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CALL GIRL (In which I learn about becoming a fantasy.)

I needed to make more money. Lance could only afford me for one shoot a month—and he could barely manage even that.  Leading tours through the museum covered my rent, but after student loan payments, there was not much left. I wanted to stay living in the East Village, in my newfound apartment on Avenue C, but I didn’t want to work for Lionel, and I didn’t want to keep doing the occasional half-assed photo shoot. I had no more time for people like Jeff or Larry in my life.  I was over that, over sprawling on beds, vibrators shoved inside, jean shorts around my ankles.  It all seemed hopelessly dumb, painfully dull, and a waste of time.

I’d gotten everything I was going to get from those experiences.  It was time for something new, time to bring my self-guided “anthropological experiment” to the next level, a level which felt like a natural culmination of everything which had come before. I was finally going to call those help wanted ads I’d studied for so long in the Village Voice:

“Earn Up To $6K/wk w/Estab Esc Svc Articulate, Attrac & Intell Females.”

“A1 Top Shelf Est. Esc. Svc. seeks Blondes, Redheads & Asian Model-Types for High $$$.”

“A1 GIRLS WANTED for Established Escort Service. All types, 18-40 yrs of Age. Exp Necessary.”

“100% Regulars seeking that special articulate & pretty lady for in-house Escort.”

If you have ever looked at the Adult Help Wanted section, you’ve seen them.

I was going to be an escort.

I was going to be a whore.

I didn’t know exactly what it would entail. All I knew was that I was pushing myself further, and that I was going to make more money.  I needed to do it.  I needed to find out how far I could go.  The lines were slipping away right and left. There would be no more pretending, no more barriers.  I was going to cross the line, and there’d be no going back.