The Girlfriend Experience

by Rebecca Dakin

  Things were different with James because I had no control over my feelings. He would write songs about me, and poetry, and sing to me; he was so sweet. Our relationship was extremely intense, but also doomed to failure because of our age difference – I was always forking out money for him to get the bus, or buy a bag of chips. He was also very jealous of my male friendships, especially with my ex, Keith, and one of my best friends, Rich. But James used to come to my house on his school dinner break and go back with a big grin on his face. I got some perverse kick out of seeing him in his school uniform! I think his friends were quite envious of him for having an older girlfriend.

  He was very insecure, understandably, because of my outrageous dress sense, my age, and also my promiscuous past. In the three years we were together, we had a love-hate relationship. Although I had some of the happiest times of my life, I also experienced some of the saddest. He totally destroyed every bit of my confidence, which I had only just got back after the bullying I endured at school. In fact, probably we both destroyed each other. He was jealous and always assumed I was sleeping around, and we did end up cheating on each other, but I just didn’t have the confidence to leave him.

  Towards the end of our relationship I started working for an awful, rude Austrian lady as a general assistant at a local hotel, which basically meant I had to do everything, from serving breakfast and cleaning up to cleaning the rooms, checking people out, and opening the bar. It was there that I met a 50-year-old gentleman, Michael, with whom I spent many an hour talking when no one else was in the bar. We became good friends and this was to be my first encounter with someone rich.

  He was moving to the US and I accepted an invitation to his farewell party, which was on a barge. For some reason I thought he had invited me there to help by being a hostess, so I dressed in a modest black skirt and white shirt. He turned up in a Jaguar to collect me. My mum was all excited about this E-type Jag, but I didn’t have a clue! He was obviously trying to impress me, judging by the smirk on his face as he opened the passenger door. When I got to the car, he was beaming. He asked what I thought, to which I replied, ‘It’s a bit old,’ and ‘It’s got no seat-belts!’ He then informed me smugly that it was an E-type Jaguar, a classic and rare car! ‘Oh,’ I said, unimpressed.

  Obviously I had my wires crossed somewhere and it transpired that I was invited as his guest. I suppose it was like being an escort, really – except I wasn’t being paid and he certainly wasn’t going to get any sex! It was my first encounter with millionaires. The champagne was flowing, there were caviar canapés and I had a great time, meeting some really interesting people.

  Michael then, in his drunken state, suddenly invited me to visit him in the States. I was 22, and had only ever been on a plane once: to visit a pen-friend in Berlin when I was 14. I explained that I couldn’t afford it, and he offered to book the flight and cover my expenses. I wasn’t sure if he was serious, as I knew he’d had a lot to drink.

  The next day, when he sent me a dozen red roses, it was clear he had other ideas about me visiting him. When I told my parents, they were also unsure of his motives, but thought it was a great opportunity. I asked if they could speak with him and his PA, and make it clear that I would go as a friend, no more. He agreed, so we planned to stay at his ex-girlfriend’s house in Georgia for three weeks. I spoke with her on the phone, and she seemed pleasant and very bubbly, so I felt reassured.

  James, of course, did not want me to go, but I wasn’t going to hang about any longer. I knew there was no future with this teenager and I could understand how it made him feel, but the truth was I’d had enough and I was going to do what I wanted to do, because I knew he’d have done the same in my shoes.

  I flew out to Georgia, and I ended up having a wonderful time, except that my opinion of Michael changed. I realised he was a control freak and not a nice person at all. What’s interesting is that since I’ve been an escort I’ve found a lot of rich men are like that because they’re used to getting their own way and being able to buy whatever they want, people or products. He was also on a lot of medication, and I suspect he was an alcoholic.

  He took me to Millionaires Island, and we spent many nights at 5-star hotels (I had my own room) around Georgia, and dining out at nice restaurants, but I never got to experience the real essence of the place. We only ever stayed in each hotel for one night, and then moved on. We went to Savannah, Jacksonville, and lots of lovely places, but I only ever saw the hotel, and a restaurant. This was my first experience of luxury hotels and I remember thinking I could get used to this life, but it would have been much better to be at these hotels with James or a close friend. It didn’t cross my mind that these were the types of hotel I could visit as an escort, because like most people, I thought escorting was seedy and that it was visiting cheap motels for an hour, just to have sex with someone.

  One thing I got a real buzz from was driving up to the entrance of these grand hotels, and so did Michael. He loved people to see him being driven around in a sports car by a young blonde and insisted I drove, even though I hadn’t passed my test. When we arrived, the valet guy would open the door for me and I’d give him the keys so that he could park the car for us. I always gave my name out and made out it was my car! It made me feel like a movie star. I had never been to a 5-star hotel before, and loved the staff being so friendly and accommodating. Room service was also totally new; I loved the fact that all I had to do was pick up the phone and ask for anything I wanted – food, drinks, fancy cocktails – and a few minutes later a smartly dressed waiter would arrive with my order. All I had to do was squiggle a signature and give him a few dollars. It was mind-blowing! I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, not knowing what to expect or how to behave. Fortunately I didn’t have to sleep with Michael, though I’m sure he was trying to impress me, hoping that I would.

  The best time I had was when his ex, Anita, took me to Atlanta for a couple of nights and we went out with her transvestite friend to drag shows and a strip club called Guys and Dolls. This was my first experience of such a club and I was in awe of all the dancers. There were men dancing and stripping one side of the club and women stripping on the other. They all took everything off on stage. When a big black hunky man called ‘No Fear’ stormed onto the stage, wearing Army gear and carrying a fake gun, I squealed with excitement and shoved dollar notes down his shorts at every opportunity! I also loved watching the women and was envious of the attention they got from all the men.

  The holiday soured when I crashed Michael’s MG. That day, I had specifically told him that I wasn’t comfortable driving in Savannah, but he insisted I would be fine. He fell out with me, even though it was his idea for me to drive and he knew I hadn’t passed my test, and left me locked in his ex’s house as punishment. I called her, crying, and she came straightaway to pick me up. Eventually I was forgiven, but I refused to apologise because I had told him on that occasion that was uncomfortable to drive. He even wanted to go shopping straight after the car had been written off, even though I had concussion and he claimed to have broken ribs.

  His comments started to get on my nerves. He said he couldn’t stand poor people and made various ludicrous remarks. I constantly put him in his place, because Anita was too polite to, and eventually he tried to send me home. Fortunately, I got on very well with Anita and stayed with her for the rest of my trip. He, meanwhile, moved into his new home.

  Meeting Michael made me realise I would never become one of those women who married for money. While I was away, I kept in touch with James. I knew he would have assumed the worst: that I was sleeping with this older man. It simply was not true, but nothing I said would convince him otherwise. If I had been happy in our relationship, I wouldn’t have gone to America, but the truth was James was making me miserable. When I got back, we still argued and he tried to blame it on the fact I’d gone away, but the problems were there long before my trip; after only six months of being together, we were arguing badly but I hu
ng on, thinking things would go back to how they were, if only I kept working at the relationship.

  In the end James left me for someone else, after promising we would get engaged. I only found out through a friend that he’d moved on, but I couldn’t accept that it was over and we briefly carried on seeing each other. He promised me that he would leave her and he’d get me to book and pay for hotels so we could spend the night together. I could see there was no spark between us and the times we made love, I left feeling empty and sad because I knew his feelings for me were gone. I was sick of him having his cake and eating it, and informed his girlfriend that he was still seeing me. He said he never wanted to see or speak to me again. So that was that.

  Because of my outrageous dress sense, I was getting a bit of a reputation, and in my early 20s I would hear all sorts of stories about myself that weren’t true – for example, a taxi driver told my friend’s mum that I had been in a porn film. People would make all kinds of negative assumptions about me based on the clothes I wore, but I didn’t care. As far as I was concerned, anybody who was a decent person would get to know me and make up their own mind as to what they thought of me.

  By the time I started escorting, I’d ‘been there, done that’ with the whole exhibitionist thing, and now I have a more subtly sexy look. Now I know it’s sexier to leave something to the imagination.

  My dad has always said to me that I live beyond my means and he thinks I have expensive taste. Between the ages of 20 and 24, I was earning about £100 a week, and this was simply not enough to fund the things I wanted to do and the clothes I wanted to buy. I remember spending my full week’s wages on some red silk and black lace bespoke underwear, which I had made to wear to a New Year’s Eve rave at the Pleasuredome in Skegness. As I’d spent so much, that was all I was going to be wearing, apart from some thigh-high patent platform boots! Financially, James took complete advantage of me and was always getting me to pay for hotels so we could spend the night together. Meanwhile, I was still living at home because I could not afford to move out.

  Eventually, I found a job with a local travel agent, but I had no experience with computers and was thrown in at the deep end, booking holidays on my first day. Too honest and thorough, I was never destined to get anywhere with the company. I knew I had to move on and I was desperate to make lots of money, but I wasn’t sure how.

  I knew there had to be more to life and I wanted to do something exciting and different. Being an exhibitionist and loving attention when I was out, I did think that I would love to be a lap dancer.

  When one of my friends, Jane, visited from college we took to the stage of the Xanadu night club in Chesterfield for a ‘Fake an Orgasm Competition’, where we both (and I cringe at this now) decided to try to shock. We did a full-blown lesbian show on a bed – clothed, I might add. All the guys were cheering and egging us on, while the girls looked on in disgust. I loved it. Needless to say, we won and were asked to come back for the final, a couple of nights later.

  Arriving, we were approached by a photographer who said he had heard we were the stars of the show. He was eager to catch us in action for a newspaper. Not being as tipsy as the previous night, we simply weren’t in the mood, so we passed up the offer of entering the final even though we were set to win. We had thought the prize would be something like an 18–30 holiday, but when we discovered it was a weekend for two in Skegness, we decided it wasn’t worth the effort!

  I kept in touch with that photographer and he actually took my first glamour photos, which were for a magazine. They were never printed, but I was still paid. Often he would take me and one of my friends to nightclubs around the country, where he was taking photographs.

  Another night in Xanadu, I was out with one of my best friends, Tara. We were both dressed in next to nothing – I was in my chain-mail bra, tiny hot pants and chunky boots while Tara wore a tight PVC top with hot pants and boots. Jon, the photographer, was also there and he decided he wanted to take some photos in the club. He took us into the back room, the ‘Hollywood Bar’, locked it up and we posed together on a grand piano. Lots of faces peered at us through the door and we loved the stir we were causing.

  Then we unlocked the door and moved into a back corridor and my friend Rich, the bouncer, and Jon looked on appreciatively as, without prompting, we snogged, groped and ground against each other while Jon snapped away. When we got bored, we went out into the club to dance. The whole floor cleared as though we were an act people had come to see. Everyone stood around the side watching as we groped, kissed and writhed about erotically to the music. We were given three bottles of cheap champagne by the DJ, keen for us to carry on and wondering how far we’d go. Of course, some of the other girls were a bit put out and we did get some drinks thrown at us by the nastier ones. Eventually we left, but we were buzzing from all the attention.

  So, after my introduction to the world of glamour photography, I was keen to go to the next step: dancing. I started buying The Stage magazine and looking through that with my then best friend, Anna, who was a few years younger than me. She was reliable, honest and I trusted her with my life. Both of us wanted to get rich, have fun, travel and live the high life, with the least amount of effort possible.

  I was on flexi-time at the travel agent’s and I also worked at a hardware store. I have always been extremely good with people, and whatever job I was doing, even though I wasn’t always paid much, I put my all into it. Customer service was, and still is, my top priority: I treat people with the same care and respect that I would like for myself.

  Although escorting was mentioned, my friend and I decided we wanted to try exotic dancing, or table dancing, because we thought we would have more opportunities to travel. After spending a lot of time researching, we decided we’d like to go to Japan.

  It was then that a spanner hit the works. I’d had arthritis since I was two years old, but hadn’t experienced any problems with it since I was 14. Now, though, it was back. I found it difficult to walk, so I started on my medication again, but ended up taking a lot of time off from work because it was too painful to walk. This meant I didn’t want to risk going to Japan, so it was back to the drawing board.

  After a few months the pain eased and I went back to work, but I knew I would have problems again. However, I was still determined that I wanted to do something different, to explore my wild exhibitionist side and get out of the travel agency, where I had now been for two years, the longest period I had spent working in any job.

  I started looking locally to see if there was anything around and found an ad from someone looking for dancers for a club opening in Nottingham. I promptly called, and spent a long time talking on the phone to a pleasant guy called David. I was keen to meet up with him as soon as possible. He mentioned that he was going to the States with his eightyear-old son and I half-jokingly said that I would ‘come and baby-sit.’

  I became quite good friends with David, although there was never any attraction there on my part and I did make it clear that I wanted to be no more than friends.

  For some time I had wanted breast augmentations and David recommended a guy on Harley Street, someone his ex-partner had used, who had done a good job. I explained that I didn’t want to be at home and have it done, so I asked if I could move in with him for a couple of months. He agreed, and so I arranged a loan, left my job, moved in with him and had the operation done. For two weeks I was in constant pain and pretty much housebound. However, it was the best thing I ever did. I had wanted them done for years – I was an A-cup, and so was my mum, so I knew the chances were I wouldn’t get any bigger. I’d always loved boobs, and envied ladies with large breasts. I was ecstatic when I saw my new boobs – but they didn’t feel like a part of me then, more like two lead weights attached to my front. As time has progressed, they now feel part of me.

  David wasn’t having much luck in getting a licence for his place in Nottingham, so he suggested that I try working in Antwerp, Belgium, at a peep show hi
s ex had worked at. He took me over for an evening to show me the club. I was instantly offered a job, and given a number to call, if I wanted it.

  He then arranged a photo shoot for Anna and me, so that we could have some recent photos to take over to the club. I was really pleased with the glamour-style topless photos. They were taken locally in the woods, much to the amusement of local kids skiving off school.

  I got on very well with David’s son so shortly after the operation I went away to the States again, this time with David. My friend Anna also went to America with a friend of David’s, but the men constantly tried to keep us apart and wouldn’t let us speak with each other, so we saw each other for just one day at a water park. We were at different hotels, so we’d call and leave each other messages on the hotel-room phones, but the guys deleted them so neither of us realised the other had tried to get in touch. I had found myself with another control freak, so I ended up disappearing for the last few days of the holiday and booking into a hotel on my own.

  Eating on my own one evening, I was approached by a doctor who asked if he could buy me dinner. He was large, in his fifties, with white-grey hair and a friendly, open face. Why not? I thought. We dined and chatted, and I told him that I was going to Belgium to work as a dancer. He then asked me if he could pay for my services. Taken aback, I wondered why he had asked me. In hindsight I realised that a lot of dancers do escorting on the side and you have to be an open-minded, sexual person to do erotic dancing, anyway.

  Intrigued, as I had already considered escorting, I decided to press further. I asked what he wanted and he said he’d like to take me to his hotel room, masturbate between my bum cheeks and then clean it up with a wet flannel! A rather unusual request, I thought, as I munched my way through a chicken Caesar salad, but at least he didn’t want sex.