Love for Sale between Lexington and Park
The building was located on East 31st between Lexington and Park Avenues in New York City. Not the most posh neighborhood in New York but definitely an upper class one. Standing outside the building, I glanced around the neighborhood, thinking in amazement that I would have never dreamed the luxury building in front of me was home to a whorehouse. Although I had done exotic dancing at the famed Mitchell Brothers in San Francisco and had been propositioned by the men who frequented the club, I had never been paid for sexual services. Taking a deep breath, I walked through the front door, stopping at the reception area desk, where a polite doorman asked which apartment I was visiting. After confirming I was expected, he welcomed me into the building and directed me to the top floor.
Getting off on the top floor, I walked down the hallway, my stiletto heels digging into the plush carpeting until I reached the apartment number I’d scribbled in my ‘week-at-a-glance.’ Again, I took a deep breath and buzzed the doorbell, where I was quickly greeted with the exact whore-house fantasy I’d imagined on the subway just thirty minutes before. The carpet was three inches thick and blood red, while hundreds of rectangular mirrors flashed my reflection in every direction. The room was decorated with indulgence in mind, dimly lit, with crimson patterned plush couches filled with plump, welcoming pillows tossed artistically and carelessly about the room.
Although no women were in my immediate view, I sensed they were there—hidden from me. The woman I presumed to be the madam of the whorehouse loomed over me; even though I was tall—nearly 5’9”—she was much taller, I imagined she was over six feet in her stocking feet and she was wearing heels higher than the ones I had on. She was sleek, gorgeous, and completely comfortable with her height. She led me to a small, dimly lit bedroom off the main parlor, motioning me to a futon stacked against the far wall.
“I’m Kat. Make yourself comfortable,” she demanded with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, her hands sweeping dramatically over her body as her eyes locked with mine in what seemed to be meaningful contact.
Confused, I tried to think through what the demand and corresponding gesture meant. Shrugging off my coat, I sank into a lush chair at the foot of the bed. I was ‘making myself comfortable.’ After what seemed to be hours, but was likely only a few minutes, Kat returned, eyeing me with both exasperation and disgust, repeating, “Make yourself completely comfortable.” No smile this time—she turned quickly on her heart-stopping high heel, shutting the door behind her.
A light bulb flashed in my brain. Even though I’d never heard the expression before, it was suddenly clear—the gesture, the exasperation in the woman’s voice, the meaningful rake of her eyes over my body. I was supposed to undress. Duh! Dutifully, I did as I was told. After removing my clothes I’d selected so carefully that morning, I settled into the chair again.
While waiting for her, questions popped into my always curious brain. Who was this woman? Was she the madam? Was she a prostitute? Did she own this place? Was she a pimp? Does she have a pimp? She’s awfully tall—is she really a woman? Anything is possible!
Kat returned and seemed pleased that I’d finally understood what getting comfortable meant. She explained how the service worked, what the expectations would be, and what kind of money I could expect to make. I would work four days a week, from noon until midnight, seeing gentlemen in both the apartment and on outcalls. The escort service charged two hundred dollars an hour, which would be split fifty/fifty. However, Kat explained the initial hundred dollars an hour paid only for my time; it was understood by the men at the outset that there would be additional tips, which I would determine, depending on what the customer wanted. She gave me a quick run through of what were considered ‘acceptable tips.’ She said I could expect to make anywhere from a thousand to five thousand dollars a day, depending on how busy the service was. I saw dollar signs and if there had been any indecision, it vanished immediately.
After explaining how the service worked, Kat asked me to stand with my arms out, palms up. She then switched the light dimmer up high until the room was flooded in harsh lighting. Confused again, I wasn’t sure what was going on—I wondered briefly if she was going to make me have sex with her for the job. I could feel her breath on the back of my legs as she examined every part of my body. After a thorough examination, she said, “It looks like your clean.”
“I took a shower right before I came,” I was shocked and insulted that she would think I would come to the interview less than fresh.
Kat smiled. Even though I had told her I’d worked in the business, she later told me that she knew I was as green as they came. “No,” she explained, “I need to make sure you are not doing drugs and from the looks of you, it doesn’t appear that you are. We don’t allow any marks on our girls here. If you do drugs, we better not ever see any evidence of it; however, I will give you some advice. If you are going to work in this business, run from the drugs because they will be your undoing. Believe me, it happens a lot.”
I stayed hidden from the rest of the girls until I turned my first trick. I learned later that the service needed to make absolutely sure I wasn’t a cop. Even though I’d passed the first test ‘getting completely comfortable,’ the service needed to make absolutely sure. I later learned that the first customer I had seen was a regular, who was given an hour with me for free (even though I was paid my hundred, as well as a three hundred dollar tip).
I was scared and nervous during that first trick. Closing my eyes, I let my mind wander deep into Melindaville—that always welcoming place in my imagination. I blocked any feelings before they came to the surface, as I learned to do from an early age. I didn’t allow myself to think about what I was doing but afterward, I was aware that another little piece of innocence had been shredded away. Soon, there would be no innocence left.
Peace,
Melinda
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Categories: Memories,Crossroads,Healing the Past,Personal Stories,Prostitution
Tags: whorehouse initiation into prostitution escort services New York City
I remember shortly after moving to Amsterdam for my work, taking a walk on a golden Sunday morning among the canals. The sunlight sparkled on the silver surface of the tranquil waters, the leaves on the trees had just emerged. The scene was verdant, fresh, new, yet ancient; it would not have surprised me to bump into a Dutch merchant of the 17th century, complete with a wig featuring resplendent curls.
I crossed a bridge, and what I saw was out of character with the scene - the windows with red lights in them, and the girls contained therein. I could only look for a moment, partially because I wasn't interested, and partially because the glance I got wasn't a "come hither" stare, as hard as they may have tried. I saw pain trying to dress up as desire.
I believe the Dutch have the right approach by bringing prostitution into the open, but it does need to be laid out on the surgical table of society, like an autopsy. Who are we as a society if we let such suffering pass us by? How did this happen? How do we moderate it, if not end it?
I don't have the answer, but your tales confirm what I saw in Dutch windows, Melinda. I am very glad that I never took a walk there again.
Best Regards, GC
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Ah yes, Amsterdam. I walked past the red light district there once--amazed at how different the approach was to the U.S., where 'working' women must remain hidden from the public.
I was a different type of prostitute than many of the women were, I think. For one thing, I genuinely liked many of my customers--I never rushed anyone and I always have enjoyed talking to different kinds of people. While it is true that men seek the services of prostitutes primary for sex, I think many men are also looking for companionship and I always tried hard to be a good companion. Some of my customers, I stayed in touch with for years. I ran into one man that I'd seen for years after I'd been in recovery for about 5 or 6 years (in San Francisco). When I told him about the changes in my life, he seemed genuinely happy that I'd made it out of 'the life.'
I don't know what the answer is either--but I do know that some of the best people I have ever known, I met in that profession. Many of the women I worked with were the ones who helped bail me out of jail (and other situations). Almost all of them were sexually assaulted at some point, which triggered their involvement in the industry. And I would say that at least ninety percent had serious drug problems.
I started at the top of the industry--making more money than most people could imagine. But, like almost every other working girl, I needed drugs to be able to cope with the sex industry--and drugs are the end of anyone, really. When I became a heroin addict, I ended up at the very bottom of the life--where I was working on the street, getting beaten up and raped with enough regularity that I began thinking it was normal. And how sad is that?
Thanks, GC for your thoughtful and insightful comments. I could picture Amsterdam from your vivid description--and it brought back some nice memories.
Smiles,
Melinda
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Melinda -
Not to cut too close to the bone, but perhaps the companionship element was really what you wanted out of these encounters; it seems to me that your gregarious nature is evidence of a need to connect with people, and to give and receive affection. This energy, which is positive, just was turned in another direction, like a prism bending a light.
The metaphor perhaps applies to your former colleagues - their energies too have been bent, turned out of joint, diverted - the abuse angle does not surprise me, the high prevalence of drug abuse does make sense too, as there is something that just seems unnatural about sex in this mode.
That said, there is something wrong with the clients too. I was not egotistical enough to believe that the young ladies in Amsterdam would have wanted to be with me for that end, given a free choice. To have sex with that element of "transaction" makes my skin crawl; perhaps that makes me the odd one in this day and age.
In any event, you have come through this, and found a far better outlet for your nature to express itself...and in the end, perhaps that's what really matters?
Best Regards, GC
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Very insightful. I think that's true--I have always tried to connect with people--it's a need, really--no matter what profession I have ever worked in. And there's also a part of me that has always wanted to be the best at what I did, regardless of what I was doing. I liked that I had loyal customers that would never see another girl if I were available. I always wanted to be the most popular girl--and I usually was, not because I was the most beautiful (I surely was not) but because I brought a level of humanity to the experience (or at least I'd like to think I did).
I agree there is something very unnatural about sex for money--for both parties. It's 'sex' not 'making love' that's for sure. But I also understand that some men need that physical release--and I can honestly say that I would rather my husband had meaningless sex with a prostitute, who always used protection--than to start a meaningful affair with a woman he met in another capacity.
Men are wired differently than women are. Not all men, but many men can completely turn off the emotional aspect of the sexual experience, whereas very few women are able to do that. Women emotionalize everything--including sex. I know that many of my customers truly loved their wives--yet they were also able to completely enjoy a safe, discreet encounter with me.
And yes, I have come out 'the life'--although who I am today is a culmination of all my experiences, including being a prostitute. And finally, I can embrace all that I am.
Thanks as always for your thoughtful comments that allow me to think through the not so obvious aspects of the post.
Melinda
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Hello Melinda, its been awhile, Hope your book's coming along well!
Anyway, This article provides a Gripping account of the chilling reality inside the 'Opulent' veneer of the Sex Industry. I'm appalled at the amount of Indignation and humiliation you were forced to endure at such dark periods in your life. Yet you Numbed yourself, drudged through the pain, and found a way to turn those horrendous experiences into a positive driving force. Society is two-edged when it comes to people who make desperate choices for a living, it forces them into it yet it scorns them.
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Hey Praz!
Nice to see you again! The book is coming along very well--and I am just this close to finishing my first edit (at which point, I give it to Les for editing).
You are spot on in your analysis of prostitution and our society's views on it. Absolutely, there are many women who do feel forced into the profession--and they deal with both their own self-hatred and the hatred of society. It screws people up--and I am so grateful to have made it out.
Thanks for stopping by!
Melinda
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How horrifying...the way a word like "comfortable" can be twisted to mean something as antithetical as being naked for a professional inspection...then, I guess it's all about twisting the meanings of things...like human bodies and sex and love.... My one experience with a prostitute was in Amsterdam...my first sexual experience, actually...I was nervous as hell, as well as probably very stoned, in the presence of a naked woman for the first time, she was businesslike and wanted to make things as quick as possible...and did.
The opening of this post brings Lou Reed to mind...Sally of "Sally Can't Dance" "lived at 88th and Park" and, in "Waiting for the Man" the way to the dealer was "up to Lexington, one two five, feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive"...guess it's best to be a junky vicariously, though Lou Reed lyrics, right?
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Hi Jay,
You know, your horror in how the word 'comfortable' was used had me think of the interesting linguistical world of the sex industry. There are so many terms that are used that have a special meaning that most people (who have not been involved with that business) would not dream of. Comfortable is just one of those words. For example, if a woman is 'square,' it means that she is not in the business.
I can imagine it must have been as nerve racking for you, in your situation, as it was for me. And for the majority of working girls, get him in, off, and out is the policy. It's a sad business for both the working girl and the customer, I think.
And wow--did you bring back some memories of 'Waiting for the man!' I used to love that song-and it used to run through my heads when I was scoring dope in NYC. And yes, it's too bad that I was so hellbent on experiencing personally what Lou, Jimi, Janice, and all the rest did--it was not enough to simply witness their own tragedy--I had to nearly create my own.
Take care,
Melinda
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Whenever someone comes into recovery and is still working in the industry I tell them to get out. Their first reaction is usually to tell me I'm being judgmental of what they do for a living. Not so. It's about the fact that the industry and drugs go hand in hand. We are powerless over that fact and I have never, not once in 20+ years, seen someone stay clean if they stay in the industry.
Maybe it is because drugs go hand in hand with it. Maybe because it's too painful once a person's mind, emotions and spirit begin to wake up.
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Exactly! They really do go hand in hand! If a person has a drug problem and is working--it is only a matter of time before they will relapse if they are still working in the profession--the profession feeds off the weaknesses of addicts--it truly does.
I have never seen a woman stay clean in the sex industry either--not if that person was an addict to begin with. I have seen a few (very few, mind you) women who managed to earn tons of money, invest it well, and live comfortable lives from their work in the business--but those (very few) women did not ever have a drug problem. They are so rare.
It is a degrading and painful business--no doubt about it. It got to the point where I could not turn a trick unless I was high--it just felt too bad to do that.
Thanks for stopping by!
Melinda
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How eerily prophetic that woman's words about drugs were! Then, it sounds like she was both warning you not to use, and telling you that if you do, to keep it invisible. Yes, let's not only make the girls invisible but the addictions that will kill them, too.
When my parents discovered my little sideline of work, one of their major objections was that the sex trade and drugs go together. Little did they know, I'd already been smoking dope, and would soon be taking speed, LSD, ecstasy - anything I could get my hands on. Not that this had anything much to do with working as a stripper.
In fact, I was doing those things before, during and after that time in my life.
Anyway, I can imagine how the money would have turned your head. And I completely get the way you felt, just blocking out your feelings and doing what had to be done...
Why do I get the feeling we're about to head into much murkier territory here in Melindaville?
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Hey Svasti--I am not at all surprised that you totally 'get' the entire experience. I think women can understand some of this in ways that men have a hard time with.
And yes, I have often thought of Kat's warning about the drugs--and how interesting that you pointed out the mixed messages that her recommendation brought forth: it's okay if you do drugs, just not okay if your customers know you do drugs. In other words, they could have cared less about my wellbeing--but the wellbeing of their business was (of course) tantamount.
And yes, I think we could be heading into some murky, difficult, and sometimes heartbreaking parts of Melindaville. But underlying all of that is always the hope for survival, transformation, and change. Because no matter how bad things get . . . if there is life, there is hope.
We share a similar but different path--in many ways, I see you as a survivor who didn't get quite as far down that destructive road as I did (which I am so happy that you did not).
Take care, my friend--and thanks, as always, for stopping by.
Melinda
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So fascinating, and such a different account than what I'd hear about the legal deal in Nevada growing up there.
I just went to Google maps to see how far that block is from where my friend lived when I stayed with him for two weeks. He lived in definite New York-style walking distance on E. 81st. It was interesting to look at the street view. Kinda bizarre to see the block where you worked...such great buildings on that tree-lined narrow street. An amazing past, Melinda.
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Hi Lydia,
Nevada is far different than any place else--and I know because I spent about 3 weeks working there one time at the Kit Kat Ranch. It just wasn't for me--way too restrictive about the hours you work and you had to work five times harder to earn the same amount of money. It was safe, though--much safer than doing incalls or outcalls in a non-supervised environment.
I have walked past the apartment building a few times when I have been visiting New York. I pointed it out to Les once--when I did (and told him the story about Kat), he shook his head in amazement. I think my experiences sometimes still surprise him--although he has never once judged me for any of it.
Melinda
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The Kit Kat...wow. Guy friends of mine would tell me stories about the place. Mostly, though, they talked about Mustang Ranch. My second summer job was in the then-small Western Union office. My boss was best friend of Sally Conforte', good old Joe's wife. The boss was a straight-laced Catholic woman who sure loathed Joe.
It amazes me that your husband is privy to your truths without judging. I guess that's why your book will be a reality, come to think of it. I button down my past as my husband just wouldn't understand.
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Hi Lydia,
Yes, the Kit Kat really wasn't for me--I liked the freedom of working for myself (and you also made far more money working for yourself). I felt the Nevada ranches took advantage of women--although they did offer protection.
You know, Lydia, I don't think I could be in a relationship with someone who didn't know all about my past--although I really do understand that this is different for everyone. But for me, I would always be afraid that he would find out--and the chances that he would find out would be very good since I was never secretive about working as a call girl, exotic dancer, or running the fantasy phone call service. I was always open about that--so many people in both San Francisco and New York know about my past--it would be bound to come out at some point--and I would not want to live looking over my shoulder.
I told Les in increments about my past--I didn't tell him all at once or I am sure that would have scared him away. First I told him that I had been an exotic dancer and that didn't bother him at all. Then I told him a little more and a little more until finally, when we were vacationing in Barcelona, I let it all out in the course of two days. I had tears in my eyes when he told me that he loved me even more knowing all I'd been through--and that was actually the first time he asked me to marry him (I turned him down the first time!). He has never once brought up my past and never once judged me for it. Les is an amazing man--and I am a lucky, lucky woman to have a partner who is as supportive as he is.
Melinda
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Melinda -- Outside of the emotional punch of this, which is hard for me to get my head around right now or comment on directly, you have written another very vivid story, with telling detail.
There was a point today when I was thinking about survival, about how people get through seemingly impossible situations (maybe it was after I was discussing the book Beautiful Boy with a friend) and you and your story popped into my head. I started to get teary, because of the pain and the danger of your experiences and the fact that you came through them with grace, and emerged as, well, you!
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Thanks Jennifer,
I am visiting my mother right now, in Montana, and she and I just shared a tear while talking about some of the really harrowing and dangerous experiences I have survived. As she put it, "a whole bunch of miracles."
Perhaps that should be the title of my book. I have to find a new one, as "Lost and Found" has already been used, I found out!
Your comment really moved me. Thank you.
Melinda
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