Please, I don’t want to do this, God, help me. Chino, where are you? I am about to sell my pussy. Having sex for money—something I vowed I would never do. Now look at me, I am a whore. I am a prostitute.
I thought about my mother. What would she think? What would she say if she saw her youngest child, Pamela, doing this? I was raised to be better than this. Educated in the Catholic parochial school system, college-bound and geared for success. Small tears began to roll down my face, and I wiped them away, careful not to smudge my makeup.
The client peered out the window, noticing me in my Jeep. I took a deep breath and then another one. I closed my eyes and formed a vision in my mind to focus on. I saw my son with new clothes on. I saw the stack of bills on my kitchen counter getting smaller. I saw the eviction notice torn into small pieces as I wrote a check for my rent. Then I saw me smiling. I knew what I had to do.
I opened the car door, plastering a fake smile on my face, and walked toward this old, stinky, fat white man. He had requested a hand job for $150 or a blow job for $250. I went for the hand job. Stinky flopped down in the chair behind a cluttered desk. He asked me to model for him. Turning around in a slow circle, I felt his eyes on my backside. They felt stuck on my ass. Rolling my eyes out of his view, I then turned toward him with a Chester Cheetah–like smile on my face. I kneeled between his legs, looking up at him and thinking that his exposed dick looked like a piece of raw bacon. He began to rub his dick, stroking it up and down. Then he reached out to touch the side of my face with the same hand he had used to caress his two-inch hard-on. I instantly wondered, How can I sterilize my face?
He said, “Blow on my cock, baby, make me cum.” I blew on his dick and caressed it with one hand as I fondled his pink hairy balls with my other hand. He came, squirting on my shirt, below my chin and all over my fingers. I continued to stroke him up and down as he moaned, head tilted back and eyes closed. He continued to reach for my face as I did a slow boxerlike bob-and-weave routine to avoid being touched by him again. Three minutes of work. I was so ashamed. I felt dirty and so low. I’ve never had any desire to be touched by a white man, but there I was, touching him, giving him pleasure.
This deepened my hatred for Chino. I resented him because I felt he drove me to this. I just needed a little help from him. I would have been thankful for $100 a month. He was off flashing, wining and dining while his son and I were taking a real live beatin’. It had my head all messed up. But for my son, I’d do anything—even turn tricks.
I blocked out my feelings and focused on a come-up to help my son and me. I went on seven more outcalls that day: a well-to-do white businessman, a sixtyish black man in a wheelchair, another who was blind and only wanted to eat me out, a couple who wanted me to watch as they had sex, a diabetic with both legs amputated who asked me to climb into his bed and ride ’im like I was a cowgirl and an elderly white man who wanted to be called “massah.” I opted to call him “mister,” and he just flipped up my skirt and got on top of me, fucking me, calling me “Kizzy.” That sicko tipped me $100. My last call was a young white doctor who had been poppin’ pills and drinkin’ vodka. All he wanted to do was have me model and discuss all the dates I had. I made up sordid details as he jacked off. The first date was the hardest, but I just rolled with the flow from there on out. In four hours, I made $1,200. I paid my late rent, electric bill, got my VCR out of pawn, went to the grocery store and finally had food in the refrigerator and freezer at the same time. I took a shower to clean off the filth of those johns. I prepared a nutritious meal, picked up my son from day care and was back home by 4:45 p.m. We ate, and then I gave him a fun bubble bath.
The following morning, I took the baby to day care. Around 9:00 a.m., I called Tony, and it was on again. With more confidence, I requested more tips. I made $1,600 in about four hours. I paid my phone bill in full, ordered cable TV and got other backed-up expenses in order. I purchased some much needed clothes for my son. It felt so good to be able to do something. I even got a free car wash when I filled up the gas tank.
On the third day of this new career, I learned about incalls. The escort rents a hotel room and waits for the client to come to her. Not quite familiar with this aspect of the business, I was nervous.
To save money, I shared a hotel room with a girl named Beverly. She also worked for Tony. She was a white girl who made more than two grand a day. Beverly had the typical white girl look—dyed blonde hair with a perm that she spent endless hours scrunching with hair spray. Her eyes were a beautiful green, and she constantly sprayed her body with that instant tan stuff in a can. Beverly was on the short side with very large breasts. Luckily, we clicked as friends immediately.
It’s true that prostitution is the world’s oldest profession. Sex sells—fat sex, skinny sex, black sex, white sex, male-on-male sex and yellow sex—it all sells. This was only my third day of work, but I was an entrepreneur. No one could pay me better than I could pay myself. I wanted my own. I told Beverly I wanted to open my own service. She looked me straight in the face, took a drag on her cigarette and said, “Hell, go for it! Send me some calls. I’ll work for ya.” Bet! One employee down.
I took the money I made that day, went to CellularOne and bought a pager. Then I went to The Columbus Dispatch and placed a help-wanted ad in the adult section, listing my pager number.
Later, I picked my son up from day care and headed home to make a voice message for my pager. In my most professional voice, I recorded, “Hi, are you looking to make lots of money with a safe, reliable and stable service? Well, you’ve called the right place. I am hiring models for full-service sessions. Please leave your physical description, measurements and number, and I’ll contact you for an interview. Please, no drug users. Thank you. Bye.”
Requesting no drug users was naive; I quickly learned that the majority of women working for escort services have habits. They work to support their habit, their families, their man and his habit. There are a variety of reasons, yet the goal is the same: money.
At 8:00 the next morning, the vibration of my pager woke me up. The message read: FULL. Wow! I told myself, Go for it! This is my come-up. Chino had always said to be for self because self-preservation was the nature of man, and I intended to survive. I returned the calls and selected a variety of applicants. I set up interviews with twelve candidates at the Knight’s Inn hotel.
I was surprised by the high turnout, and they were surprised that I was a woman since most services are run by men. They also liked my professionalism: I was dressed in a sleek pantsuit and offered coffee and doughnuts. The response was great. I held only one open, informal interview session for all the girls. While running my salon, I had acquired very good managerial skills, so I communicated well. I explained my rules, emphasizing that there was to be no stealing. In this profession, it’s easy to lie about what you make, but because I was business savvy, they knew they couldn’t get away with that at my service. I kept it all very simple. After all, we were there to make money, not friends.
I scanned the room with the mind and eye of a man. What would make me turn my head? What would make me spend money to be with them? I knew I needed a variety of girls. I chose nine of the twelve girls. And if I hadn’t been so pressed to get paid, I would have taken my chances with the dogs, too, just to see who in the hell would fuck them. But I chose the best looking and began to qualify them for my purpose. I hired these ladies because they were curvaceous, sensuous, childlike, seemingly innocent, well groomed, and easy listeners. Some were experienced. Some were first-timers. Only two had their own transportation. One very attractive young lady who was new to the business had her own transportation, no children and no habit. I wondered why she was in this line of work. But I hired her and continued on. I wrote down all the girls’ information and gave them working names.
The half-black, half-Chinese girl, I named China. She was absolutely beautiful, with olive-toned skin, an oval face, slanted, coal black eyes and silky, curly hair. She had a lot
of street in her. Every word out of her mouth was fly. She had an hourglass figure and an aggressive attitude, which I liked right away. I knew she could talk a john out of some money. Problem was, she had a crack habit that was out of this world—a $1,000-a-day habit. China was up-front and open about her habit and everything else about her. She said, “Stay out of my business, and I’ll stay out of yours. I work twenty-four-seven, so let that be the reason you send me all the calls you want.” I really took a liking to this girl, so I bent my “no drugs” rule. China was worth this violation.
Then there was Gabrielle. She was a young, caramel tender with 44 DDs. The men would love her. Also among the array of tempting treats whom I chose were: Renaye, Spice, Sheela, Toy, Shy, Chrissy, Sugar, Cinnamon and Pie. Pie was petite and very flat-chested. She looked like she was twelve years old. The men would love her, too. Perverts!
When Gabrielle asked for my name, I rolled “Carmen” off my tongue. It came from nowhere. From that day on, I became Carmen, my alter ego, a totally different person from Pamela. Carmen was strong, emotionless and untrusting. Pammy, well, she was the opposite: weak, emotional and trusting.
I told them they must report in by phone with their locations by 10:00 a.m. or pay a $25 fine. When they reported in, they were to give me their locations—hotel and room number for incalls—and availability for outcalls. I informed them that the phones were off at my house by 4:30 p.m. so I could devote my time to my son. This disappointed them because they wanted more hours and more flexibility. Some even asked about working for other services. I informed them that it was no problem as long as it did not conflict with my “calls.” Chino had taught me so much. I knew the way you went into something was the way that you came out of it. Thus, I went in hard. I always kept in mind all the things that I had learned from him, lessons of the streets. Rule number one: get paid; rule number two: don’t trust anybody, not even yourself; rule number three: stay free.
It was time to accept the fact that he had raised me as far as the streets were concerned, but now it was time to raise myself.
Once the ground rules were established, we dispersed, and I went to the newspaper to place my ads for the following week. I placed one exclusively for African-American girls. It read: CARMEN’S BLACK MODELS. One for SUGAR & SPICE—my bisexual white girls who did one-on-ones and threesomes. And one for the petite Cinnamon that read: A TASTE OF HONEY.
All the ads were listed with my pager number. I went home and changed the message on the voice mail. With jazz playing in the background, the new message was: “Hello and thank you for calling Carmen’s. We offer full-service sessions—$200 an hour, $150 for a half hour. We cater to your every need and all of your wants. We want you to call 555-9402, come 555-9402, enjoy 555-9402. We are waiting.” The number was to the extra phone line I’d had installed in my home so that they could call and I could arrange the dates. It was important that during the day the phone was answered, dates were arranged, and calls were made to prepare the awaiting lady. I knew they would not leave a number for a return phone call. The wife or girlfriend might answer or something.
The next morning the phone was ringing off the hook and so was the pager. Under normal circumstances, all the ringing would have gotten on my last nerve, but today, it was music to my ears.
Each tone of the ringer filled me with excitement and a compelling desire to dance. But instead I got the baby dressed and off to day care in a hurry.
I returned home and prepared myself for a day of answering the phone. Seven of the girls called in and gave me their locations. I had read up on the sex business and all the desires of men. Golden showers, balls in the butt, anal sex, titty fuckin’, peep shows, you name it. Freaky desires. Normalcy was for the wives of my callers. Erotica was for the girls, and men with vivid imaginations. If the wives only knew how vivid. If they only knew. So I began my first day on the job, my first day owning my new business, Carmen’s Escort Service. I do believe it had a nice ring to it.
Two
“Hello, may I help you?”
“Good morning,” a masculine voice chimed.
“Good morning, may I help you?”
“I’m Dave. What do you have, say, around eleven a.m. in the north end?”
“Dave, I’m Carmen. I have black girls and white girls. What’s your pleasure today?”
“I’d like a blonde.”
“Okay, I have a petite blonde. She’s five-three, 115 pounds. Her measurements are 38–24–36. Her name is Sugar, and she’s very sweet. We have a special on doubles today,” I offered enthusiastically.
“No. I’ll take Sugar at eleven a.m.”
“Okay, please call me from the pay phone in the rear parking lot next to the tree near the Continental Plaza. I’ll instruct you from there.” The clients provided the pay phone number so I could determine their proximity to the hotel. If they were at the right pay phone, it meant that they hadn’t backed out and that they were only minutes away from the hotel.
“Bye.”
“Thanks!”
“Hello, may I help you?” I said to the next caller in my most professional voice as if I were working for a large corporation and this were just another day at the office.
Click! The caller must have thought he had the wrong number, or maybe he lost his nerve, because my question was answered with a dial tone.
Ring… ring.
“Hello, may I help you?”
Click.
Getting hung up on didn’t faze me. Someone else would call in a minute. The phone was ringing, my business was booming and I was excited. I was making a come-up, and it felt good.
Ring… ring.
“Hello, may I help you?”
“Are golden showers in the forecast today?” a deep voice thick with lust queried.
“They sure are, from light rain to a thunderstorm. What’s your pleasure?”
“I like it when it’s a light drizzle,” Deep Voice replied.
“On the east end of the city, your experience awaits. Gabrielle is waiting off Hamilton, near the Eastland Mall. Contact me from there, okay?”
“Thanks,” he whispered.
How someone gets off on getting pissed on is beyond me. But for $300, some of the girls would do it. Spinning a pencil around the notepad in my lap, I answered my next phone call.
“Hello, may I help you?”
“Your line stays busy. I’ve got jungle fever. I like them plump and juicy.”
“Great, big guy, I have something special for you on the north end, close to Colerain. Call me from a pay phone at Northland Mall. Bye.”
My pager was buzzing. I’ve always been told what a nice phone voice I have, so I added a hint of seduction to it. I figured, always put your best foot forward, so I gave the service my all. I thought of an idea for a tantalizing business card. The card was neon pink with a silhouette of a curvaceous female figure. This way the girls and I could pass them out, and the clients could keep my number with them. I also decided to place them on cars in parking lots wherever I went, just like I had done with my salon business cards. Hell, I even thought about placing one in one of those fish bowls at a restaurant to try to get a company lunch or something. I was doing well, but I was at the lower end of the escort business. There were services out there charging double my price. But I’d do better when I could.
“Hello, may I help you?” I answered.
“Do you offer male to male?”
“No!” I snapped, taken off guard, then I quickly regained my composure. “Um… no,” I said hesitantly, “but…”
Click.
Hmmmm… an idea.
Ring… ring.
“Hello, may I help you?”
“Who has the best head on her shoulders?” the caller asked, and I confidently responded, “Renaye. With her full lips, she definitely has the best head on her shoulders.”
“Okay. I’m ready. Where?” I directed him to a pay phone in a business-and-residential area on the north side of Columbus known
as the 161 area.
“What is your name?”
“Steve.”
“Great, Steve. Please call soon.”
As the day continued, I thought about all the new services I could offer, even male on male. I also rethought my location. I was stuck in the apartment and I needed mobility. In between calls, I contacted CellularOne and gave them bogus information to set up my other means of communication. They wanted a $500 deposit and I didn’t have a credit card. I would have to go into one of their stores, but I didn’t have the money. “Damn!” I said to myself. “Phone, don’t fail me now. Keep ringin’. I need some loot!”
Ring… ring.
“Hello, may I help you?”
“Hi, it’s Dave. I’m on 161.”
“Great! May I have the number to the pay phone?”
“It’s 555-7787.”
“Okay, I’ll call back.” Quickly I learned that some guys called just for the pleasure of calling an escort service, desiring the forbidden, the unknown, the fantasy of unknown pussy with no strings attached; however, those were the ones who bitched up at the last minute. That’s why I never called the girls until the customer called from the location I told them. Immediately, I dialed the number to the hotel where one of my girls was waiting.
“Cross Country Inn,” the receptionist answered.
“Room 112, please.”
“Hello,” a voice whispered. Coincidentally, Sugar, the name I had given her, was both her work name and the name that she went by outside of work. It was an odd choice considering how she got it. She said that her father had given her that name when he started climbing into her bed at night not long after her thirteenth birthday. She had the customers call her the same—she clearly had some daddy issues. Her father died of cancer, but she missed him greatly, despite the fact he took her virginity. Just hearing a man call her Sugar reminded her of the same feeling of love she had gotten when her father stroked her hair and called her that as he held her head tightly between his legs while she gave him oral sex.
Let That Be the Reason Page 2