LiTTLE BLACK BOOK

The one who paid me to act her out fantasy

Many years ago, I got paid to sleep with an escort.

No, that sentence isn’t a mistake.

Look, I didn’t know she was an escort till after the fact. It was when I crept out of her room at three in the morning and found her little black book while rummaging around her drawers for a bottle opener. The names, the dates, the bullet points on each of the men. The pristine luxury apartment, the closet full of designer, and the refusal to expand on any sort of details relating to her work all made sense. That and the mind-blowing experience I had just been subject to.

It was like a human version of porn. I don’t watch porn. I did a few times as a 13 year old and something about it unsettled me. Just like this experience did.

It was such an intense level of sexual energy it was hard to believe it was real. It was dark. Firing all the male neurons that would be impossible to replicate by a non-professional. I felt like I had just participated in a one woman show. Performance art like no other. But it felt hollow. Rehearsed eroticism. I knew there was something real beneath it all yet she wasn’t letting it out. I wasn’t connecting, only consuming. Or being consumed.

I was in Houston for a short stint, a city I knew no one in. I met her on Bumble. She was a light skinned Mexican. I could tell she was a high maintenance girl from the pictures and the attitude through text. Wavy blonde hair, juicy filler lips, long nails, flawless makeup, and siren eyes. Every picture in a dress, holding an expensive bag, in front of some fancy place. No smiles. This is not normally my type, but I was not in my city and I felt the pull of trying something new. The banter was good enough (superficial but my bar wasn’t high at the time). We quickly made plans.

I pulled up to her apartment building at nine PM and gave her a ring. She answered and shouted over the sound of her blow dryer to tell me to come up. I hesitated a bit—wondering if this was some sort of setup for a robbery, but my blood flow won out and I marched into the elevator.

The building was huge and bougie but devoid of any soul (like those standard cookie cutter high-rises that could be in Charlotte, or Tempe, or Orlando—the Amazonification of residential). I had a strange feeling all the way up. She opened the door in a semi-sheer nightslip and apologized for running late as she held an eyelash curler in one hand. I paced around her kitchen island as she continued to get ready. We joked around about the fact that her apartment reminded me of a hotel. Very little furniture. The fridge was stocked all sorts of high end beverages and snacks. No meals, no ingredients.

Her bathroom door was open and I could catch a peek of her silhouette as she finished up. Her voice was intoxicating. I found myself lowering my own without realizing it. Her presence was magnetic. I forgot where I was—I simply wanted her.

Everything about the encounter seemed intentional—the way she walked, what she showed me, how she kept me hanging on to every glimpse of her shuffling back and forth between her bathroom and her bedroom changing. She asked me which pair of heels were hotter—the Jimmy Choo’s or the Muaddi ones. I stared at her ass as she tried them on in the mirror and told her clearly the Muaddi and she agreed with a smile. She knew where I was looking, like a seasoned director. I was just along for the ride.

She took one look at my Tacoma and said let’s take my car. She pulled out of the parking garage in the latest Mercedes S Class, the big body. From the car ride on I got maybe 10 sentences in the rest of the night until the bedroom.

I have a feeling she wanted to treat me the way she gets treated by her clients. Why she chose me, I don’t know. Even as someone as cocky as me—I have my moments where I look at the camera with a puzzled look on my face—and this was one of them. It was not at all what I expected. Other than asking me what I did, I received no other questions. I was a prop in her choreography.

We stopped at a Houston speakeasy and I could tell she liked my choice when she kept pestering me about if I had brought other women here and I said I hadn’t (I had). I excused myself towards the end to go the bathroom and pay the bill. To my surprise—she had paid it on her own bathroom trip. I told her she was crazy and she laughed.

We went next door to the sister hand roll restaurant. I continued to listen to her monologue. She really entertained herself. I’m used to being the more talkative of a pair so this was an interesting change of pace for me. It was great practice of my active listening: the questions, the hmmms, the reactions, the no ways, the eyebrow raises. Looking back, I think it was irrelevant what I did. Chances are she decided pretty quickly she was going to sleep with me and this entire song and dance was for show. The topic was primarily herself, her appearance, her travels. Coulda been boring but she was a seasoned conversationalist and I just admired the expert at work. Once she started making jokes about me thinking I was going to fuck her I knew I was going to fuck her.

More like she was going to fuck me. We made it back to her apartment and she gave me a “tour” as I slowly traced my hands across her, exploring more and more, as she playfully danced around, and nestled in to them. I kissed her neck while she showed me her coffee table books she’s never read. She drew me in with her fingers, dancing along my beard and looking deep into my eyes as she kissed me, harder and harder. I was under the spell.

What followed was a two hour long battle. I prefer to be the dominant one, or have a playful back and forth...but this girl had some sort of repressed rage against her clients and she took it out on me. I tried to fight back but at some point I just gave in and let her use me.

It was like she had some sort of script. Or maybe men are really that easy to game. No, it was both.

I’ve been around girls who are good at turning you on, but this was fucking surgical. Mechanical (but top of the line) when I look back at it. With most sexy girls you feel that they are owning themselves, overflowing with self love and desire and that is what they are drawing you in with. Here, I knew this girl must have had some depth, but that was not what she was tapping into. This was a house of mirrors. A carefully crafted perception, mixed with a vindictiveness. But even those negative emotions were not for me, or from me. That could be hot in its own way. I was just a pretty face to scratch up, and a pretty dick to hop on and enact revenge on.

When we made it to her bedroom I turned off the lights and she grabbed my face and told me to turn on the closet light because she wanted me to see her body while I fucked her. She unbuttoned my shirt as she let out a quiet hum, bordering on a moan—so welcoming it made my own noises let loose. When I was taking my pants off to put on a condom, she had grabbed my glasses and was smiling as she laid down with her head hanging off the edge of the bed. She looked at my dick and looked up at me and told me I had a beautiful dick as she began to suck it.

I’ll spare you the details but she used me three times.

Bedroom, and bathroom sink to shower for the first two. I felt like at least I got back at her by fucking her on her bedroom floor and finishing all over her and her carpet. She spit on my face, called me a whore, scratched my back, and slapped my face. She told me to get on my knees and beg for it. She would rapidly change positions, right when she saw I was enjoying it most. She would tease me right until the edge then laugh at me. She made me lick her to a finish three times in a row, not letting me come up for air. There was no kissing during the sex.

We laid in bed talking at the end of it, after our second shower and the room was spinning for me. She did not let me hold her at first, but gradually came over and laid her head on my chest. The act so far had been flawless but I was more excited to learn about the woman behind it.

She started peppering me with questions about my family. I obliged, answering succinctly as I could sense she was tense. Then she asked me if I wanted my own family. I said of course, I grew up with a happy family and it was important to me to continue that because it brought me so much fulfillment and peace.

She asked me if I wanted to start a family with her.

Huh? I thought to myself.

Before I could answer her tone changed, her voice hardened once more. She said every guy she slept with wanted to put a baby in her. But she didn’t think any of them deserved her carrying their child. I stayed silent. She rolled over and faked going to sleep.

I could feel my stomach turning, my nervous system telling me to get out. So I shimmied out of the sheets and put my clothes on. I grabbed a sparkling water from the fridge, and it had a bottle cap so I went on a bottle opener hunt. That’s when I stumbled upon her little black book. It all made sense. I made a mental note to get tested ASAP (but it also clicked why she, out of any girl I’ve ever slept with, was the most insistent about using a condom).

What are you doing?

She stood there in the doorway of her bedroom. I had the drawer open and the book open and I gingerly closed it.

Looking for a bottle opener. I’m thirsty.

So next time fucking ask me instead of going through my shit.

You were sleeping, I’m sorry.

I closed the drawer as she stomped over and reached into the drawer next to it and pulled out a bottle opener. My heart was racing at this point. I just wanted to leave and get as far away from her and this night as possible. Lust had never led me to good places.

She turned around back to her room and I gulped the sparkling water as fast as I could, but grimaced as the bubbles got to me. I tiptoed towards the door.

Hold on. I turned and she walked towards me with a wad of cash in her hand.

Here. She shoved it into my shirt pocket.

What the fuck? What are you doing?

So you understand what this was. Nothing. I stood there terrified. Confused.

Why are you giving me money?

Don’t you fucking get it? This is it. We’re done. You have your money. Leave.

I reached for the money and she dug her nails into me pushing my hand back down into my pocket. I looked up and her eyes were furious. I took a deep breath and opened the door. She slammed it behind me.

In the elevator I counted the crumpled cash. $300. This was definitely making into my journal.

I wondered if I made it into her little black book.