The funny thing about hookers is the more they try and stay on the down low, the more they fascinate those around them. There are those that know that something is amiss, and they notice that things do not add up at the end of the day. People need to see others toil away at the same grinding wheel or else they get suspicious. I suppose my neighbors knew I was eccentric, but never quite fully realized the extent of my capabilities. I was a high-class call girl, an escort, and I made enough money in one day to pay my rent for the month. I walked around my neighborhood dressed like a homeless person: wearing paint-spattered overalls, flip flops and no bra, and thick glasses. I dressed for my clients in my apartment or in a hotel. My transformation was so dramatic, that my neighbors could not recognize me. I told my neighbors the truth: that I was a slut and dated a lot. This made them smile at me knowingly when they saw me, and raised less suspicion.

Every family has secrets. My family prided itself on education and the fostering of knowledge that brought power.  I was always told to know things directly, to go out and live life to the fullest. Don’t trust just what you read, know it as truth. Some family secrets get so embedded, that the lies eventually become reality. I don’t remember how it begun, it was always there. The story of how I came to be a prostitute is irrelevant, the fact that I can stand and tell my story to you is remarkable.

My mother was a good mother. She worked hard to feed her four children. I always knew that she worked at the hospital nights and I knew that she would be there in the morning to feed us and make sure we went to school. I never suspected that she worked much harder than any mother should have to, that she literally laid her life on the line for us. It wasn’t till much later that the puzzle pieces clicked into position and the family picture became clear.  I was destined to become a whore. The women in my family had sacrificed their personal lives for those they loved a secret that bonds them tighter than blood ties.

Every woman is a whore. We look to men for our affirmation and self worth. My mother at nearly half my age was starting on her first of four children. Her mother before had already had plenty of children, and my mother was a mistake. My grandmother never forgave my grandfather for that. I was a mistake as well, the end product of an extra marital affair from the end of the bottleneck of the sixties.  My father was not present in my childhood, and it wasn’t until I was much older that I wondered if it would have made a difference.

Like my mother, my sexual history had a long list before long. I had begun to have more meaningless sex, and I craved for more passion. I thought this meant marriage. I dallied with professional boyfriends, but I became increasingly bored. One must eat, even if all that is on the plate is bland.

I was waiting to get off the plane in Chicago O’Hare airport when I noticed something peculiar. Most of the stereotypical male clients that I have had are usually seated in aisle seats, and have mild crown balding spots, and travel with one carry-on slipped into the overhead compartment. In typical type A fashion they seemed oriented to exit the plane as fast as possible. They were in a hurry to go absolutely nowhere. This made me flash back on the memory of a few of my former clients that they felt compelled to bolt as fast as possible from my in call apartment. They were internally synchronized to their type A clock, as if they had heard a gun firing off, and away they went: dancing on one foot, and shimmying on their “exotic” black briefs, snapping their watches on wrist as they smoothed their thinning hair flat. Everything was in control and in order. I could almost hear their mantra, no one gets caught, and no one gets hurt.  The goodbye kiss was perfunctory and put me in my place. I wonder now if this is the kiss they kiss their wives, on his way to work, which enables them to pay for an encounter with me and buys them a little more time before purgatory.

I remember most clearly the ones that could not have much sex with me. The ones that wanted to touch my skin, and look at my face. The man I tried to fellatiate in vain while we listen to Broadway show tunes in a deluxe suite hotel room. The old man that came so quickly and would leave faster than he had ejaculated, was apologetic and sweet.
When I was arrested for prostitution a year ago, I took my phone number off my ads. I felt shame, I really wanted to find a way out of my immediate hell. I found the jarring ring of my phone put me into a panic, a rabid mix of sex, blood, fear and magic that contorted my voice into something that I could not recognize as my own. I was afraid of what I was becoming, and I needed control. I began to scrutinize the drug dealers in my neighborhood. I needed to learn how to keep my cool.  I needed to know how to keep myself together.

I stopped crying all the time. I knew that my life had always been a struggle and that I was slipping. I told myself that because I could still pick myself up was a sign that I hadn’t completely fallen apart. I started to take days off. I answered my messages less frequently, and I began to write. Writing was what saved me, I started posting witty banter on an erotic web board and started to attract the clients I had always wanted. Intellectuals: doctors, lawyers, CEOs, writers, and artists. These people enjoyed my quirks and started to seek me out and celebrated my uniqueness. Before I knew it, my rent was paid on time, and I wasn’t going hungry. I decided to travel; I wanted to find America and myself.