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

by Natalie McLennan

  The following photos are from a three-day shoot we did in June of 2005.

  Day three of our shoot, in my favorite broken-in jeans. My party friends had come and gone. When I was alone in my apartment, especially after I was arrested, the high ceilings made me feel less glamorous and the loneliness would creep in. Photo © Beatrice Neumann

  This was one of the last pictures we took. We were both tired but not quite ready to quit. A few hours later, Beatrice packed up and flew back to Los Angeles. Photo © Beatrice Neumann

  From my first photo shoot with Beatrice Neumann in her East Village walkup apartment, October 2001, post 9/11. I was high, alone and scared in New York. Beatrice was one of my only friends at the time. Photo © Beatrice Neumann

  Photos of me taken by a photographer friend in my bedroom at the loft, July ‘04.

  The cover of New York magazine, July 18, 2005. Jason and I were featured in an article about our relationship and the business of high-end escorting. The notoriety from the article was one of the factors that alerted the authorities to NY Confidential’s activities. Photo © Phillip Toledano, cover image courtesy of New York magazine

  Jason Itzler, owner of NY Confidential, and my boyfriend. He was in his thirties when this photo was taken in our New York loft and already raking in hundreds of thousands of dollars per year with his high-end escort service. Photo Courtesy of Jason Itzler

  This series of stills is from footage shot by Ron Sperling, the director of the VH1 reality show series that we started to film in 04 at the NY Confidential loft.

  Jason and me enjoying the high life in our fabulous loft. Photo © Ron Sperling

  Jason and me having an “upfront and personal” moment. Photo © Ron Sperling

  Jason talking with an escort. His T-shirt says: “I am your girlfriend’s pimp.” It was everyone’s favorite. Photo © Ron Sperling

  Jason and me being “lovey-dovey” and kissing for the camera. Photo © Ron Sperling

  Jason with some of the girls as they were about to go out on calls. Photo © Ron Sperling

  Me in my bedroom talking on the phone with a client. Photo © Ron Sperling

  Another still of me in a rare, quiet, reflective moment in the loft. Photo © Ron Sperling

  This is a Polaroid picture that we took of Ashley for the files when she started working for NY Confidential. On it are her basic stats and some information regarding her personality. This was useful in matching potential clients with the right girl for their tastes.

  My best friend and me in Paris, November 2007. This trip was a gift to celebrate how far we’ve come.

  Faces of New York Confidential

  The faces of NY Confidential represented on the bodies of animals. Horse: Hulbert Waldroup (painter and booker); Wolf: Paul Bergrin (lawyer); Fox: Mel Sachs (lawyer); Doe: Natalia (escort, Jason’s girlfriend); Ass: Jason Itzler (owner of NY Confidential); Rooster: Clark (manager, accountant); Vulture: Floyd Abrams (friend of Sachs, advised Jason on escort agency legality); Cow: Mona (manager, Jason’s ex-girlfriend); Zebra: Marco Glaviano (photographer and friend); Swine: David Elms (owner of TER)

  Painting by Hulbert Waldroup • Photo © William Scott Sloan, www.scottsloan.net • Painting appears courtesy of Melanie A. Bonvicino

  79 Worth Street

  Me, outside the building where Jason ran his exclusive escort agency, NY Confidential. There was a rumor that the names on the wall were clients of NY Confidential. They were all popular people in New York City, but were they clients? I’ll never tell.

  Painting by Hulbert Waldroup • Photo © William Scott Sloan, www.scottsloan.net • Painting appears courtesy of Melanie A. Bonvicino

  Natalia on the Edge

  Hulbert used a photograph taken by my favorite photographer and close friend, Beatrice Neumann, as the inspiration for this painting. Both Hulbert and I signed it.

  Painting by Hulbert Waldroup • Photo © William Scott Sloan, www.scottsloan.net • Painting appears courtesy of Melanie A. Bonvicino

  Natalia Sleepwalks

  Me, represented as sleepwalking (which I often did, especially when using drugs) among ravens, which symbolize the “johns.” My personal favorite of Hulbert’s paintings of me. It feels very intimate—Hulbert really understood me and my path in life.

  Painting by Hulbert Waldroup • Photo © William Scott Sloan, www.scottsloan.net • Painting appears courtesy of Melanie A. Bonvicino

  Natalia Stiletto High

  I posed for this painting in the window of Ron’s Broome Street loft. There was a film crew shooting a movie on Broadway—they admired our artistic process during their breaks.

  Painting by Hulbert Waldroup • Photo © William Scott Sloan, www.scottsloan.net • Painting appears courtesy of Melanie A. Bonvicino

  This is an early review of me. First reviews of new escorts were very important to Jason and NY Confidential and to the girls, too, as bad reviews could impact a girl’s future in the business and the agency’s revenues. My consistently high ratings eventually led me to be able to command $2000 an hour for my services.

  This reviewer responded to me being “the highest-rated escort in the history of TER” and wrote his descriptive review after having his experience with me—awarding me yet another “10.”

  At New York Confidential, we had a golden rule: You don’t steal clients. Jason had an elaborate appeal, which went something like this: “Why would you want to hurt my feelings like that? If you steal a client, you’re doing something really mean to me, and I know you’re all good girls, that’s why you’re working here. We make people happy. Make me happy, stay with the agency, and I promise you’ll make lots of money. Plus, clients never pay full price to the girl alone. Let the bookers do their jobs. You do it like this: if a client wants your phone number, you dangle a carrot. Tell him, ‘We don’t really know each other that well yet. Book me two or three more times through the agency, and I would love to give you my number.’”

  I was the exception. I had most of my clients’ phone numbers, and they had mine. When we were in Hoboken and things started getting busy, Jason would hand off my repeat clients’ calls to me, and I would arrange the booking. They knew my rate. It was simple. That progressed to clients calling my cell directly or emailing me. It was because of this personal communication that I had so many high-paying regulars, like Neil at $6,000 a day for three days at a time. I always filled out a booking sheet and dealt with the financials the same way as all the regular appointments made by the bookers. In the beginning, Jason trusted me to the core and vice-versa. It was so relaxed and natural for us to be that way with each other.

  When Mona saw all my clients’ names and numbers on my Treo, she thought she’d hit the jackpot. She couldn’t reveal that she’d had Clark steal my PDA, so she lied. She told Jason that one of the girls saw me with a client at a hotel bar when I didn’t have a booking scheduled. I was either stealing clients or working for another agency, which brings us to another New York Confidential rule: we were New York Confidential girls and New York Confidential girls only. Again, the rest of the world doesn’t care if you work for ten agencies, and the reality is owners and bookers aren’t generally loyal to girls—they’re interchangeable. If an escort wants to really earn, she has to work for multiple agencies. New York Confidential had made rock-star escorts with reps that spread across North America; it wasn’t about to give them away.

  Mona had just told a huge fat boldfaced lie. I laughed. This was ridiculous; she was losing her mind if she thought Jason would believe that.

  I looked over at him. He looked uncertain. A wave of panic hit me.

  “Jason, that’s so not true,” I pleaded. “I’ve never seen, nor would I ever see, a client without the agency.”

  I tried to play the logic card: What incentive did I have to see clients independently when I was overbooked as it was and earning one of, if not the highest rate of any girl in New York?

  Mona was slick. She didn’t argue—just left it like that and walked o
ff.

  The seed had been planted. I had been railroaded. A few days later, Mona floated the suggestion that I shouldn’t be allowed in the office, and just like that, I was banned from the agency office—the agency I’d helped Jason build.

  I was crushed by Jason’s reaction. The trust we’d always had, that nothing and no one had ever cracked, was gone. I felt like Jason had vanished on me, literally. Ever since he got back from jail, he had been doing more and more K. He was a zombie—to the point I was constantly checking his breathing and pulse to see if he was still among the living. Then he’d come out of it and act like he’d just seen God, joyful and totally unaware that he’d been out cold for an hour.

  It was tearing me apart to see him so zonked, even though I didn’t have much ground to stand on. I was basically snorting lines from the minute I woke up to when I crashed, if I crashed at all.

  With all of the potential drama over the money I was owed, ironically it was my drug use that became the focal point of our fights. I thought it was obscene that I was the only one being called out. I was ready to admit I needed to chill out with the nose candy, like indefinitely, but not if Jason was unwilling to go there with me and address the horse tranquilizer he seemed to love more than me—maybe more than anything, judging from the way he had checked out of running his business.

  Our relationship was hanging by a thread. The only thing that was keeping me there was my pride. I wasn’t going to be kicked out of my own house on my million-dollar ass, labeled a cokehead, a liar and a thief.

  Then one day I came home higher than a space shuttle, having partied with all my old nightlife friends for the first time in months. I’d been up for days, working and then clubbing, continuing after hours at some loft, followed by a day on a boat sailing around Manhattan, and then a last hurrah at my friend Kenny’s gorgeous Upper West Side apartment where we danced for two days straight. The apartment felt surreally decadent, especially in contrast to the dingy drug dens we’d familiarized ourselves with over the past few days. Instead, we walked in to find a modern, glass dining-room table adorned with a buffet of drugs. The usual menu of coke, MDMA, Special K and Crystal was laid out on fine bone-china plates in small white heaps, resembling a mini-mountain range, and there were little ornate dishes filled with a variety of pharmaceuticals, which we gorged on like children set loose in a candy store, until we finally reached the point at which we just physically couldn’t ingest any more narcotics.

  Mona took one look at me and declared, “Jason, she’s on heroin! I told you she was secretly hooked on heroin. I bet you she’s been giving it to all the girls.”

  So, instead of curling up on my bed and getting a solid eight hours, I had to sit in my own room while Hulbert, Jason, Mona and Clark hovered over me discussing what to do about me as if I weren’t there.

  “Rehab?” I heard Clark say, “Are you sure she’s on heroin? I think she’s just partied out.”

  Go Clark! I couldn’t believe he stood up to her like that. Mona didn’t scream at him. Instead, she pulled the pregnancy card: “Wow, so is this how it’s going to be when the baby comes? My feelings won’t matter…what I KNOW is true, won’t matter?”

  Hulbert and I locked eyes, This chick’s good.

  “You’re not on heroin, are you, Natalia?” Hulbert’s concern couldn’t have been more genuine.

  My exhaustion took over. I curled up in a fetal position, and I started to cry.

  “No, I’m not.”

  I cried harder.

  “Hulbert, why is this happening?” I protested.

  “Sweetheart, it’s simple. This is all Mona.”

  “No,” I shook my head. I could barely hold it up. “Why is this happening?”

  Hulbert helped me get up, and he started the shower for me. In classic Hulbert style, he held up a towel in front of me, giving me my privacy and making sure I didn’t fall getting in the tub. He said he’d be back in two minutes. He was going to tell Jason that he was putting me to bed and that no one was to disturb me. When Hulbert got serious like that, it could be intense.

  I shook my head awake and in doing so almost did a back flip onto my head in the shower. Wow, I thought, this is how people die in showers.

  I turned off the water, grabbed a towel and almost passed out again, smacking my head against the mirror. I looked through my closet to our bedroom. It was only about twenty feet away. I stole a glance down at my vanity as I passed it, checking to see if I’d left a mark on my face.

  Nope, no bump.

  I kept walking, holding onto walls and furniture for balance. I felt myself trip on the leg of my favorite chair and pass out mid-air.

  Then I woke up.

  I was on the bed. Hulbert and Jason were beside me.

  They looked freaked out. Jason was like a ghost. Even Hulbert looked a little pale, and he’s black.

  “Natalia, you hit your head really hard,” Jason told me.

  I looked at Jason and remembered everything and started crying, “Jason, I’m not doing heroin.”

  “I believe you, Natal. Crazy Mona!” he laughed, and my face crumpled again. The tears were stuck inside me somewhere.

  I lifted my hand to reach up and touch my face.

  Hulbert gently guided my hand back down and shook his head.

  Jason continued, “Boy, does she ever get nuts when she’s pregnant!”

  Hulbert and I locked eyes for the second time that day. Jason didn’t get it. This was serious. If she kept going like this, she’d end up doing something crazy, like calling the cops on one of us and inviting them in. It’s not like she hadn’t done it before.

  It was determined that I almost definitely had a mild concussion and therefore shouldn’t go to sleep. I ended up having to do more coke so I could stay awake. Un-fucking-believable. A few hours passed, and I was doing gram lines to keep my eyes open, and it was still so hard to stay awake.

  Finally, Jason called Mel Sachs for help. Mel stopped by his doctor’s office and gave him all of my details. I can just imagine the doctor’s expression when Mel read him the grocery list of drugs I’d consumed in the last forty-eight hours.

  Mel quickly explained that I had hit my head, hard. I had a huge, hideous bump above and below my left eye. After I’d tripped on the chair, I’d smacked my face on the six-foot fertility statue Jason had bought for our room. That’s right, a fertility statue.

  “Jason, do you think that’s wise…a fertility statue in a brothel?” I asked him when he brought it home.

  He just looked at me quizzically, not getting it.

  Every time I walked past the statue, I gave it the evil eye.

  Now the statue had finally got me back. My entire left eye and surrounding area was purple and black. Mel’s doctor friend asked if I were coherent. Hmmm, define coherent. I was awake and knew my name. I knew where I was. The doctor said that I was allowed to sleep. Finally.

  * * *

  I couldn’t work looking the way I did, so Jason and I finally got to spend some time together. We went out to Hoboken to decompress. I told him I had had enough of Mona forever, and the loft. Jason begged me not to move out. He said he felt so stupid for doubting me, and that he loved me, and I told him I loved him, too. I did love him. However, I wasn’t happy anymore. In fact, I was miserable, and I needed to fix that. Furthermore, I tried to explain, I didn’t feel safe at the loft anymore. Jason had started letting my room be used for in-calls by other girls when I was out. Sketchy guys were coming in and out of the loft (and my room) all day. Who were they? Mob guys? Undercovers? I made it a point not to know, but I definitely didn’t want to be around. On more than one occasion, I’d found a condom in my bed.

  I didn’t tell him, but I sensed that something really bad was going to go down there soon. I didn’t know what, but I had no intention of being around to find out. My life at the loft was over, as was the dream Jason and I’d had of transforming the industry—and ourselves.

  * * *

  I called Taylor,
the one capable person I knew, and asked him to help me start over. Being the gentleman he is, he leaped into action, finding me a great sublet from a sweet lesbian couple in Chelsea.

  I knew that if I left the loft, I would most likely never see the money I’d earned. That was hard. But I didn’t have a choice. It was poisoned.

  Mona was happy to see me go. I was packing my things, and she came in my room and asked me for my keys. I almost lost it.

  “This was my house,” I quipped back at her.

  It was the first time I didn’t hold back. Still, I couldn’t let her see me break. I just laughed at her, but inside I was burning up. I couldn’t believe that she was going to win. She’d managed to push me out and be Queen of the Castle once again.

  * * *

  I never did get my Treo back and was never able to defend my honor. I didn’t blame Hulbert for not backing me up. If he’d confirmed that Clark had stolen it, they’d have figured out that he wasn’t on their team and was keeping me up to date on everything they were doing. Hulbert was always there for me, he was my friend, but like everyone including me, he was there to make money. That meant keeping how much he hated Mona and Clark to himself and playing along nicely. He said it himself: he had watched Mona force me out of the loft, and it was only a matter of time before she turned on him.

  Now that I was out, I had no problem breaking the rules. I still had my clients’ phone numbers in my trusty Moleskine notebook. They would be happy to see me independently, as most of them had grown tired of Jason and his lack of discretion.