ONE CUP (Part 21)
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86
Whitney
Jackie was more than a friend. She was my mentor. She helped me get started in the business. I know what you are thinking: She turned you out. She pimped you. The truth is she never took a dime from me.
After coming to my rescue from the same creepy guy who now held me captive—I still had to figure out just exactly how that happened—I contacted her to thank her for all she had done for me. We met a few times, for lunch or coffee, and discussed my career options. I eventually just came out and asked her how she became so prosperous, so independent. Was she an heiress? Did she marry money? Was she a lawyer or a doctor?
87
Jackie
About once a week, usually on her day off, Whitney and I would get together for coffee or lunch, chatting and getting better acquainted. I learned she was a single mom, with a young daughter whom she adored. Eventually she asked what I did for a living, just for the sake of making conversation, I suppose, as a way of getting to know me better. This is a subject I normally try to postpone, if not avoid altogether. I’ve been involved in the business of entertaining gentlemen for several years now. I keep my business life and my personal life separate, compartmentalized.
“I own some investment properties,” I said, “among other things. I think it’s important to have multiple streams of income.”
Whitney nodded thoughtfully, and sighed. “I wish I could do something like that.” Then, she surprised me, saying, “Jackie, I want to tell you something. Please don’t think less of me … and please, please don’t tell anyone …”
I reached across the table, touched her hand, and said, “We’re friends. I won’t say a word to anyone.” Not that we shared any common acquaintances. “And unless you’re about to tell me you are a mass murderer, or worse, I won’t think less of you.”
Whitney took a deep breath, let it out, and began, “I’ve been thinking about doing something on the side, to make some extra money. Just for a while, until I get on my feet financially.” I was about to respond, but she held up a finger, and I remained silent, listening as she went on. “I’ve answered an ad for an escort agency. I’m supposed to start tonight, and I’m kind of nervous.”
“Is there anything I can say that will change your mind?” I asked. Before she could respond, I said, “You can walk away from it right now. You’re still young. Something will work out for you if you just accept that your present situation is only temporary. The Universe will guide and direct you, if you will but listen.”
Whitney shook her head, “No”.
The moment of truth had arrived. I could choose to mind my own business, and let her find her own way. I could try to talk her out of it, and she would probably do it anyway, taking those first fateful steps down the path of destruction. I could tell her what I knew, in the hope she would see this way of life was not for her. I mean, it’s worked for me, sort of, but only because I was one of the fortunate few who survived the hardships and managed to find balance in my life, overcoming my addiction to drugs and alcohol, to compartmentalize, as I said before. I knew I was fortunate in that I had defied the odds. And if, despite my warnings, she decided to go into the business anyway, well, at least I would know I tried. “Umm, Whitney . . . there’s something you should know.”
88
Jackie
I told her. By that, I mean I told her everything. I told her I was a professional escort and dominatrix. Yes, I did own some investment properties, but they were paid for with the money I’d earned conducting the business of pleasure. At one time, I was your typical girl next door, like Whitney, doing my best as a single mother. But, I was struggling, living hand to mouth.
I told her how at one time, I was just as desperate as she now was. That I, too, had answered one of those agency ads that said I could make a thousand dollars or more per day, and travel to exotic places I’d always dreamed of seeing. Meet interesting and exciting people. No experience necessary, the ad said. We train you.
“I answered the ad because I lost my job at a trucking company—the boss’s wife felt threatened by my presence—and my bills were piling up. Collection agencies were calling me nearly every day.”
Whitney nodded, “Tell me about it.”
I suppose it should come as no surprise that bills and debt are the most common motivating factors for women who get into the business. Even more so nowadays, with the economy the way it has been the past few years.
“Most people think we make a boatload of money,” I said, “and many women, like me, when I first started, are looking for a quick fix to their financial problems. They start with the expectation of working only long enough to pay off student loans, maybe buy a house or a car, and sock away a little in savings. But, that’s seldom, if ever, the reality of it.”
Whitney listened intently as I went on about my other life, how I became an agency escort in the beginning, because I had no idea there was any other way. “It wasn’t very long before I figured out agencies stink,” I said. “The agency I worked for was run by a brother and sister, at least, that’s what the other girls told me. There was some resemblance, I suppose, if you could bear to look at them long enough to see it. The guy’s name was Alfie. I don’t know how long it had been since he bathed, but I’m sure it was quite a while before I met him, and certainly not during the entire time I knew him. His nose was always running, and he had this habit of wiping it on the sleeve of his dirty T-shirt. Then, he would always do a sniff test of his armpit. He was vulgar, and always hitting the girls up for a free toss, but none of us would have anything to do with him.
“Alfie always walked around with a revolver tucked into his pants, the hand grip sticking out so everyone could see it. I know it made me feel a lot safer,” I said, sarcastically, rolling my eyes.
Whitney seemed to hang on my every word. “What was his sister like?”
“Phyllis was no better. She was missing a front tooth – never saw the need to get a replacement, I guess – and her hair was dyed in streaks of crimson red and bleach blonde. She overdid the makeup, like that Mimi character on the old Drew Carey Show. Her personal hygiene was only slightly better than her brother’s, and she lived on, of all things, cabbage sandwiches, which gave her the walking farts. If you look up the word ‘Bitch’, you’ll see her picture next to it. And at the end of the definition, it would say, ‘See also: Cunt.’
“They lied to us all the time. We couldn’t believe a thing they said. When I answered their ad, they told me I could choose which clients to see, I would NEVER EVER have to do anything I didn’t want to do, and my safety was their number one concern – three of the five biggest lies in the business.”
“What are the other two?” Whitney wanted to know.
“You’ll learn soon enough, if you decide to go into the business,” was all I would tell her about that.
I told her that in my opinion, the agencies are no better than drug dealers. Maybe not all of them, but certainly the ones I knew anything about. Paying out minimal amounts of money to you so you can never afford to quit.
“My first day with the agency was horrendous. My very first outcall appointment was to a seedy ‘No-Tell Motel’ off the end of the runway at the New Orleans International Airport. The room was grimy – there were bugs on the bed, cracked mirrors on the walls and ceiling, and the bathroom was so dreadful I wouldn’t go near it even though I needed to pee so bad I thought my bladder might actually burst. I suffered through it somehow.
“I saw eight clients that day, Whitney. Eight!” I shook my head, shuddered involuntarily. “The agency rate was $200, and I only got half of it. I had my own junk car, so I was able to drive myself to meet my clients. Otherwise, I would have to pay a driver for each client he took me to. Some of the girls took care of the drivers in their back seats out in the parking lot to pay their tabs, but not everyone. Not me, anyway. Except for just once when my car battery was dead. I found out later he had disconnected the ground cable.”
I stopped, took a sip of my latte, and said, “When it’s all said and done, by the time the agency and the driver take their cuts, a $200 date left the girl with a lousy eighty bucks!” Granted, that was several years ago. But, with today’s economy, most girls are working for half of what they were getting only a few years ago, so it’s about the same now as when I was starting out, unless you can make yourself stand out from the crowd ... become a specialist of sorts, and catering to high-end clientele.”
I could tell by the look of interest on her face that I should have left out the last part. She leaned forward and asked, “How do you do that?”
I shook my head. “You’re not ready.” I told her how everyone in an agency is in your pocket, that if you don’t grease the palm of the person answering the phones, you find yourself sitting for hours at a time during your shift on ramshackle furniture in a grubby room that was considered to be the “lounge”. If you turned down a client for any reason, or said ‘No’ anything he wanted you to do, and he complained to Alfie or Phyllis, you’d find yourself passing time in the lounge, like a hockey player in a penalty box, while other girls—who’d no doubt already learned the hard way—got the calls. It was their way of teaching you a lesson. Alfie and Phyllis couldn’t have cared less about our security, and, even though they couldn’t make us do anything, you’d go broke sitting on your ass in the lounge, safely clinging to your virtue.
“I only lasted about three weeks. I told Phyllis I was quitting one night halfway through my shift. She never asked why, didn’t even look up from the Glamour magazine she was reading. All she said was, “Whatever. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, Trixie.”
“That was your working name?” Whitney asked, “Trixie?”
I laughed. “No … just her way of throwing an insult at me on the way out. I think I went by ‘Charlotte’ back then.”
“Oh.” Whitney’s eyebrows narrowed as she formulated a question. “Did you go to another agency? Or have some sort of an agent, you know” she leaned in, whispered, “a pimp?”
I shook my head. “Huh-Uh! I decided that night I was going to learn to conduct business on my own. Thank God I knew better at that early juncture than to even consider a pimp. That was fifteen years ago,” I said. “And now, here I am today. Still waiting for my prince.”
Whitney sat there, deep in thought. “I don’t want to go down that road,” she said, and I felt a tremendous wave of relief. By telling her my story, my hope was she would forget the whole idea. I was then surprised when she said, “Will you help me get started out on my own, Jackie?”