All Golpo Are Fake And Dream Of Writer, Do Not Try It In Your Life

I’m opposed to having sex for money

Ray met me inside. In his wrinkled khakis and faded button-down, he looked more like a poster boy for Bud Light than the proprietor of a high-end prostitution ring. He offered an enthusiastic hello before introducing me to Leah. “She’s the madam I work with.” Madam. Okay, he said “madam.” Time to readjust my expectations. He had lied in his Craig’s List ad.
But everyone lies on the Internet. And the situation wasn’t threatening; it was exciting. So I stayed.
Before going on, I should explain something. In high school, I was that girl. The one who spawned rumors that spread across town and sometimes across state lines. “Did you hear? Sarah Harrison has sex with girls.” “She had a threesome in a London hotel room.” “She had sex on a pool table with a

 I’m opposed to having sex for money
 I’m opposed to having sex for money
line of guys waiting outside the door to take their turn.” Some of the rumors were true (sex with girls, London threesome), others weren’t (gang bang). To my puritanically minded peers, I was a brazen sexual adventurer. Gossip came with the territory.
After moving to New York eleven months ago, I was free to explore my sexual boundaries without the threat of reproachful whispering. I wanted to find out if I would be comfortable selling my body. I’d read Brothel, a book about the prostitutes of the Mustang Ranch in Nevada, and I knew that being a call girl didn’t have to be exploitive and degrading. Some women choose sex as a profession, and they’re proud of their work. I could be one of them.
At the agency, Leah flashed a crimson-lipped smile and extended her hand. She was in her early twenties, and cute in a ’50s pin-up way. She wore a short red cotton skirt, ankle socks with ruffles and red mary janes. Her gestures were theatrical and exaggerated, like a practiced drag queen. She showed me into the back room (which was bare except for a couch and a full-length mirror) and offered me a drink, which I declined. I wanted to keep my wits intact.
“So, you know what this business is, right?” asked Leah.
“Um, yeah.” I said. The “madam” comment had sort of given it away.
“Because some girls come in here thinking they’re just taking these guys to dinner,” Leah smiled. Right.
She asked if I had any experience in the adult industry. I didn’t: no go-go dancing, no stripping, no foot-fetish modeling, no sensual massage. That was okay, Leah said, lots of their girls had no prior experience. She assured me that if I got the job, I should definitely take it. “We get so many applicants. So many women want to do this, because it’s so lucrative.” Her eyes caught mine like I was her confidante. “But we only take the ones we really like. We’re very selective.”
Was she lying? I know lots of girls who would go to dinner for $600, but when dessert is sex, the number drops dramatically. In fact, I don’t think I know anyone who would do this.
“We’ll need to see you naked,” said Leah. “Bra, panties, everything off.” She left the room so I could strip. Off with the tall black boots, black pinstripe pants, and the deeply V-necked electric blue blouse I’d so carefully ironed that morning. When Leah returned, she looked me up and down, then asked if I would mind if everyone else came in. I was proud that I could say, “No, I wouldn’t mind at all.” She opened the door to the front room and called out, “Come see her naked!”
Ray bounded in, followed by the girls from the front room: Catherine, Marisa, and Emilia. I stood in the corner next to the mirror while everyone spread around for an unobstructed view. Emilia and Marisa quietly sat down. They looked uncomfortable; apparently, I was the only interviewee that day to opt for an audience. I suddenly regretted not having shaved my legs that morning. I could feel the blood rushing to my face.

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