sex? The short answer is that they want a woman who will do things sexually that their
wives aren't doing. Some want things like bondage or rougher sex but are afraid to ask their wives.

But the wives of these men aren't doing something else that is the relationship killer: making them feel special. This was a common complaint. I tried to make men feel that there was nothing more important to me at that moment than what they were saying.
They work hard,
I told myself.
They deserve it.
I've learned a tremendous amount about the economy, investing, politics, and the law from my clients. These are the men who were raised to rule, or who got on top of their industry by sheer brains and determination. The only other way I would have met men at this level would have been if I were a CEO myself. And, yes, I'll admit that I was aware that the attention I paid them paid me back in spades. More than once I counted the cash I was given twice because I couldn't believe how huge the “tip” was. Sometimes it was more than the fee. And Kristin didn't get a cut of that.

Also, men love a fresh face, and when you are the new girl, you make a ton of money.

When business in New York was good, Kristin would make forays into other territories, and she'd have the girls test out different markets. She had already set up the Philadelphia site, but we went to Boston and Washington, D.C., for her. We'd go from city to city, and clients would get an online “lookbook” so they could choose which girls they wanted and when.

It's amazing how each city has its own sexual vibe. New York has so many high flyers in finance, entertainment, and the media, many of whom have built themselves up from humble origins. They're men who've had to make a lot of hard decisions in life in order to get where they are, and although many have an air of entitlement, they seemed to respect and appreciate us. It
was in New York where we also had our encounters with visitors: European aristocrats, Asian billionaires, Middle Eastern royalty.

But in Philadelphia, where Kristin kept an apartment at 1600 Walnut Street, within walking distance of Rittenhouse Square Park, our clients were more down to earth. Conversations flowed more easily. Clients were mostly from the real estate and finance world, but they did not have the New York arrogance. They even dressed more casually. Sometimes I questioned whether they could afford me. In Philly a man will linger over a beer with a girl and talk sports. It was refreshing. Same with Boston: Boston men are “chill”—and absolute sports fanatics. Wear a Red Sox cap and a thong, and they go crazy.

I had one regular client in Philly who was engaged to a doctor. Her schedule made for a very difficult personal life for him sexually, so I was merely a release or retreat from the frustration that he would have for the rest of his life, should he go through with his marriage to her. Another regular client there was one of the biggest Republicans in Pennsylvania. Kristin would have his favorite girl, whose pseudonym was Rowan, come up from Florida for him.

The men in Washington were insane. It was a company town, and power was the product. They had a whole other concept of what prostitution was. There were some threesomes, which was fine. But they wouldn't leave after their appointed time. And everybody in D.C. was expecting bare backing. No condoms. Who on earth would take that chance? They were abusive, mean, and relentless. The first time I went to Washington, I was supposed to stay for five days; I left after two. We did not do any further market research in D.C. after that. Kristin sent me back to another state's capital, and that's where I had sex with my first governor.

I
traveled to a certain city and checked into an apartment that Kristin maintained there. I was supposed to meet a man named Trevor. He wouldn't be hard to miss: He drove an Aston Martin—James Bond's vehicle of choice—and when the silver, aerodynamic work of art whirred up to the curb, I stepped right in.

Trevor was handsome. No: he was drop-dead gorgeous, and he seemed pleasant enough in the short time it took for him to drive me a couple of blocks to a restaurant. We could have walked, but I never question clients! It was a lovely space, with French doors opening onto a small park. It was early spring, and
crocuses had popped up around each tree. I chuckled to myself at the phallic imagery.

Trevor and I were having a cocktail at the bar, when he turned to me and nodded.

“That's our governor over there having lunch with some of my friends,” he said. “Would you like to meet him?”

“That depends on if he's a liberal or not,” I joked. “I'm a Republican, you know.”

He chuckled, took me by the hand, led me over to the governor's table, and introduced me as Ashley.

“Governor, I don't know if you should be seen with these reprobates,” Trevor ventured, causing his pals to laugh. “I'd like you to meet Ashley . . . Smith. Watch it: she's a fiscal conservative.”

“Well, she's a hell of a lot prettier than Jan Brewer,” he guffawed. “Nice to meet you, Ashley.”

He should have said “Ashleys.” I could have sworn the governor said that right to my breasts.

Other than that, he was really gracious. It was casual. I shook his hand, and Trevor and I returned to the bar. I didn't think much of it. But I thought it was weird that Trevor would take someone whom he'd hired to meet the governor. Trevor said the governor was a client of his. It could have been true.

We stayed at the bar, talking for two hours about politics, why I was in this business, and what I was really going to do with my life. He really wanted to know, and he had a way of making you want to tell him. I told him nothing about Isabella, but at this point I had gone back to school, and that was an easy topic to bring up and discuss with any client. We finished our drinks and then drove back to the apartment. Trevor came up and we had sex. For such a great-looking guy, I guess any girl would be
hopeful that he would have been absolutely amazing. And he was, but it wasn't that blow-me-out-of-the-water sex that he should have reciprocated. It was fine, though. In this business, you get used to that.

I was still in town a couple of days later when Kristin's booker called. She told me that Trevor wanted another “date.” Frankly, that perplexed me. Trevor was a very young guy, handsome enough to be an actor. He was single, impeccably dressed, manicured in every way. He was extremely confident, and he appeared to have money. This was a man who would have no problem getting girls. Based on how things went last time, it must have been a lot better for him than it was for me. Check for my ego.

Trevor said he wanted to come directly to the apartment this time. When he arrived, he rang the doorbell and I buzzed him through. I opened the door, and to my surprise, it was not Trevor standing there. It was the governor, smiling. For a split second I thought he was in the wrong place, but I recovered in a beat and invited him in.
Ah, now I get it
, I thought. Trevor was literally test driving me for his boss.