The Price: My Rise and Fall As Natalia, New York's #1 Escort

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The Price: My Rise and Fall As Natalia, New York's #1 Escort Page 6

by Natalie McLennan


  When you think about it, it should be a cash business. You don’t write a check to your pot dealer. But many clients liked to use their credit card. Escorts are usually an impulse buy, and few ATMs dispensed enough cash for even one hour of our girls’ time. We desperately needed to set up a merchant account with a bank to handle electronic transactions.

  So Jason walked to a branch of a nearby bank and asked for a meeting with a manager. He explained that he ran a modeling agency and needed merchant services and invited her over to the loft to take a look around.

  He arrived home and warned me that the manager, a woman named Yolanda, was coming. I was to play the role of his girlfriend and sometimes model. I went more with girlfriend. I’m five-foot-four—way too short to be a model.

  Yolanda arrived. We chatted for a minute and then I briefly showed her the loft. She seemed impressed by the photography equipment. We had lights and a backdrop to shoot girls for their web pages.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We get wannabe models coming through here all day. We snap their picture and keep a file for each one on the computers in the office.”

  White lie. We did get girls coming through all day and some of them did want to be models, but we were not going to book them for Vogue covers, that was for sure. Yolanda accepted a glass of wine and talked with Jason for about half an hour. She was in her mid-thirties and was very attractive, although, by New York standards, she would probably have just blended into a crowd. She had a pretty face but looked a little worn, as if she were a single mom or had some extra baggage in her life.

  She left, and Jason was happy, “She’s coming over with the guy who handles merchant services for the bank tomorrow night.”

  As promised when I arrived home the next day, the loft was buzzing. Yolanda and a young male banker were on the couch drinking wine and were laughing and talking with Mona and Jason.

  Jason took me aside, “Natalia, we are going to be huge. Clark here is going to deal with us directly…we’ll never turn down a client again.”

  I smiled through my fear. I didn’t know if I could work more hours.

  Clark was likeable. He was good-looking and confident, without being too arrogant, and built like a tank. That was my first impression. Apparently it was Mona’s, too. They were clearly flirting with each other. It was the first time since she’d become the agency manager that I saw her relaxed and smiling.

  Mona looked down on all the girls who worked for the agency as if she were disgusted by them. She was originally from Las Vegas—maybe that had something to do with it. Perhaps her mom had been an escort, or maybe she had been one herself and was ashamed about it so she took it out on all of us. Who the hell knew? She was like a sober, hot version of Miss Hannigan from Annie, and we were all the orphans.

  I guess that made me Annie. Fuck it, I always wanted to play Annie.

  * * *

  Jason pulled me into our bedroom, and we started making out. We had a quickie on the bed and then he said, “Do you have any more bookings tonight?”

  I shook my head no. I was so relieved. I really wanted to snuggle up in our big bed and finally get some real sleep. But Jason had other plans. He pulled out a huge Ziploc freezer bag filled with magic mushrooms and popped a couple. I couldn’t resist. I stuck my hand in the bag.

  When we went back into the living room, Yolanda was sitting between two escorts, looking like she was having a great time, and Clark had his shirt off. Mona was giggling and ran up to us. She saw the bag of mushrooms, grabbed it and threw a couple in her mouth. Clark, the other escorts, and Yolanda each ate a few, and we threw on the disco lights—yes, we had disco lights— and a smoke machine. We laughed for about an hour, and I found a spot to chill, swinging lazily in our hammock.

  The ‘shrooms made everything seem like a cartoon version of itself. Jason was the perfect caricature, with his Cartier watch, big smile, and glass of Johnny Walker Blue in hand. Yolanda was sprawled on the couch, the banker gone wild, wearing one shoe and half her blouse, still drinking wine. The two escorts were dancing on the dining room table acting like they were in an Off-Broadway production of Hair. Clark was attempting to put his shirt back on, but Jason insisted he wear as little as possible—he was “great eye candy for the girls.” Jason thought it was only fair that since any guy that visited the loft got to look at pretty girls, it was only fair we get the same treatment and have a perfectly ripped guy around us. Mona’s jeans had come off, and she was in her undies. Clark couldn’t keep his eyes off of her.

  Finally, I walked over to Yolanda to make sure she was okay. We were a lot to handle for a mid-level bank manager. She was loving it all, but she was focused enough to mention something about having to work the next day. I made the executive decision that she was going to sleep over. I led her into the guest bedroom, handed her one of Jason’s tee shirts to sleep in and tucked her in.

  I set my alarm for 8:00 a.m. We couldn’t be responsible for getting our new allies at the bank fired. I said a little prayer that the alarm would wake me up. I calculated how long I’d been awake: a little less than two days. I should be fine. Once you hit the three-day mark, when you fall asleep, nothing, nothing can wake you. It’s called coma sleeping.

  As I was falling asleep I heard the sounds of sex— really loud sex—coming from the main area. I crept to the doorway and peeked out. Jason was passed out on the couch with the two girls. I smiled; he looked happy. Mona and Clark were on the fire escape and, just as I’d predicted, they were naked and fucking. I said a little internal, sarcastic thank you to Mona for sealing the deal with our new merchant services guy. Even better, if this turned into something serious between the two of them, maybe she would focus less on Jason, be nicer to me, and the loft would become its former happy self again.

  As I headed back to my sanctuary, I was still tripping hard. I looked up at the ceiling and caught sight of one of our twenty-six chandeliers. I rolled my eyes. I kept telling Jason I thought they were tacky—they gave the place a sort of B-movie version of Masterpiece Theater vibe. Then I looked again, and I saw a kaleidoscope of a million colors inside those huge crystal balls.

  “Wow,” I said to no one in particular, “Jason, I totally understand now.”

  That’s what it was like: You know what you are doing is so decadent, so out of control, so not quite exactly legal. But then you’re in this giant Tribeca loft with beautiful, barely clothed people everywhere, doing lines, drinking champagne, dancing to pumping music and having sex. All the while you’re making money— cash, tens of thousands of dollars of it in thick envelopes from uber-rich men who really want to give it to you for doing something you really, really like doing anyway….

  All of a sudden you realize you’re no longer a near-homeless, out-of-work, twenty-four-year-old actress with a boyfriend who hits you, and the twenty-six Swarovski chandeliers somehow make sense.

  * * *

  The next morning, I helped our friendly neighborhood bank manager wake up. I took out my professional steamer and made sure her clothes were in shape for her walk of shame. I kissed her on her cheek and sent her back to her office from where hundreds of thousands of dollars would soon be flowing through our accounts.

  The next week, her colleague, Clark, came in after banking hours to oversee our electronic billing operation. By day, he was the buttoned-up banker; by night, he became an underworld financial kingpin. We called him Clark Kent, or Superman, when he took his shirt off. I can only assume he was better at his day job. He set up a system that would eventually get us all charged with money laundering. We billed as “Gotham Steak,” a nonexistent restaurant that served very expensive, imaginary prime rib. A good chunk of the guys charged their appointments to their corporate AmEx.

  Below, Clark and Mona were the bookers, often there twenty-four hours a day setting up appointments. Within a month, we had a staff of ten and a roster of fifty girls. Jason even stole one of the top bookers in the city from another big agency. She accepted Jason’s offer re
luctantly. She had been a booker for a couple of years and was as cool as ice. Eventually, Jason convinced her to become an escort herself. He was that good.

  We found our top booker, Hulbert, selling his paintings on West Broadway. It was Sunday, and we were cruising up West Broadway. The sun was out, and SoHo was full of tall, beautiful people with skinny jeans and oversized attitudes. We both stopped short when we saw Hulbert’s paintings. Many New York artists sell their work on the street, and most of it isn’t worth the canvas it’s painted on, but Hulbert’s was different. His paintings were sexy and vibrant. He had maybe a dozen pieces, all various representations of the naked female form, on display. Those were just his female series. We later found out he was known in the ‘hood for doing politically conscious murals, like one in honor of Amadou Diallo, an African immigrant gunned down by the NYPD.

  Jason told him he wanted to commission an original piece for our “home.” Hulbert agreed to stop by later that afternoon to check out the space.

  Jason commissioned a painting that afternoon. He also found himself a new booker. As always, his intuition was right on. Hulbert turned out to be a natural born salesman: a handsome, chiseled black guy from the south side of Chicago. He embodied all the attributes you wanted in a booker—smooth talker, deal-closer, charmer extraordinaire.

  At first I didn’t know what to make of him. He was almost too slick by half. I had invested part of my soul into this company and wasn’t about to see it fucked with. But all my concerns regarding Hulbert disappeared in one moment. The first booking he closed for me, I was in my closet, alone, in my underwear, listening to Supertramp and downing some champagne when I heard a knock. I turned and looked toward the doorway and saw Hulbert standing there with his back toward me. He started to speak, explaining the details of the booking he’d just secured—the whole time with his back toward me.

  I didn’t even know what to say. It took me a minute, but I told him I’d get ready right away.

  He paused for a minute, then said, “Cool,” and walked away.

  He managed to demonstrate what he was about with that one show of respect. He wasn’t there to check out the girls and get laid. I loved him in that moment and the feeling never left. He became my rock from then on, through to the bitter end when it all came crashing down.

  Hulbert idolized Jason. Through Hulbert’s starving artist’s eyes, Jason had it all. He was the American Dream personified. Hulbert asked Jason, “Aren’t you afraid [about getting busted]?” Jason answered, “The only thing I’m afraid of is not being the best.”

  For most people, that would sound like some kind of C-grade Tony Robbins garbage, but within weeks, Hulbert was making more money than he’d ever seen before. Jason expected the same drive and focus that he prided himself on from everyone at the agency. It was a lesson in motivation and productivity that business schools could take a lesson from.

  Unfortunately, Jason ignored some of the most basic fundamentals for a happy, drama-free workplace— like don’t steal from your top earner who happens to be your girlfriend. And don’t provoke the cops.

  * * *

  As the weeks went on, my days and nights got more and more frenetic. I’d fly to Florida for a four-day appointment, come back and immediately do a ten-hour appointment, followed by another two-hour job. I’d then sleep five hours and start all over again.

  I worked like that for a good three months straight. For most of this time my fee was $1,200 an hour. Here’s how it broke down: an average date was four hours (or $4,800), ten percent off the top went to the booker, leaving $4,320, which was split 50/50 with the agency (a.k.a. Jason). So I’d net $2,160 per date, $540 per hour—or the hourly rate for a top New York City attorney. I averaged between six and eight hours a day, with usually only one or two clients. Just as Jason had predicted, I was pulling in ten grand a week, easy. Sometimes nearly double that.

  Not that I could hold on to it. I was so new to having such ridiculous amounts of cash, I didn’t know what to do with it. I loved being able to give it away. I’d take six friends out for dinner at the Cipriani Downtown and not even sweat a thousand-dollar check. Two thousand dollars paid off my mom’s credit card. Another stop at Western Union, and she was able to go back to college.

  My mom appreciated it, but the gifts were making her suspicious. I tried keeping the lies to a minimum.

  She knew that I had made really good money bartending in the past, so I told her I was working at the exclusive SoHo House in the Meatpacking District and the tips were enormous. I could tell she was skeptical. She couldn’t stop giving me that mom voice, a mix of worry and fear, unsure of whether to believe me. But in the end, I think she believed what she wanted to believe; just like in high school when I’d show up with brand news clothes I’d bought with my drug proceeds. It was so important to her that I was happy, she ignored the red flags.

  I didn’t need to justify anything to myself. I walked around with at least $1,500 in my purse at all times. I kept at least two eight balls (3.5 grams) of blow in my safe at all times. I restocked every week. I was doing a lot of it, but sharing most of it with the bookers and other girls and all the new friends (I use that word loosely) Jason and I were making. No one was at the point of going to rehab, so it felt harmless somehow. My personal expenses weren’t that high, considering my take-home pay. I paid $1,500 per month rent. My phone bill was about $400. Manicures, pedicures, tanning, and massages cost another $500 per week. I spent about a hundred dollars a day on cabs. When I was bartending I had no problem taking the subway everywhere, but there’s nothing sexy about arriving to an appointment smelling like the Canal Street subway station. Oh, and those fuck-me shoes are definitely not made for walking.

  Despite all my best efforts to keep a bit of positive structure in my life, the only healthy part was how much exercise I was getting. I was in amazing shape and didn’t have an ounce of fat on me. My body was all lean muscle from copious sex and lack of food.

  On the flipside, I was increasingly feeling lost and adrift. When you leave a client with thousands of dollars of cash in your purse, you don’t know what to do with yourself. Since I was required to be on call around the clock, I couldn’t make any long-term commitments. No auditioning for plays that would take up all my evenings and weekends, and I couldn’t even take a vacation or make dinner plans with friends. Living in the moment meant everything else fell by the wayside.

  Shopping was my therapy, which I usually did high as a kite. Living in Tribeca was great. I would walk north on Broadway to SoHo and hit my favorite stores: Atrium for jeans and jackets; Big Drop for hipster tees; and Lounge for handbags and dresses. Men love cute little summer dresses—they are so innocent looking and easy to get off.

  When I really had money to drop, I went to Jeffrey on 14th Street as it had the best of everything: Yves St. Laurent, Dior, Galliano…. Before long, my closet was filled with a who’s who of downtown fashion: D&G, Nicole Miller, Diesel, Miss Sixty and Marc Jacobs clothes; Gucci, Dior, Louis Vuitton and Yves St. Laurent accessories; Manolo Blahnik, Jimmy Choo and Via Spiga Shoes; True Religon, Seven, Citizens of Humanity jeans; La Perla and Agent Provocateur lingerie; Oliver Peoples sunglasses; and tons of stuff from Patricia Field’s Hotel

  Venus and all the other little boutiques in SoHo.

  * * *

  It was a warm mid-week afternoon, and my New York Confidential confidant, Joelle, and I decided to hit the Alexander McQueen store on 14th Street in the Meatpacking District. It’s the type of store I would have wistfully walked by in my former life. I found it painful to see beautiful things I couldn’t buy, almost like self-imposed torture. Even when I saved up enough to actually purchase something, I’d be too intimated by the cooler-than-thou staff to go in.

  The store had just opened, and I had a purse full of cash and new-found confidence—a dangerous combination. Joelle and I were drooling. The fabrics were so velvety, the colors so smoky and rich. Then I found “the dress.” The grey top was like a corse
t, strapless with boning designed to squeeze in your waist and make your tits pop out the top a little. The outfit resembled a tutu, except the pink skirt didn’t poof out, it fell in all these soft folds a few inches above the knee; just short enough.

  I looked at Joelle, and she looked at me. I didn’t look at the price, I just really wanted to try it on. I almost hoped that it wouldn’t fit well so that I could walk away. Then I remembered the money in my purse.

  I asked the salesgirl if I could try the dress in my size, and she asked me my size.

  “Zero?” I offered, displaying my total ignorance of couture-dom by giving my American size.

  The salesgirl graciously tried to educate me.

  “Do you mean thirty-eight?” she asked, translating into the European equivalent.

  “I don’t know if we have one. Here,” she handed the dress in her hands back to me, “this is a forty, why don’t you try this, and I’ll look and see about a thirty-eight.” She led me through the shoe section and my eyes lingered on them, causing me to almost walk into her when she slowed down to pull aside a curtain for a changing room.

  I was so excited. I pulled off my dress and unzipped the McQueen. I took it off the hanger and pulled it over my head, then I threw back the curtain and turned around for Joelle to zip me up. The dress was too big. I looked in the mirror anyway, and I felt like a princess. For the first time in my life I felt like a beautiful, pure princess. But it was too big. Joelle unzipped me, I went back into the changing room, and I pulled the dress over my head.

  As I was hanging the dress back up, I checked out the tag. The original price made my jaw drop a little. Almost three grand. Then I saw another number below it in pen. In pen? The dress was on sale? Almost half off. I thought they didn’t do that. Especially at the designer’s own store.

 

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