Archive for March, 2008

Down in The Dumps

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on March 16, 2008 by Bree

I need to stop reading the tabloids and disconnect the internet, because l’affaire Spitzer is making me depressed.  Really, really depressed.

Even the more measured pieces are followed by comments that are unbelievably disheartening to me.  After more than two years, it still hurts that, to so many people, we’re nothing but scum who deserve Old Testament-style punishment.  Why do they hate us so much?  I really think these are the same people who bomb abortion clinics and wear t-shirts proclaiming “God Hates Fags”.

I corresponded with a friend in Europe last night.  He said that a lot of the venom comes from jealousy, both of Eliot Spitzer’s ability to afford that kind of coin, and from Ashley Dupre’s ability to to earn it.  I think he’s probably right.  But I still don’t feel sorry for the man.

I don’t know how I feel about her.  I try to put a price tag on forever having my name, my whole being, associated with one night of my life, and I just can’t do it.  I’d like to think that the tattoo above her money-maker, tutela valu, or “fair value”,  is wry, highly self-aware commentary, and that the public will find out that they have severely underestimated her.  I hope she’s carefully considering her options, and that she gets as much money as possible out of whatever decisions she makes.  I don’t think she’s stupid, because if she is, she would have blabbed to the media already, like that Brazilian bimbo.

Now that I’ve elaborated on why I think men do it, my next entry will detail some of what motivated me to work as an escort.  Stay tuned.



Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , on March 15, 2008 by Bree

In my earlier post, I said that the vast majority of my clients engaged my services because they weren’t having sex with their wives.  That’s true.  I’m not, however, placing the blame on the shoulders of the women of the world, like that cunt Dr. Laura.

I’m past the age of thirty now, but I’m still terribly immature.  I have had precious little personal experience in relationships or matters of the heart.  I’m still trying to figure it all out, so to speak.  I’ve been cheated on and rejected in favor of younger women in the past, and it’s never fun.  I’m still trying to figure out why the whole male-female dynamic leads to heartbreak most of the time, or why socially prescribed mantras like “men are dogs” or “women are built for monogamy” fail to reflect what I’ve seen amongst my peers and myself.  I just bought a book called The Female Brain, because I hope it will answer some of my lingering questions.  I’ll let you know what I find, if anything.

Why They Do It

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on March 15, 2008 by Bree

In the wake of Eliot Spitzer’s resignation, lots of people, media idiots included, are wondering why men seek out prostitutes. The simplest (and crudest) explanation is that it’s sex – it’s all about men’s biological imperative to seek out variety in sexual partners. By this line of reasoning, prostitutes represent safer alternatives to extramarital affairs, and so, they say, the big head prevails over the little one, momentarily.

When I first starting working as a prostitute, I thought much the same way. It only took about a month on the job for my perceptions to take an about-face. You see, I don’t think it’s about the sex. It’s about intimacy, of which sex plays a part, of course, but it’s hardly the whole story.

I have worked at different levels within the sex industry. First, I was available by the hour for a modest sum. After three months, when demand outstripped supply, and it became clear that I was doing something right, I near-doubled my rates, and insisted on a multiple-hour minimum, for which had enough takers to earn a commensurate amount for far less of my time. In both hooker capacities, the motivation of men who came to see me was the same: loneliness. They were trapped in marriages in which the romance had withered. It was rarely due to lack of interest on their part; many reported that their wives were simply not interested in having sex with them anymore, particularly after the arrival of hildren. Many said that their marriages felt more like business arrangements than contracts of the heart. They were unhappy, but they felt, either because the kids weren’t yet grown, or because they stood to lose 50% of their assets in the event of a divorce, that leaving wasn’t an option. Mistresses were too risky; prostitutes were much safer.

There are other motivations. Some clients are workaholics; they are married to their jobs, and haven’t the time to invest in a relationship and all of the late-night phone calls and flower deliveries modern romance requires. A much smaller percentage is socially phobic. Despite their brilliant intellectual capacity and stalwart character, these men have cripplingly low self-esteem, and don’t believe themselves to be capable of dating, in the conventional sense of the word.

The smallest percentage of all, in my experience, are players: men who are addicted to novelty, and see prostitutes because they just want to shove themselves into a brand-new warm hole. I think, out of hundreds, I can count that type on one hand. After all, if men were so driven by variety, I wouldn’t have had a 90% repeat clientele. Granted, I worked at a different end of the business than Ashley Alexandra Dupre, or any of the women that Emporers’s Club VIP employed. I am attractive, but hardly model material. I’m maybe an seven-and-a-half/eight out of a ten, on a good hair and skin day. It’s what lies between my ears that gave me a competitive edge, and yes, I know that my IQ is an anathema to a lot of men who seek out the services of prostitutes, who don’t want their whores to be literate enough to recognize who they are if they happen to be high-profile, or are intimidated by a broad with a brain. But I hardly ever met that sort of man, because once I went indie and called my own shots, I knew better how to deter him with my marketing methods, or how to sniff him out during the screening/vetting process.

What is this – like, six posts in less than twenty-four hours? Damn. I’m on roll. Amantadine, the medication I was given earlier today, is known to cause insomnia and agitation. Both of which I suffer from anyway. So…thanks, Amantadine. Um, I guess.

More Spitzenfreude.

Posted in Uncategorized on March 15, 2008 by Bree

No. 9

One complaint: it’s la toilette. Not le toilette. Get your French definite article genders straight, dammit.

The problem with legalization

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , on March 14, 2008 by Bree

I Google-chatted with a close friend of mine, who is the boyfriend another close friend, a former working girl colleague. He said:

why cant they just legalize it? have the girls tested for stds, make it safe

And that’s where I cut him off. Why shouldn’t clients be tested for sexually transmitted infections? They’re often the ones, as Client 9 has shown us, that ask for condomless sex.

What most people don’t understand is that working girls (and working boys and the transgendered) have a very vested interest in protecting themselves. Infections mean lost time to treatment and recovery, lost time means no work, and no work means no money. We don’t get paid leave or two weeks vacation, you see.

It really doesn’t take a PhD in economics to work out a cost/benefit analysis of condom usage, does it?

Media Errata

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on March 14, 2008 by Bree

Since the press can’t be bothered to do their homework, I’m doing it for them.

Let’s get a few things straight: Kristen, or Ashley Alexandra Dupre, or Ashley DiPietro, or Ashley Youmans, did not earn “several thousand dollars an hour”.

Her rate was $1,000 an hour, and she stayed for two and half hours, I believe. Plus, Client 9 put down a deposit of $1,500 for future visits. Do the math. It works out.

Agencies in the United States take a fifty percent commission, which is absurd, but never mind that for now. So actually, her rate was $500 an hour. But wait! It gets better. When a client pays with a credit card, he’s hit with a surcharge of fifteen percent. And then the agencies, greedy bastards that they are, also take fifteen percent out of the escort’s cut. So, for a single hour, one thousand dollar call, she can walk away with as little as $400-450.

Emperor’s Club was one of the more expensive agencies in New York. A lot of averages are being bandied about by the press, and they don’t seem to me to have any basis in reality. The average rate for a high end outcall escort (an escort who goes to a client’s hotel or residence) in Manhattan is about $600-800 an hour, before the agency’s commission. Perhaps more if the escort is of model-height and model-looks, or if her agency simply markets her under a different name, with different rates and a different rate structure. You just fudge her height, age, and measurements a little bit, and upsell clients when they call: Well, Megan isn’t available this evening, but we do have Devon for you, though she’s more expensive. Emperor’s Club engaged in this duplicitous practice, as do most agencies in New York.

There’s a Columbia sociologist named Sudhir Venkatesh who is getting an awful lot of mileage in the media as an “expert” on all forms of prostitution. Listening to him, I get the feeling that he pulled a lot of his research out of his ass. $10,000 a session? Sure, in 24 hour session, maybe, but it’s really not that common. There are so few men who can afford that kind of money, to begin with, and even the ones that can often don’t, for reasons I don’t feel like elaborating upon at the moment. I was a very well-paid whore, and my earnings were about $100,000 a year, gross. And I had a hell of a lot of expenses. I could have worked a lot more, but I turned down a lot of appointments. I guess you could say that I was a bit of a soup Nazi when it came to prospective clientele; for example, I deleted e-mails with text abbreviations like “ur” and “u”.  Your typical high end escort can gross $200,000 to $300,000 a year. In a city like New York, it’s really not that much money.

Most men see a rate of say, $300 an hour, and they think, “That whore is seeing six clients a day, fifty weeks out of the year – she’s making $90,000 a year tax-free!” Nope. First of all, fucking for a living isn’t the same as working an office job. An escort cannot sustain that kind of volume without serious risks to her mental and physical health. Even if that were not true, the demand for her services isn’t a constant. There are some weeks that she’ll receive twenty serious inquiries, and some weeks where she’ll receive none. It’s a feast-or-famine kind of business.

I guess I just find it funny that the institution of whoring is taking such a drubbing right now, and at the same time, the media is feeding the public such inflated figures. There’s a whole generation of Myspace narcissists out there who are going to think that prostitution is a fast lane to riches and celebrity. Who is going to take responsibility when that happens?

Last, I take issue with agency owners being called “pimps”. I don’t like agencies. Nine times out of ten, they’re awful, mercenary people who don’t give a damn about their employees, and don’t do anything that merits a 50% commission. But pimps take all your money. They might give girls in their stable some crack and Roca Wear as a consolation prize, but that’s all.

Client 9

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on March 14, 2008 by Bree

I’ve never liked Eliot Spitzer. He always struck me as a smarmy fucker, a type A personality on speed. So it doesn’t surprise me at all that he turned out to be a colossal hypocrite. Remember that this man brought down at least two escort agencies during his tenure as District Attorney, complete with choice soundbites of moral disgust and outrage for the media’s benefit, and he supported the move to increase minimum sentences for convincted johns. No, I’m afraid I have no sympathy for the man; indeed, he elicits nothing from me but what someone far more clever than I am has termed “spitzenfreude”.

As a former prostitute, I have no problems with prostitution, or men who employ the services of prostitutes. Yet I’m floored that Mr. Spitzer would take such a risk. If I had to guess, I would venture that he represents the flip side of the coin of the Hugh Grant/Divine Brown type of thrill-seeking, classic sex addict behavior. Or maybe it was his grandiosity. Maybe he simply believed himself to be so powerful and invincible that he couldn’t conceive of getting caught with his pants down.

The affidavit states that Client 9 asked for “things that, like, you might not think were safe”. Translation: he didn’t want to use a condom. For the record, out of the hundreds of men that I’ve fucked, I’ve only been asked for bareback sex once, by a fool who smelled like a barnyard, and naturally, I declined. No one ever tried to slip off the condom when I wasn’t paying attention. Ever.

That Spitzer likely requested sex with out a condom, or in industry lingo, “bareback full service” (or BBFS for short) is, to me, the final word on how much of a fucking douchebag he actually is. I would have thought he’d have been the type who’d pull your hair, smack your ass, and pound you into the mattress. But the sad truth is that, in my (single) experience and in those of my former colleagues, men who ask for bareback tend to be whiners. I suspect Client 9 whined a lot that night, about how much he was paying, about why she couldn’t stay longer, about how he’d love to “take her away from all of this” and “set her up in an apartment.”

Yes, that’s about exactly right.