Secret Diary of an (Atlanta) Call Girl

I have been in what my mother refers to as the “shmate” business (retail clothing sales) ever since I could walk.  And I’m pretty great at it if I do say so myself!   My clients, my “girls,” all love me.   I’ll tell a client when a pair of jeans she has been coveting for months makes her thighs look like the colonel’s drumsticks covered in some weird blue batter, or that the simple black dress simply MUST be bought (even if she has nowhere to wear it) because it is a staple of every woman’s wardrobe and frankly makes her look like she can hula hoop inside a Cheerio.  They always listen to me, and I slowly found that honesty is the best policy when selling high-end clothing, not that I have a choice about being blunt I guess.  I mean… Jewish girl from Long Island… HELLOOO…  So it shouldn’t have been a surprise that it’s the same way in my new line of work….

So yeah, my new line of work… Selling boutique dresses and accessories is obviously not the oldest profession.

“My name is Alex and I am an escort.”

I’ve never written those words down before, and for some reason as I read it back over and over they seem so foreign but at the same time I’m thinking “no big deal.”   Maybe I need to write it again… with feeling this time…

“My name is Alex and I am an escort.”

Nope… no big deal.

After all between the economy going south, every other news story about a politician, actor, or sports star getting caught for cheating with a hooker or a stripper, and Gloria Allred representing every tramp they were caught with, is the fact that a nice Jewish girl decided to spread her legs for money really that surprising?  (note to self: get Gloria’s number…  you never know)

So why the 101st way of getting into this?   Because I don’t have the typical long drawn out tragic stories about an abusive family, low self esteem, yaddah yaddah yaddah.   It was simply a matter of needing to pay the bills. One day I found myself with my rent, car payment, and a whole pile of bills all due in less than two weeks and I only had enough funds to cover half.   I wasn’t even including having my roots colored or eating.  (yes, my roots take priority over eating, I am Jewish after all).

So there I was, 2 AM with a nervous stomach and visions of sleeping in the MARTA station I started trolling Craigslist for part time jobs.  I couldn’t quit my job at the boutique.  Even though I wasn’t making any money the discount was awesome!!   Maybe I could make some extra money as an evening hostess?   No such luck.  Part-time at a bookstore?  Yawn.   Flex time Fabulous Personal Shopper?  There wasn’t even a category for that in Craigslist!  Talk about tragedy!

I finally hit the erotic category.

When you look back at your life you can usually pick out days or events that turn out to be those forks in the road that determine your future.  And sometimes you wind up sitting on one or two of those forks and stabbing yourself in the ass.   Half out of curiosity and half because I was so desperate I felt I had no choice, I read on – hoping this fork wouldn’t come back to haunt me.  A lot of ads looked enticing, but every ad I came across wanted a face picture.   And there was NO WAY IN HELL I was sending them a picture!  With my luck I would pick the ad that was a practical joke being played by someone I actually knew.   Makes you wonder… is paranoia just a form of Jewish guilt combined with premonition?  I’ll have to look into that.

But three pages in and I finally found an ad for escorts who wanted their anonymity, flexible hours, and lots of $$$$$!!! How perfect is that?  It was clearly a sign!

There was a phone number. Good thing because if I had to e-mail and wait for a reply I am sure rational thinking would have set in and I might not be writing this today.

I was also thinking “it’s 2:00 in the morning, who is actually going to pick up?”

Someone did…..

Answering the phone was ANDREA, the woman who was to become my pimp, my agent, the sisterly voice on the other end of the line, the woman who was the alpha and the omega of my escorting life.  I never actually met Andrea but for some reason I trusted that she had my best interest at heart. She talked about being empowered, making your mark, preparing for the future.  She said exactly what I wanted and needed to hear as I embarked on this “new adventure.”  She was an inspiration!

… well… she was a great bullshit artist is what she was.

Her: “You text me your hours that you can work by 1 everyday. We start taking calls at 3pm and stop at 3am.  We want you to be on at least 5 hours a day.  Once you call in we will send you out on appointments.  We will text you the address, your stage name, and his name.  If it is a hotel we will give you the room number when you get there and parking.  After you arrive you will check his ID and pick up the envelope he has left in plain view for you.  You will excuse yourself to the bathroom, make sure “the drop” is correct, text me “ok,” change into lingerie and walk out.”

Me: “What do I do then?”

Her: “You be his girlfriend for an hour.  Call when you are done and walking out and if I have somewhere for you to go I will text you. And don’t forget your supplies!!!!!!”

“…And don’t forget your supplies…”   huh???

My supplies… Oy vey… I get embarrassed buying tampons, how the hell am I going to buy condoms, lube and baby wipes??? Why don’t I just walk into the CVS with a hooker sign on my back?   Shows you my state of mind at the time… I was about to go to strange residences and hotel rooms to have sex with strange men but here I was stressing about buying a few supplies!!

But Andrea was smart – she knew how to keep her girls around.  She had a network of regular guys with notes on each one.  “Good looking,” “big tipper,” “overweight,” “cums quick,” etc.  If you were a new girl and she wanted to keep you around she gave you the easy appointments. For my first month I got those.  I remember thinking this isn’t that bad, this is easy.

In fact I remember my first appointment. I got the text…


Your name is Shelby

Client is John Shelton (not really, I would never out anyone, not even the assholes)

I keyed the address into my GPS. It showed my arrival as 25 min later.   Are you kidding me? Why the hell is Atlanta so spread out?  “Well at least there won’t be any traffic at 10 at night” I thought.  I HATE traffic.  I’m one of those individuals that read about someone being shot because of road rage and gets it!!!

I was given instructions to park at least 6 houses away from his.  He didn’t want his neighbors to wonder why he was having company so late.  I’m sure the sight of me walking in 5 inch heels and a mini skirt down the block at 10:30 at night was much more discreet….(Idiot)

I knocked on the door.  I would have probably have been a nervous wreck but for the fact that my feet were throbbing from hiking up his long steep driveway in my terribly uncomfortable – but fabulous!!! – designer fuck me pumps (FMP, more on hooker acronyms later) and I couldn’t wait to get inside and take them off.

“Hi, my name is John, it’s nice to meet you. You look exactly like your pics.”

I do?  What pics were those, I thought?    “Thank you,” I replied and went to introduce myself.



Oh shit!  What’s my name?   WHAT’S MY NAME?!?!?!?!?!

Oh fuck it; he doesn’t care what my name is.  I picked up the envelope that was in plain view, checked the id, asked where the bathroom was and excused myself. I counted the drop to make sure it was correct. Twenty, forty. . . . . . . 300.  All there. I texted Andrea the “ok” and took my clothes off to reveal my sexy bra and panty set.  As I opened the bathroom door millions of thoughts went racing through my mind…

… thank goodness he is good looking… please let him take the lead… am I going to have to blow him?… can I leave after he cums?… what if he doesn’t cum?… will I have to give his money back?…

… does my ass look fat?

I hear him call “Shelby, I’m in here.”  I follow the voice and find him lying on his bed naked.  The lights are still on and I ask if I can turn them off.  “That will take some of the fun away” he replies.   Great, I hate having sex with the lights on.  I climbed on the bed next to him and was so relieved to find that he was taking the lead.  I didn’t have to do anything but respond to what  he was doing.  He kissed, I kissed back – he touched, I touched back – he went down, I enjoyed.   By the time we were having sex I was actually really getting into it.  He was good looking, had a nice house, was nice to me and frankly knew what he was doing in bed.

Wait… why was he single?

Who was I kidding, he wasn’t.  “You’re not on a date,” I reminded myself.  “You just got paid, now make him cum, get your clothes on, kiss good night and leave.”

After he finished, I fixed my makeup, got dressed, and walked out of the bathroom.  John was waiting by the door in a bathrobe with his hands behind his back.  Oh no… everything had gone so well, please don’t tell me he’s going to turn psycho on me and kill me, or worse lock me in his basement and make me his sex slave!  (he was good but not that good!)   He put out one hand to hold mine, turned it over and with his other hand he place an additional two hundred dollars in my palm, kissed me on the cheek and said he’d be calling again soon.

I walked what seemed like forever to my car, got in and called Andrea to check in.  I started to go into details but she cut me off and informed me that she wanted me to take the rest of the night off because the next night was going to be very busy.  I asked her about the drop and she told me to hold onto it and we would take care of it tomorrow.  She complimented me on my incredible performance; John had apparently called when I was on my trek back to the car to rave about me. (or so she said, great bullshit artist, remember?)  I said goodnight and started laughing, then crying then laughing hysterically again.  That was easiest money I had ever made.

That exact thought had me laughing and crying at the same time all night.