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

The Naked Interview

Could you spread your legs a little wider?” the woman said in a throaty Bronx accent. I was standing naked in a townhouse on Fifty-Sixth Street in Manhattan. Leah, the strident young woman standing in front of me, wanted a better view of my muff. I widened my stance so she could see the curves of my inner thigh.
I had answered an ad on Craig’s List that sought “young women to accompany wealthy businessmen to industry events and dinners.” I thought I’d meet some shy finance type who wanted a cute, cheeky girl to hang off his arm while he discussed venture capitalism and drank champagne. I thought I’d

The Naked Interview
The Naked Interview
smirk at the wives and conspire with the girlfriends. Even though the posting was suspicious — it advertised earnings of $400 to $1,000 an hour — I hadn’t expected to apply for a job as a hooker. And I had certainly not expected to enjoy it.
Not that I’m opposed to having sex for money. In fact, I’ve been paid for sex before. A few summers ago, I took a job as a nude model. On my first day, the artist said, “I use models to fulfill my erotic fantasies. This won’t work if you’re not into it.” I was. Twice a week for three months, I went to his studio, where I was drawn, photographed, wined, dined, fucked, then given money. It was fantastic. I’d always wanted to experiment with BDSM, and part of the job was playing the submissive during sex and the dominant when it was time to pick out wine and order dinner. It was unlike anything I’d ever done before, and a lot more fun than being a waitress.
But then, I had known exactly what I was getting into from the beginning.
The “escort agency” was on the fourth floor of an office building in Midtown. A restaurant with crystal chandeliers and pristine, white-clothed tables occupied the ground floor, but the agency’s waiting room was strictly IKEA. Bright overhead lights revealed smoke stains on the off-white walls. A staircase led to what I would later learn were bedrooms. Polaroids of girls’ faces and nude bodies covered the walls. Three girls sat on the room’s single plushy beige couch. Like me, they were in their early twenties and dressed for an informal interview.

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