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

by Natalie McLennan

  Hmmm, speaking of which, I turned on my heel and closed the bedroom door behind me. I needed to channel a little Kate Moss and call my dealer. It was all so 80s.

  Finally: Mom. For some reason, in that moment, I felt I had to tell her now, or I couldn’t do the shoot. I dialed. It rang, and I prayed for her to pick up. That was new. I always preferred leaving a chirpy message letting her know I was okay without having to get into twenty questions. I hated lying to her. But this was not something I could leave on a voicemail: “Hi, mom! I’ve been lying to you for months. I’m not modeling or acting or even bartending. I am a call girl, high-priced, mind you, but, I have sex for money. And you can read all about it in next week’s New York magazine. Oh yeah, and my boyfriend, Jason, he’s not just my boyfriend, he’s the one who got me into this…he’s my boss. Love you! Talk to you soon.”

  She picked up.

  “Hi, mom,” I tried to sound bright and cheery.

  “Natalie, why haven’t you called me back? Didn’t you get my messages?”

  I had definitely gotten all ten of her messages. I couldn’t even listen to them anymore. They were breaking my heart. Her voice just cried “emotionally devastated mother.” You could tell she knew something was very wrong. Moms always know. I had never gone this long without returning her calls.

  “Well, I have some news.”

  Silence. I imagined what she was thinking on the other end in that split second: AIDS, accident, running away to join a cult.

  I tried to lead with the positive, “I’m going to be on the cover of a magazine, New York magazine.”

  Her voice was shaking, “Natalie, what’s this about?”

  I hadn’t practiced, but the words came out surprisingly easily.

  “This is going to be upsetting.”

  Pause.

  “I’ve been working as an escort. I’m not anymore, but the cover and the article are about that. You know that reality show I told you I’ve been filming, the one with Jason? That’s what it’s about.”

  Nothing.

  Silence.

  “The show is going to be sold soon, and it’s going to be really great, so we’re doing this article to promote the show.”

  I could hear whimpering.

  “Mom?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Words cannot describe how horrible I felt.

  There was silence as she cried, and I held the phone, trying to find more words, but they weren’t coming.

  Kenny’s runner burst through the door with a tray of diamonds, the photo assistant right behind him.

  The assistant barked, “Natalia, we’ve got to get moving here.”

  I didn’t know what to do.

  “Mom? I have to go, but I’ll call you in a few hours.”

  I hung up. I felt relieved that I had told her, but tortured by how it all went down.

  Everything was happening so fast. I should have made a mental note to call her as soon as the shoot was over. But for some reason, I felt she deserved to know before it all became real with a photo of my face being taken. I had been thinking everything over, agonizing about my family and how they would feel about all this, for weeks. I knew it would be hard for them to understand, but I thought the most important thing they needed to know was that I wasn’t working as an escort anymore. I was done with it. I had sent all my clients emails telling them I was doing this story for New York magazine and that it was probably best for us to end our relationship, as I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble.

  But most of all, I didn’t want anyone upset or hurt, least of all my mother.

  Obviously, timing was not my forte.

  I flashed the editor a smile and gave Ron a quick nod.

  I jumped up on the bed that was part of the set, dropped my robe and looked right at the photographer in nothing but my undies.

  “What do you think about this?” I unzipped one of the garment bags Andrew sent down and pulled out a slinky, black fur stole. It felt like chinchilla. I wrapped it around my shoulders. It was perfect—unapologetically decadent. Kenny’s runner’s eyes lit up, and she started fastening necklaces and bracelets.

  And that was our shot. Me, naked, with $25,000 worth of diamonds hiding behind the fur.

  The next week, June 10th, 2005, my face graced every newsstand in the city and hundreds of newsstands in airports and magazine stores across North America. The cover read: “NY’s #1 Escort Reveals All.” The interior headline for the article, which ran over 9,000 words, summed it all up:

  The $2,000-an-Hour Woman: In the bedroom, Natalia was a superstar, an escort in demand by Wall Street traders and NFL quarterbacks alike. Her boss, Jason Itzler, who called himself the “King of All Pimps,” wanted to turn his brothel into a Playboy-style national empire, with Natalia as its crown jewel—and his wife. A love story.

  It would be New York magazine’s top-selling issue of the year, disappearing off newsstands in less than two days. My real name was now out there, and I went from being a local gossip item to a national news story. I was tossed into the whirlpool of celebrity gossip and twenty-four-hour cable news without a life preserver.

  The stress and excitement were overwhelming. I dreamt of a future full of fame and fabulousness. The first Paris Hilton sex tape had just surfaced, and I thought, Why can’t this be my springboard? Unlike Paris, I rationalized to myself, I can actually act.

  The publicity department at the magazine started booking me on various national shows: CNN’s Paula Zahn Now, The Big Idea with Donny Deutsch, and The Insider, which promised a three-night special report. The sublet ended, Jordan moved on, and I moved into Ron Sperling’s apartment. He started acting as my manager and protector, doing his best to set boundaries with producers about what they could and could not ask. I tried to keep anything that could incriminate me off-limits. In retrospect, this might have been a good subject to broach with a lawyer—as opposed to relying on the legal wisdom of an out-of-work reality TV producer.

  New York magazine was supposed to throw me a party, but they were so busy booking me on TV that they didn’t have time, and frankly, we didn’t need a party to get any more press. However, me, being me, I wanted to celebrate, so I took things into my own hands.

  A club promoter I knew secured a club called Snitch and printed up invitations with my picture and the line: “Come party with the Perfect 10. Celebrate Natalia’s New York magazine cover story: The $2,000-an-Hour Woman and party with her—for free!”

  All of my friends came. It was a blast.

  For the next couple of weeks, every time I went out to a club, the paparazzi took my picture, and people pointed and whispered in their friends’ ears. People whom I only knew in passing from the club scene pretended to be my best friend.

  One night I was with my friend Jimmy, a close friend of the owner of the super-exclusive club Bungalow 8, Amy Sacco. We walked right in and went upstairs to a table right next to hers. The energy was incredible. There were bottles of liquor everywhere, girls dancing on the couches, super-hot guys flashing million-dollar smiles. We hadn’t been sitting five minutes when Amy walked over and leaned into his ear and then gave him a pointed look. He got up and walked quickly down the stairs to the back hallway leading to the bathrooms. In a few minutes, he came back up and waved his hand for me to come to him.

  Wow, was I finally going to be formally introduced to the Queen of New York Nightlife? Jimmy led me all the way back into one of the bathrooms and closed the door. I looked at him, confused.

  “Jesus, Natalia, people can be such assholes.”

  He pulled out a bag and did a key bump.

  What was up?

  “Listen, sweetheart, I’m so proud of you. You gave me the best blowjobs of my life. I hope you make millions of dollars off this…you’re doing all the right things, but I just got into a fight with one of my oldest friends over you, and I just want you to know that I’d do it again in a second.”

  He stuck the key under my nose. I sniffed.

  “Am
y just asked me what I’m doing hanging out with you. What am I doing hanging out with you? You’re my girl. And I told her straight up, I’ve spent enough fucking money in this place that I don’t need this shit.”

  My hero.

  That’s the way it was. People either loved me or hated me.

  Part of me got off on being infamous. You instantly get a certain swagger, and you grow a thicker skin. You act like you don’t give a fuck, and you can focus on having fun and doing what really feels good, rather then what looks good. That night, though, was not one of those nights. I wanted to feel welcomed and loved by the ultimate in-crowd, but they weren’t feeling me. I told Jimmy I’d just gotten a text from my friend C.B. He was partying with Kid Rock at a club a few blocks away.

  “Fucking Kid Rock, huh? Yeah, you definitely need to fuck him, you little star-fucker. He might even end up buying you a pair of tits by the end of the night.”

  He kissed me on the forehead and then threw another key of coke up my nose. I laughed and looked down at my chest. I’d take the money, but keep my tits.

  I caught my own reflection in the mirror. My eyes were sparkling.

  As we were leaving Bungalow 8, I saw a friend of mine, a jack-of-all-New York trades. Actor, professional gambler, party promoter, he had his own radio show and, like most people in the nightlife scene, we had a history together. I’d fallen asleep at an after-hours club a few years back, and when I’d woken up we were having sex. I’ve had sex in my sleep before. If it’s with a boyfriend, that’s one thing, but he had no right. He later apologized, and we were cool. He told me he’d met some big agents from CAA who really wanted to talk to me. I froze. This was amazing. I put his number in my phone and said I’d call him the next day.

  He said, “Natalia, this is your chance…you have to call me.”

  As I walked away, I was starting to know what it felt like to be a sought-after commodity. The newspapers, the TV shows, and all those random people wanted to get a piece of my fifteen minutes.

  “Hey, Natalia! Wave to the nice man from Page Six.”

  I smiled for the camera.

  When I got to the club, my friend C.B. yelled in my ear, “Where have you been?”

  I smiled, and he looked into my eyes. I turned my head and there was Kid Rock. A bodyguard was leaning into his ear and pointed at me. Kid Rock nodded his head at me and reached out to take my hand. He helped me up onto the banquette, and the bodyguard poured me a drink. I was imagining what the bodyguard had said to him: “That’s the hooker C.B. was talking about…the one on the cover of New York magazine.”

  It was fun, and I felt way more love than at Amy Sacco’s playa-hater shack, but I couldn’t stay long.

  I had to be responsible and get home by two so I could get my beauty sleep. I had a date with my new BFF, CNN’s Paula Zahn. It was the first time I’d left a club early since, well, probably since I’d moved to New York.

  Paula Zahn was awesome. We filmed in the CNN studio and then did a segment outside of the loft on Worth Street. We rode together in a limo downtown, and she tried to get me to tell her who my famous clients were “just between us.” I wouldn’t budge, but I can’t blame her for trying.

  I also loved the people at The Insider. The producer worked with me to shape my message as if she were my campaign manager, and I were running for president. She played up the glamorous side and focused on my future as an actress. This was exactly what I thought I needed. I’d tell my story and then be swept up by Hollywood. Once again, the fairy tale was alive and well.

  * * *

  The following Monday, I woke up to three big guys I didn’t know hovering over my bed in Ron’s loft on 444 Broome Street, near Chinatown. I found out later that 444 is a very unlucky number in Chinese culture. My first thought was “Oh, my God, I left a cigarette burning, and the fire department is here.” I even sniffed the air for smoke. They told me to get my clothes on and get out of bed. I groggily stumbled out of bed still not sure what was happening. Then I saw the NYPD stamp on their jackets. This had to be a nightmare. Ron was in the living room looking over warrants.

  My cell rang, and I looked at the detective. He gestured for me to answer. It was Barbara Walters’s producer from The View. The perky voice on the other end said Barbara was really excited about having me on the show. I told her I’d get back to her.

  The detectives went through every box, drawer, envelope, nook and cranny of Ron’s apartment. I wondered if we were off to my apartment next. They would definitely have a field day with all of the straws, baggies and spoons at my house, not to mention the stainless steel dining room table I had used as a giant coke mirror for the last year. The cops asked for my I.D. and told me to put my hands behind my back. As they hauled me out of Ron’s, we locked eyes. He was so upset—I could see it in his eyes. I can’t even imagine what he saw in mine.

  “Call someone,” I said.

  * * *

  I was taken in for questioning.

  They sat me on a bench, and then the lead vice detective, a husky man with a really strong Irish brogue, said, “All right, Natalia, we’re going put you in a cell for a while, but if you need anything, Jeff here,” he gestured to a young guy in his twenties, “he’ll take care of ya.”

  The detective walked away. Jeff had me stand up and took me over to a holding cell. Before he locked me in he asked, “Do you have any weapons on you?”

  I shook my head no.

  “Drugs?”

  Again, I shook my head no. Thank God, oh, my God, thank God, I was so happy I didn’t have any drugs. Drug charges do not go away. Right then and there I started praying that all of this would go away. It dawned on me that maybe I should have skipped the meeting with the media coach and talked with a lawyer about what to do in the likely event that something like this were to occur.

  I was totally clueless. Do I wait for Ron to come through and call someone like I’d asked? An hour went by, then two. My eyes were heavy. I leaned against the wall and started to drift off. I couldn’t fall asleep, but I wasn’t awake either. I heard footsteps and sat up straight. How could I be falling asleep right now? What was wrong with me? Wasn’t I supposed to be crying or something? They opened the cell and took me to a small room with a table and three chairs. I sat down in one, and the Irish detective and another really tall one sat across from me. Jeff left the room and closed the door behind him.

  What was happening? Had Ron abandoned me? This was my hour of need. I knew Ron would take care of me as he’d invested a lot in me and helped me detox off heroin. But what if he left me here? We’d been shopping our footage around and hadn’t signed a deal yet. Maybe Ron thought if I went to jail our story would be that much more interesting, and he’d finally get paid.

  “Natalia, I just want to start this off by saying, we know everything. There’s nothing we don’t know. Jason,

  Hulbert, Mona, Clark, Mel Sachs, Paul Bergrin, Samantha, Cheryl, Victoria, Katie.”

  He just kept going, kept naming name after name.

  “So, here’s the thing,” he continued. “You’re in a lot of trouble.”

  My lip quivered. I wanted to scream, but I didn’t do anything. I felt like someone had ripped out my tongue, throat and vocal chords.

  “You can make this a whole heck of a lot easier for yourself if you’re honest. If you lie to me, and like I said, I already know everything, I’ll know you’re lying to me.”

  And so it went. Question after question for what seemed like hours. When I wouldn’t give anything up, they changed tactics and started asking me stupid things like, “Where is the agency?” It was so obviously an attempt to get me to loosen up so that I’d just keep gabbing when they got to real questions.

  But I clammed up. I knew enough to know that pretty much anything I said could help them, and that I had the right not to say anything.

  When they said they had found all the booking sheets when they raided the loft in January and started throwing out clients’ names, I panicked
, but as they listed the names, I quickly realized that they didn’t know who any of my clients were. They couldn’t have found my booking sheets as I’d taken them from the loft when I moved out. We might have been a Web-savvy business, but all our bookings were done on paper.

  They seemed desperate for names of big clients. In particular, they wanted the names of their nemeses: defense lawyers. I told them that my clients were off limits, defense attorneys or otherwise. Whatever I had done in the past, I still had my conscience. I wasn’t going to destroy families by naming names. They respected that—for about a second. Then they pressed on. I told them I really didn’t know much about my clients. I was part of their fantasy and that didn’t include their wives and children, or what law firm, hedge fund or talent agency they worked for.

  It was clear they were struggling to put all the pieces together. What they were constructing in their heads was way more nefarious than what New York Confidential actually was. They were convinced there had to be a mob or drug connection. They couldn’t accept that a high-end escort agency could make that kind of money without the involvement of the Italians or the Russians, or some sort of ecstasy or coke connection. The truth is, while pretty much the entire staff was high a good part of the time, we never dealt drugs. Furthermore, if the cops had been able to get close to Jason at all they would have known he wasn’t interested in getting involved in the drug business again. He had become obsessed with the limelight. The drug world is too underground, too lowbrow. His big mouth even kept the mobsters at bay. When the Italians and the Russians saw he was such a loose cannon, they wanted nothing to do with him. Our business model was strictly built on the law of supply and demand of the world’s oldest profession.

  The cops told me they were charging me with prostitution, promoting prostitution and money laundering. They asked me if I understood. I just nodded. I didn’t understand what promoting prostitution or money laundering was, but I didn’t think this was the time to ask. I understood that they were charging me, period. I figured my future lawyer would spell it all out for me. They put me back in the holding cell. Jeff, the young vice detective, went and got me a sandwich and a Vitamin Water. I usually drank Focus flavor, but I asked him to get me Rescue. They didn’t seem to get the joke.