The Price: My Rise and Fall As Natalia, New York's #1 Escort

by Natalie McLennan

  CHAPTER THREE

  “YOU’VE GOT $650 SHOES ON— ACT LIKE IT”

  I excelled at my new job, and it didn’t take long before I was “top girl,” or Jason’s “bottom bitch” in street lingo. This made me very popular with the bookers. Their compensation was 10% of the date they booked: a 2-hour/$2,400 date with me would earn them $240 compared with a 2-hour/$1,600 date with any of the other girls. The system had a built-in positive- feedback loop that favored the top girl.

  After a brief chat about what the client was looking for, the booker would direct him to the escort’s reviews on TheEroticReview.com, a hugely influential Web site, and ninety percent of the time the client would call back, often within the hour. The power of those reviews was undeniable.

  During the 90s, Giuliani cracked down on street prostitution, but he pretty much left the high-end escort trade alone. It seemed every day a new Web site popped up offering to fulfill your wildest sexual fantasies for a premium. As Wall Street recovered from 9/11, the industry was booming, and it was all happening online.

  Clients, or “hobbyists” as they are called, guard TheEroticReview.com (or TER, as it was known to insiders) with a geeky sense of ownership that is familiar to anyone who spends time on any kind of hobbyist web forum. It’s a great source of information for anyone looking to make an appointment: which escorts to avoid, which agencies were safe to call, and who offered what services. It’s sort of like a Consumer Reports for horny guys, only instead of vacuums and SUVs, this site happens to rate blowjobs and fake tits. Back in the stone age, before TER went online, clients had very few sources from which to draw information. Men relied on the pictures in the ads in the back of weeklies, which were notorious bait-and-switch scams, or tales from their friends, which were, if not outright lies, dramatically inflated half-truths. What guy wants to admit paying $600 for a limp lay?

  The key to the site is that a profile (composed of four parts) is created by the first client, not the agency or the girl herself. This profile includes physical stats: height, weight, hair and eye color, breast size and shape, body type, piercings or tattoos, and whether her pussy is shaved, partially shaved or natural. Then the page lists what services the girl offers. This section and the “Juicy Details” are only viewable by “VIP” members. To get VIP status you have to either pay a membership fee or have a certain number of escort reviews approved and posted by TER administrators. The “services available” section details everything from kissing to anal sex. When an escort changes her hair color or decides not to offer blowjobs without a condom anymore, she has to email TER and ask very nicely to have her profile updated.

  Like pretty much every other aspect of the industry, it disempowers the workers, putting the women at the mercy of the clients. Many women suffer from fake reviews posted by ex-boyfriends or a pissed off client, although plenty of bad reviews are based on reality. Reading those can be like stepping into a particularly twisted William S. Burroughs novel.

  Here’s a career killer:

  appearance: 4 - OK if you are drunk

  performance: 2 - I should have stayed home

  attitude: borderline nuts

  atmosphere: freaky in the wrong way

  My luck was due to run out. After some excellent luck with outcall, this was the balancing factor. Not only was she not the girl in the photo, she was nothing like the girl in the photo. Rather, she was old, unattractive, half-crazy and a total rip off.

  Why I didn’t say no at the door, I just don’t know. I realized right away she wasn’t nearly like the photo. She also looked older. But I’d had a few encounters with older women that were great. Their enthusiasm more than made up for a small sag here or there. Maybe this time, too?

  No. No way. About the time we lost our clothes, and I handed over the cash, I started to understand this would be awful. First, she wasn’t in her late 20s or even her 30s. Also, everything about her was strange. Even the way she tried to up sell me (no dice) was strange. The covered BJ surely was strange with oddball noises and unsynchronized use of her hands. Time to proceed. She gets on her back, opens her legs to show a full, natural bush (when was the last time I saw that?) and sort of half-hides her face with the pillow.

  As if it’s not bad enough already, she’s jabbering about this and that. Talk about shrinkage. I thought I might just get on with it and get that nut. No way with her yammering maybe in English, maybe some Asian language—who could tell?

  So I pull out and ask for a hand job. The only way I get off is by focusing entirely and exclusively on her nipples, which were nice and fat, the way I love.

  Bottom line—should have jerked off as I had originally intended.

  Stay away.

  The 1-10 rating given by the client is split into two categories: appearance and performance. A 5-4 review (appearance: 5, performance: 4) can wreck an escort’s career with the click of a mouse. In the first few months of going out, I got an unprecedented seventeen consecutive 10-10 reviews. I was, apparently, a natural. No one believed that all of my reviews were authentic. Accusations that clients were bribed to write shining reviews, and even that the reviews were completely fictional, abounded.

  It was true for other girls that if a client told Jason he was planning to give her, say, an 8-8, Jason would lobby him hard to change it. “Please don’t write one because it will only hurt her,” I would hear him saying over the phone. “These are sweet girls. Don’t be mean to them.” In this way Jason was able to keep any less-than-perfect reviews off of the site, but I earned my actual posted reviews fair and square.

  My first review was an important one. I had seen about half a dozen clients in my first few days, without any photos or posted reviews. This made Jason’s job significantly harder. Jason was like the high-roller wrangler at a big-time casino. The big spenders would be patched through to him, and he’d work his magic. Jason would often spend up to forty-five minutes on the phone with each one, letting his natural ability to bond with strangers build an instant trust and camaraderie. He talked to them as if he were their lifelong friend—one who was only too happy to rent out his girlfriend for a few hours.

  What Jason was selling, and I was providing, was more than a lay. It was the GFE (The Girlfriend Experience). It wasn’t an original pitch. Other agencies were increasingly using it as high-end clients began asking for more of an “authentic” sexual encounter. GFE is the idea that most guys didn’t just want to buy a fuck. These men wanted to hang out with a smart, sensual woman who would listen to them, tell them they were interesting and cool, do whatever they wanted in bed.and then leave.

  Jason would make all the girls repeat this mantra three times before they walked into the hotel room to meet a client: “This is my boyfriend of six months, the man I love, I haven’t seen him for three weeks.. This is my boyfriend of six months, the man I love.”

  I was a natural for the part. I was the smart, sassy girl whom you could take anywhere—and then do anything to. I was presentable, playful and baggage-free. I didn’t look like a Barbie doll with traffic cones for breasts. I was educated, outgoing and, most importantly, a great listener. Some clients just wanted sex. Others craved the non-sexual part just as much. With me, they didn’t have to choose. I delivered both.

  * * *

  Still, I needed a review on TER to be able to consistently command the kind of money we were shooting for.

  The particular client Jason called, Steven, had been an agency regular since the beginning and was also an influential reviewer on TER. Steven agreed to a two-hour appointment for $1,600 and promised to write a strong review—if he thought I was great. If not, he would receive a credit with the agency, on the condition that he refrain from writing a bad review and instead give his critique to Jason privately.

  Talk about pressure.

  Jason insisted I stop at Manolo Blahnik’s midtown store en-route to the Hudson Hotel for my date with Steven. The traffic was horrendous and the added stress of buying my first pair of $600 sh
oes seemed unnecessary. But Jason insisted that men would be impressed when I took off my shoes and saw the label. Jason had called the store and asked the manager to have the shoes ready at the register. Jason told the guy to give me the sexiest black stilettos he had, size seven.

  When I finally got there, they had the black stilettos waiting for me. In size eight. A good size too big. They were true hooker shoes. The heel had to have been at least four inches high. I laid out $650 in cash and bolted out the door, my feet slipping out of the straps. When I finally made it to the Hudson, I staggered through the super-hip lobby of the hotel feeling ridiculous and went straight to the elevators. I made it to the twenty-fourth floor. I composed myself and put on my best, albeit wobbly, foot forward.

  You’ve got $650 shoes on, act like it.

  Steven opened the door with a warm smile. He told me to relax and take off my shoes. I tried to flash him the label as I slowly took them off. He looked at my ass the whole time.

  Maybe Jason didn’t know everything.

  We made small talk. He gave me some vague non-statements about what business he was in. I told him about my acting gigs. He seemed semi-interested. That lasted all of three minutes.

  I slinked up to him on the couch and began rubbing his leg. Then I kissed his neck and started my hand up to his balls. I could feel my panties getting wet. I could feel he had a large, strong cock. He grabbed my ass and pulled off my thong underwear. Despite his age (he was in his early 50s), I liked the way he touched me. My pussy started dripping, and I could barely control myself. When he went down on me, it felt good, and I let myself enjoy it. He treated me like a girlfriend rather than an object to fuck.

  Steven and I had sex twice. The second time I let him come in my mouth and then we lay together for a few minutes. We chatted a little more, and I confessed the story of my shoes and my general nervousness about my review, but he laughed and told me not to worry about it.

  Steven and I developed a rapport, especially after the sex. He understood this crazy escort world I had just entered and what it must be like for me as a new girl, which made me feel more at ease. As we went through the questions for my TER profile, I imagined I was Meryl Streep sitting across from James Lipton on Inside The Actors Studio, answering his slightly ridiculous questions.

  He asked me my age, height, weight, etc., and I told him about my tongue piercing (I usually didn’t wear it to appointments. It went against the “nice girl” image Jason sold). Then he asked me if I offered “Greek.”

  “Greek?” I responded.

  “Anal,” he explained.

  When I hesitated to answer, Steven was cool. He said he’d put down, “Don’t know.” The line of questioning was starting to rattle me. I hadn’t really thought through the ramifications of having to do things I didn’t want to, things that might actually hurt, for money. So far, I’d only had to fuck and suck decent-looking rich guys who treated me like a queen. I’d even come a couple of times. That’s one reason why I think I was so good. The hobbyists, the veteran clients, could spot a fake orgasm a mile away. I didn’t come because I was supposed to, I came because it completed the sexual connection with the guy. They noticed and appreciated it.

  I wobbled out of the hotel in my big shoes, pleased with my performance, trying not to think about the cradle of Western civilization’s penchant for buggery.

  * * *

  Ironically, my ass became my best and most sellable asset. It was the first thing that came out of Jason’s mouth when he was selling me to a potential client. His apartment was at the top of a five-story walkup, and I had to trek up those stairs every time I got back from a booking, every time I wanted something that couldn’t be delivered or just to get a breath of fresh air. I hated having to go to Jersey, and those stairs, but they did do wonders for my glutes.

  I was out at Jason’s apartment for a full month before I got up the courage to break free from my old life. Most of my stuff was still at the apartment I shared with Paul.

  Finally, I called him and told him I was coming over the next day. When I showed up he was drunk and had a wild look in his eyes. I kept my head down and quickly tried to pick up whatever clothes I could find laying around and tried to make a run for it. But he grabbed me as I got to the hallway. I slipped by and ran down the stairs.

  He chased down the stairwell after me, screaming, “You don’t know what you’re doing! Natalie, let me help you. Where are you going? Where are you going to go? You have nobody, you’re going to end up dead!”

  I just laughed inside. At this point, Paul had no effect on me. My love for him had evaporated the first time his hand grabbed my throat. I knew what I was doing—his words only made me stronger and more stubborn.

  I made it to the front door, but he grabbed me again. I yanked my body so hard to break his grasp that I almost fell down the stoop’s stairs. A passerby saw the whole thing and called 911. The police arrived a couple of minutes later and offered to file a report and start the process to have an order of protection (similar to a restraining order) filed against him.

  They seemed disappointed when I said no.

  It was over between us. I knew I wouldn’t see him again. I also knew he wouldn’t come looking for me to try and hurt me. I had grown to hate him, but I wanted him to get better and leaving him with an order of protection on his record was the last thing he needed.

  We had been through a lot: drug overdoses, money problems, stalling careers…. I convinced him to reconnect with his two kids and to start trying to be a dad again.

  However, as soon as I was in a cab with my things and on my way uptown to Samantha’s apartment, any pangs of guilt disappeared. As we turned onto Central Park South, memories of all the nasty things Paul had said and done to me came roaring back. He didn’t deserve to be arrested, but he sure didn’t deserve me. I didn’t know where my life was going, but I did know this: Paul was over. I was making more money than I had ever seen in my life and soon would be on my own, in my own apartment, alone. I told myself over and over again this was a great thing, that my life was turning around. Finally.

  Within a matter of days, Samantha was out as Jason’s girl. And he and I began what you might call a capitalist adventure in post-feminist relationship dynamics.

  * * *

  Jason and I were lounging around the Hoboken HQ on a Friday night. The phone wasn’t ringing. Jason was tethered to his apartment via his ankle bracelet, and I was joined at the hip to Jason when I wasn’t grinding mine with a client.

  I was finally crashing after working for basically a month straight. Jason was high on Special K and not much in the way of conversation. He was just passing time until his house arrest expired.

  It was in moments like those that thoughts would creep into my head and mess with my emotions. I was thinking about my ex, Paul, and the fighting and crying and pain that we’d put each other through. I’m optimistic by nature, but I had to acknowledge the reality: I didn’t have an apartment; I hadn’t been to an audition in weeks, and I didn’t really have many friends. Plus I had my period. Not the best night.

  The phone rang and Jason came to. Jason put the client on hold, “Natalia, I know this guy from way back! His name is Finn. Should I play dumb, or tell him who I am?”

  I giggled. Even though he was all business, he still liked to have fun.

  Finn and Jason had history. Finn comes from money. A genuine New York prep school, Ivy League over-achiever who preferred being one of downtown

  Manhattan’s most debauched playboys to a life with a wife and kids on Park Avenue.

  Jason told Finn that he was so busy tonight that he only had one girl available and, even though I was the most gorgeous chick he had, I was on my period, so therefore not working.

  Finn freaked out, “Send her over, send her over!” I could hear him telling Jason.

  Jason covered the receiver and looked at me.

  “Really?” I said. “That’s kinda freaky.”

  This was a first
: I’d been with guys who didn’t mind sex during a girl’s period, but never someone who was into it.

  “She’ll be there in half an hour.”

  Jason took down his address, and I jumped in the shower.

  “No! Don’t shower!”

  “Jason, I don’t care if he’s into it. I’m taking a shower!”

  Finn kept me six hours, until the sun came up at five in the morning. In between our marathon sex sessions, he told me that he had figured out who Jason was. He knew Jason from back in the early 90s when he went by his birth name Jason Sylk and was known as the phone-sex king of Miami. Finn was the publisher of a now-defunct, high-end porn magazine and his family owned something like forty other titles. Finn would go to phone-sex conventions to pick up advertisers, and he’d met Jason at one of them. They’d immediately clicked, he said. Pretty much everyone else in the phone-sex industry was a fat slob. Jason was slick, and Finn liked his charisma. Jason liked Finn’s pedigree and penchant for rolling big. He later told me that one night at Caesar’s Palace in Vegas, he’d walked up to a table and seen Finn betting $20,000 a hand. Jason ended up spending $60,000 to $70,000 a month on ads in Finn’s magazine and their friendship was forged.

  But their decade-old bond didn’t stop Finn from warning me to watch out for myself with Jason. In the middle of his warning, he picked up the phone and called Jason. He told him that he had found a diamond in the rough and that he’d be crazy not to make me his partner in the business.

  Then he hung up the phone, and we fucked again. I went home to Hoboken, still feeling a little down about life, trying to put his warning out of my mind and focus on the positive—like what a good impression I had made on such an amazing guy.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “ROCKET FUEL FOR WINNERS”

  One day, as we got back to Jason’s apartment from shopping at a huge Staples in Jersey, buying new whiteboards and every other office supply you can think of, I finally asked him what I’d been afraid to since that first week. I couldn’t believe I had waited so long, but it never came up. Everyone seemed to already know the story, and Jason acted like it was of little or no importance. But on that day we got stuck in traffic, and Jason started to sweat. He tried to hide it, but he was freaked out of his mind. If he wasn’t back in his apartment by noon, he would end up in jail. We made it with just a few minutes to spare. So it seemed like the time to finally ask.