Me: No, I'm going to see an escort.
GP: But you're paying for sex.
Me: No. That's illegal. I'm paying for this person's company. What they choose to do in my company is completely at their discretion.
GP: Why don't you just hook up with a woman at a bar or get a fuck buddy?
Me: Because I don't want to go to a bar and I don't want a fuck buddy. This is not some quest to maximize the amount of times I can get off. I have problems and I am seeking the help of professionals. I put in effort and energy. I am working towards getting better. They help because they get it. I explain the problem and it doesn't phase them. Bar girl can be phased. Fuck buddy can be phased. I will treat the woman I'm with like a treasure because I don't know any other way to do it and we will find a way to make it work so that I can improve, and I will continue to do so until I feel comfortable enough in that aspect of my life to deal with individuals that aren't professionals.
To a degree, that is the conversation that I have at some point with someone in every new place I go. It's shortened because I still haven't gone into the nervous breakdown stuff on this blog yet. People have a very close-minded view of the world as it pertains to paying for companionship, be it due to religious beliefs, simple frugality, or a myriad of reasons that lie in between. I feel as though it's helped me and though I have a long way to go, I'm moving in the right direction. I'll probably have more stories soon involving my adventures in hobbying but what I never plan on doing is referring to the individuals I see as prostitutes. It's a label that I don't feel does these ladies justice the same way that escort does. I'll use these two recent examples as an explanation of each word's definition.
Dateline: October 11, 2013. At this point, I had only known this person for two weeks yet I found myself embarking on a four hour road trip to Vegas with him. Probably because I wasn't made aware that the reason everyone else bailed on the plan to go to Vegas was because he wasn't really liked...at all...by anybody... His primary goal for this day was to have the most debaucherous Vegas day he could have. He can't wait to hit the blackjack tables. He's looking forward to the seedy strip clubs. He's on Backpage while we're in the hotel's check-in line. He is ready to "turn up"! I just want more than two damn hours of sleep.
By the time we make it to the room he's narrowed his choices down for the first time he will pay for the companionship of a beautiful women between two ads: Girl A & Girl B. Though one of his lifetime fantasies could be fulfilled by being with an Asian woman, he was still so torn by the choice that I suggested he flip a coin. After enlisting the help of our great nation's 34th President, Girl B was chosen. The phone call was made and though it sounded like everything was okay, there was just enough of a something that was off about it which raised some concerns with the newcomer.
Him: What if I get mugged?
Me: Then we'll have to get you to a hospital and you would have the experience of paying to be mugged instead of the other experience you thought you paid for.
Him: ...That's not helping to calm me down!
Me: But it is honest. You are taking a risk. The same way that she is. The way that you hope to not be mugged or drugged and stuck in a hotel to fend for your life is the same way she's hoping that you don't use her skin to make a new jacket lining. If it all works out, she'll be compensated and you will have your experience.
If I can ever help it, I'll never be that right again.
We drive over to the hotel where she told him to meet at the scheduled time and I drop him off and wait in the parking lot. After arriving promptly an hour plus after the scheduled start time due to "traffic", two very important points are bought to his attention (not mine yet because I'm on chauffeur duty):
1-They won't be rockin' at the main hotel at the Palace Station hotel and casino on this lovely evening. Au contraire! They'll be utilizing the Courtyard Hotel at the Palace Station.
2-That something off in the voice that was heard during the phone call? Oh, that was eight years of life. Eight years of hard, Vegas, Backpage heavy, life. In an instant, that young, delicious, 21 year old became a simply not so young and not so delicious 29 year old.
After seeing that her age had been..."doctored", he chose to stay. After realizing that the hour of tardiness probably had less to do with traffic and more to do with her roommate who was also in the business of "companionship" was currently occupying the room, he chose to stay. After seeing that turn around time was more of a priority than clean up because the previous patron's unwrapped condom was still near the head of the far side of the bed to be used, he probably should've bailed but did not. Besides, the concession offered of simply halfing the bed so that the used condom could play the role of voyeur as opposed to grabbing a garbage bag, using it like a mitten, and doing the animal poop bag invert move almost demands that you see where this ride is bound to take you. According to his account of the evening's events, where it took them was pretty audacious. My thoughts are italicized:
Him: You have condoms?
Liar: ... No, I don't have any more condoms.
Wait a second. This bitch made him wait an hour and in that time, she couldn't stop at a CVS and grab a three pack?
Him: Okay...
Liar: Well... I mean...we're both adults here, right?
No, nigga! No! We're not both adults here! You were an hour late, you padded your age by nearly a decade, and you're alluding to hands down, what may be the most absurd idea in history!
Him: Well...I know I'm clean... (he shoots her a presumptive look)
Liar: I certainly know I'm clean!
When he reappeared from an event that would have been lauded by Andre Breton, he walked to the car in a daze that I can only liken to the one Charlie Brown takes in A Charlie Brown Christmas. He is stunned by what has occurred. He's hurt and angry at being deceived. He would have preferred to have been mugged. At least that way he could extol about his newly acquired red badge of courage through this deception. But that was not to be. All of the things that happened to him that evening were on him and none of them bought about anything more than feelings of shame and regret. $160 got him a terribly unprofessional experience, a lackluster story, a pretty good reason to be concerned for his health, and about half a blog post for me. Not exactly the best possible return on investment. By my definition, my co-worker was with a prostitute.
A mere eight days later, I'm in Seattle about to see a woman whom I've written about sporadically on this blog. A woman whose effortless humor, sardonic wit, and incredibly toned legs have captivated my Twitter page and iPhone wallpaper since mid-July. I get to go to Canada and look Mona in her eyes. Which almost didn't happen because in between my connecting flight in Salt Lake City, UT, I receive Mona's message and it informs me that her day is almost completely booked. I subsequently panic and go to make the appointment right then and there, but I then panic again and hang up because of the fear involved with saying the wrong thing around four adolescent children. I wait for the plane to allow the passengers off of it and make my appointment which was a fabulously discreet process. I get to the hotel and spend the night at some pretentiously swanky digs in a pretentiously swanky city and prep for what will be an amazing day.
I head to the station to board the ferry into Victoria, British Columbia and I'm excited and nervous. I get my boarding passes and I'm anxious and I'm intrigued. I pat my back pocket and I'm forgetful; oh sweet Jesus, I forgot my passport at the hotel! I call one cab company in the area and they calmly explain to me that it will take them a half hour to get to me as a gypsy cab is pulling up. I've got twenty minutes to make it there and back or this trip is for naught. Fuck reputability.
Me: Can you take a fare?
Cabbie: Yes.
Me: Hotel Max & back. How long?
Cabbie: Fifteen minutes.
Me: Turn this Lincoln into the Mach 5, hoss! Let's bounce!
As we begin our journey, a train is headed in our direction that forces us to haul an additional level of ass to beat out before the railroad crossing sticks come down and stop this trip before it even starts. But I believe in this driver. He's flashing his brights to turn red lights green, he's utilizing a lighter than usual adherence to speed limits, he's getting the job done. He gets me back to the hotel very quickly, I move hastily back to the hotel room, grab the passport and move with what I felt was an equal level of haste back to the cab. We are high tailing it back to the ferry and are going to make it there without a hitch when, of course, there's a hitch. The train we had to beat to get to the hotel is still going and is so long it is stopping us from getting back to the dock.
Cabbie: How much more time?
Me: Eleven minutes.
Cabbie: It ought to be ending soon...like this one ought to be the last car...riiiiiight here...
Me (ten rail cars later): ...
Cabbie: ... How much more time?
Me: Six minutes.
As the final rail car passes, he cuts somebody in a van off that if the situation was different, I'd feel sorry for. But on that day, at that moment, they weren't human beings with feelings. They were obstacles in the way of me seeing someone that meant a lot to me. I got to the ferry in time and all I could think about was how much effort and how many times my mother has tried to get me to go with her and the rest of the family on a cruise to the Caribbean. I say no before the sentence is finished, let alone the sales pitch. One beautiful woman makes me laugh or fills me with intrigue in 140 characters or less and I'm on a boat to Canada in mid-October. I guess I'm a little different in that regard.
We dock in Victoria Harbour and since it's a Sunday and I have a few hours to kill, I ask the cab driver to bring me to a place with American football. He does so by bringing me to the Irish Times Pub. I have not eaten everywhere nor do I claim to be a food critic with proper credentials. But I'm daring someone to place a better item on their soup menu than their Westcoast Chowder. Don't even waste your time with a cup. It's insulting. Get a bowl and allow the flavors of sea based happiness to roll over your palate. It tasted so good, I was almost not annoyed with the fact that I had to watch the Montreal Alouettes crush the Hamilton Tiger Cats in the Canadian version of American football...that cabbie was a jerk...
It was also here that I met Julian. A truly cool as hell bartender that I was able to have some fabulous conversation with while 2 pm couldn't get here fast enough. He offered me some Tabasco sauce for my soup without knowing I was from New Orleans and from there, we just hit it off. We talked about how no one misses humidity and how he will always hold a special place in my memory for being my first authentic Canadian "Eh?". He has this very daring vacation plan next summer to fly in to San Francisco with his girlfriend, rent a car, and drive the coast of the US to the Florida Keys in three weeks. Bravery lives in Victoria, and apparently wears a kilt. He offered me some of their apple cider and I'm typically not one to say not to "delicious" or for that matter, "free" so I take a glass. I blow on it and wait a few seconds for the cider to cool down and just like that, my precious taste buds are dead. It's scalding hot. Someone inadvertently left the cider on too high of a warming temperature but not hot enough to bring it to a boil. It was delicious once an ice cube was added to the glass, it was free now if it wasn't before, but a friendship lost its innocence that day...
Julian: Did I burn you? Oh, shit! I'm sorry man!
Me: It's okay. Not my first rodeo.
Julian: Are you going to be alright?
NO! I'M NOT GOING TO BE OKAY! NOT TODAY! NOT THIS! I NEED THIS! IT'S MY TONGUE! I'M NOT WELL ENOUGH YET TO NOT DO TONGUEY THINGS, MAN! THIS IS MONA WE ARE TALKING ABOUT! I ALMOST MISSED MY DAMN BOAT! ET TU, JULIAN?! BEWARE FIVE DAYS AFTER THE IDES OF OCTOBER! THERE IS A WITCH AMONGST THEE!!!
Me: Yeah. I'll be fine.
I left the pub and just walked around the city while awaiting my appointment, experiencing some of the fabulous amenities Victoria has to offer like a Starbucks within the same field of view of another Starbucks and getting back Canadian change when paying for something in American cash. I didn't have an issue with this one because it's a road game for me & I have to play by their rules. It was just really different. With a half hour to go before my appointment, I had to call to get the address. Once I have it, I'll use the ol' phone GPS to get where I need to go without a hitch. But there's a hitch. There's always a hitch. There has to be a hitch. My data connection isn't working at all. The occasional text has made it through and I can send/receive calls but it is simply not logging on to anything. No email, no Twitter, no Facebook, most importantly no Google Maps, no nothing. So I do what any self-respecting gentleman would do in this situation and go to the bookstore across the street and ask the oldest man there if he can get me the number to a cab in the area. Thankfully, they cannot find their phone book and the clock is ticking. Oy fucking vey.
Me: Well, do you know where So-And-So Street is?
Old Book Guy: Oh, sure that's only a few blocks that way. What number?
Me: 500 block.
Old Book Guy: Certainly. When you hit that street, take a left. You didn't even need a cab.
When in doubt in a different country, always get info from the old guy in a book store. I only have a small sampling to go off of, but so far, every one of them has been clutch in getting me helpful information.
I make it to my destination with a few minutes to spare, get let in and go up a mildly unnerving flight of stairs and ring the doorbell to hear the always exhilarating click of a pair of heels and the opening of a giant metal door. "You look cuter than I expected." Oh...my...God...It's her. It's really her. For me to appropriately pine for this woman in the way that is the most fair, I'm going to need some theme music. This ought to do it...
Mona, the witty little minx with blonde hair and highlights that were kissed by the sun itself. The woman whose eyes captivate as much of my attention as her links to science articles do. Her perkiness isn't insincere. Her coolness isn't pretentious. She's awesome, she knows it, and yet she doesn't come across as unapproachable. Mona rules. *Music off* "Okay, I don't have on any panties and I haven't had time to strap up my heels. You're early." *Music on* Hark! My muse's words are an elixir to this weary traveler's ears! *Music off* I pick a room, hand her my credit card, and relax as she deals with the particulars of the business side of these wonderful interludes.
She comes back, fully underdressed and strappy heeled like the professional she is, we exchange small talk about my obnoxiously tiny shower and her cat named after not exactly the coolest possible Battlestar Galactica fighter pilot. We talk about my disappointment that she got a new phone before I had a chance to see the ol' Blackberry (Just no damn loyalty in Canada anymore...).We mocked how bad regular radio was. We have a toast and eat a S'muffin (which I had to keep refrigerated by placing the pack in the sink and dumping bucket after bucket of ice into the basin) and just have fun.
We made out like we were high schoolers. I requested that she elaborate on a point she made during a time that we were both in a position where it was difficult for either party to focus on the topic at hand, yet she still made one of the most fantastic references I've ever heard (I'll never look at a woman at a cocktail party enjoying an hors d'oeuvres the same way again.). She saw I was struggling with putting on her new gift and though I didn't explain that since I was burned, doing something like buckling the strap of a pump used to be impossible so I don't care how long it takes if I can get it done, she simply offered to help. When I asked her if she had any condoms, she replied, "Of course! You never have to worry about that with me!" Which was then followed by more touching and tasting and giggling and expletive-laced investigative inquiries like, "Where the fuck are my condoms?" as she rummaged through a small purse. While I continued to explore, I couldn't help but ask if she still couldn't find them. "Well, yeah, I did but I didn't really want that to stop." Best possible visual to describe confidence level?
She understood my situation with my addiction and made me feel comfortable, regardless of the outcome. She shared stories of her experiences. She cared. She rules. A friendly reminder knock on the door was used to let us know that my time with my muse was up and I gave her a good bye kiss...which became a big good bye kiss...which was fabulously intense. So intense in fact, that after we were done, I cursed the heavens and grabbed her hand and placed it right below my belt. "Dude, do you have the worst timing in history?" Yes, Mona. Yes I do.
I received my orders to just practice and don't worry about it. I know that one day, I'll sort out all of these things. But it would be foolish to say that I'm in no way deterred by my performance even though the reality is she's literally the 2nd partner I've had in my 31 years on this planet. I've given her my word that I will come back and she'll get a better me and I am working very hard to make that happen. She is this really fun, quirky, firecracker of animal magnetism. What makes her sexy isn't just her appearance or her passion. It's her zeal for life itself that comes through in her work and her time with you. I was just as happy looking into her eyes as I was watching her writhe on top of my face (which isn't the fairest simile because technically I could still look her in the eyes). Inconsistencies were explained, moments were shared, and a smile couldn't possibly leave my face while there. She saw me out and gave me a hug goodbye which might have gotten her lips and neck some additional attention and as I left, I couldn't help but wish that a motherfucker would try to put a dent into just how fabulous my experience was in Victoria.
Soon thereafter, I got back on the ferry to Seattle and once I hit the States, I received a message that I will hold dear to my heart for years to come. I felt wanted and appreciated. Not in the strip club sense of "She's trying to keep me here longer to get more money." but in the sense of, "She wanted to make sure I knew what this time meant to her." To be honest, it meant so much to me that while writing the original draft of this on the airplane back home from Seattle and reminiscing about some of the nuances and details of my appointment, I became teary-eyed. If you can experience that for free, more power to you. But I have no problem being charged a premium for that. By my definition, what I was lucky enough to experience is an escort.
I have no issue with Backpage (in fact, my co-worker ended up having a fabulous time with a few young ladies when we made it back to LA) but, I do have a major issue with being a sucker. I love that I can use Twitter to vet the escorts I would potentially see because personality matters. If all you have to offer is your body, you can keep it to yourself. I'm not looking for prostitutes. I'm am here and in this lifestyle to get better and to heal the tremendous amount of damage I've done to myself over the years. I'm not looking for a fuck buddy or some random ho to just throw my dick into. I'm not looking for a relationship until I'm comfortable enough with myself. I'm looking for a few people I can share a moment or two with, that can teach me some things that demand to be field tested, that love to laugh, and can appreciate a pair of pumps. If that costs a few bucks, here's my card, don't call them a prostitute, and tell me where I need to sign. Because as a beautiful young lady once told me while putting her hair up in a ponytail prior to being incredibly accommodating (as escorts tend to be), "Shit's about to get real." *Music on*
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