Confession Hooker_01

The Happy Hooker: Confessions of a Satisfied Sex Worker

Former Playboy model Valerie Baber was an elite escort for the Emperors Club until she got swept up in the FBI sting that brought down Eliot Spitzer. From stripper to adult star to prostitute, she tells the whole story for the first time

I had seen myself on TV before. I had seen myself on websites, magazines, flyers, calendars and CD covers, but I had never seen my picture on the news. It was one thing to be a model or the face of a product. It was another to be one of the faces of a scandal.

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It was 2008, and after nearly a year of surveillance, the FBI had brought down the Emperors Club escort agency, along with then-Governor Eliot Spitzer, setting off a media tsunami that lasted for months—and swept me up with it. From the FBI pounding at my door, to the eventual exposure in the press, to the $25,000 fee paid to an attorney who would defend me for the unthinkable crime of having safe, consensual encounters with other adults, it was a major, life-changing experience for me. There were moments when not knowing how to handle the sudden brush with infamy put me in a numb, emotionless void. And I often found myself in denial that it had ever even happened. I was just a nice girl from Oklahoma.

(Courtesy Valerie Baber)

Of course, I also happened to be, as the Daily News put it, “the hooker named Raquel” who charged $1,500 an hour for her services. Depending on the client and the booking, I was also occasionally “Ashley” (Spitzer’s Ashley actually went by Kristen). Raquel was the name featured in the news—I was the conservatively dressed one in the top left corner of the Emperors Club’s website. The one a booker recommended to a client in the FBI’s affidavit as “beautiful, all-American, very clean, very fresh,” and to an undercover cop as “a little bustier on top.”

The Emperor’s Club was the elite agency in New York, possibly the world, at the time. Catering to an ultra high-end clientele, it paired beautiful female companions with men paying day rates of as much as $30,000. Its client list consisted of Forbes-listers, royalty, politicians, athletes, celebrities and industry titans. Among them was the newly elected Governor of New York, who in late 2007 had ironically signed one of the nation’s toughest anti–sex trade laws, which increased the maximum penalty for patronizing a prostitute from three months to a full year in jail.

After the scandal, I moved to London to start a new life. I returned to a long overdue education and discovered that not only did I love being a student, but I was actually good at it too. I eventually earned a master’s degree and set my sights on a different career.

Still, while I always understood the anger toward Spitzer’s careless duplicity, I could never fully understand the general shock over adults doing what adults do. Watching Spitzer run and lose for comptroller this fall, I grew more compelled to share my story. Prostitution is in the past for me now, but my nine-month run with the Emperor’s Club was one of the most unique, enlightening and valuable experiences of my life.

(Courtesy Valerie Baber)

So What’s a Nice Girl Like You…

By the time I turned 27, in 2007, I had quit dancing at Manhattan’s Penthouse Executive Club and was looking for something less toxic to pay the bills. I had experimented with several “mutually beneficial” relationships with older men involving monetary “allowances” while living in Los Angeles, and had considered the idea of becoming a full-time escort after being introduced to the scene by some Playboy models I met there. But I had resisted the idea for years. After my eighth year as a part-time dancer, however, escorting started to feel like something I could do.

With no formal education or respectable work history, my options for making money were limited, and a high-end agency would allow me to take a break from the unhealthy world of gentlemen’s clubs. I’d need to meet with only one man instead of 40. I wouldn’t have to be around a group of vapid people in various stages of chemical alteration, and unlike the guys I had to approach at the club, I knew the men I’d meet through a service would be guaranteed to want my company—they would have already handpicked me. I’d also be able to get to bed at a reasonable time and get up in the morning with the rest of the normal world. In one hour, I’d make what it took seven hours to make dancing. And in one night, I’d make more than what most people make in a week.

I did some research online using terms like “VIP companion” and “model introductions.” The Emperors Club, which advertised itself as a “concierge service” with a portfolio of sophisticated ladies, stood apart from the rest. The girls on the website wore elegant dresses and tasteful swimsuits, and the “lifestyle services” offered were always described in surprisingly well-written prose.

I submitted a brief description of myself and was soon meeting with the owners, “Kate” and “Michael,” at the Waldorf Astoria (I still prefer not to use their real names). They were a bit of an odd couple—she was petite and wholesome in her mid-20s, with a confidence beyond her years; he was significantly older, in his early 60s, with a soft-spoken kindness. Neither was the type you’d ever suspect could be the ringleader of an operation like Emperors.

I filled in forms and confidentiality agreements. Nothing in the documents spoke of sex for money or made me feel alarmed. The pair instructed me about how business was to be conducted, how to take credit card imprints and to always wear a nice dress.

Over the course of 25 meetings, I came to trust “Kate” and “Michael” with everything. I could accept or reject any situation they presented with no questions asked. If I wanted time off, it was granted. If I felt ill, they’d suggest remedies and tell me to rest and take care of myself. If I enjoyed myself on a meeting, they were happy too, and whenever I wanted to meet them for our monetary exchanges, they provided me with an easy, secure place to do it.

Courtesy Valerie Baber

Trial Run

On Aug. 25, 2007, I got my first call with instructions to meet a man at his residence on the Upper East Side. They didn’t call it a “trial,” but I knew it was a test of my ability to fit in with the company and appease their clients. I would not only have to prove that I had “it,” but also that I wouldn’t get cold feet at the last minute or run off with their portion of the money.

The apartment was in an upscale residential tower, and when I arrived at around 11 p.m. in a body-hugging blue dress, a friendly, well-kept Jewish man in his 40s answered the door. I looked for signs of a woman’s presence in his meticulously clean, tastefully decorated living room while we chatted over a glass of wine, but I didn’t bother to ask if he was married. He showed me an unusual piece of art and explained its composition. I became more titillated as the process of growing from strangers to lovers unfolded. After a moment, he invited me into his bedroom and I followed without hesitation. I counted the money in front him, which I found distasteful, and I never did it in front of a client again.

I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do; I just knew I was going to do it, and I was counting on the thrill of a new experience to get me through. Although rushed and slightly nervous, it wasn’t difficult for me to give him what I knew he wanted. The sex was safe, standard and over before my booker called to tell me that the hour was up and I should be heading home. The man was pleasant enough, and after thanking him for the meeting and wishing him a good night, I went home with a strange sense of exhilaration.

I made a good enough impression with my first performance that it earned me a rate bump with the agency, from $1,000 to $1,200.


Westward Ho

I was never molested. I have never had a problem with drugs or alcohol. I grew up poor in the Bible belt, and though my adolescence wasn’t carefree or happy by any stretch, I was not the victim of abuse. If anything, I was just overexposed to ignorance.

At 19, I packed up and headed west to L.A., with just enough money to make the first payment on a studio apartment in the slums of Hollywood. I eventually took a job at a nightclub, where I met a bartender who suggested I could supplement my $7 an hour income by dancing. It was a nude club, meaning no alcohol was served and you only had to be 18 to work there. The girls took off everything. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I needed to make money and if it meant taking off my panties, then so be it. I watched the girls. I watched the men. I watched the waitresses. I said to myself, “I can do this,” and I did.

It wasn’t difficult for me to undress in front of a room full of strangers. Half of everyone else there was naked too. And it wasn’t difficult for me to approach the men—my midwestern friendliness helped. If I had an issue, it was that I had packed all the wrong clothes. It took me a long time to polish my act, but the men didn’t seem to care. It wasn’t my act they were interested in.

I was 19 and had only ever had three sexual partners, two of whom were long-term high school relationships. But in a matter of weeks, I was immersed in a world where entering into intimate acts with multiple men a day is as normal as breathing. Every night I left the club, I cried. But I also loved that I was suddenly making $400 a day in cash. The little secret thrilled me.

Valerie Baber in "Bench Warmer"

 Softcore: The Making of a Hooker

I had no family with whom I had any connection, and no friends who could stand in as mentors. In L.A., I knew I had to figure things out on my own. I started doing photo shoots for a variety of websites and auto magazines, and eventually landed what would become a four-year gig as on-air talent for Playboy TV.

I supplemented my part-time work on the Playboy network with more dancing and modeling, and found myself constantly surrounded by sex and the kinds of girls who have it for money. Not many little princesses grow up wanting to become “adult television personalities,” but it was moderately glamorous and interesting, and it got me into the Playboy Mansion. It was there, in Hef’s backyard, somewhere by the monkeys, where I was pulled aside one night by a beautiful, dark-haired, light-eyed, former model with overly injected lips.

NSFW: Watch Baber on Playboy TV

http://www.metacafe.com/watch/4514090

 

She wanted to know if I was interested in working for her multimillion-dollar company. Their business, she said, was very lucrative, and they needed a “pretty, girl next door” type like me. She took me around to meet her friends and various celebrities, whom she hugged and kissed, explaining later she had “dated” them. Her proposition both intrigued and horrified me. I demurred.

Around the same time, I completed my first and last role in an erotica series. It wasn’t quite having sex for money; it was pretending to have sex for money. Between camera angles and special positions, it looked like the actors might be doing it, but they never actually were. In fact, their little bits were always covered. Women wore patches and men wore socks. It was the director’s job to make sure people watching at home didn’t catch on. It seems almost nostalgic now.

A few years into my work with Playboy TV, there was a network shakeup. The vice president of production said I could stay on only if I was willing to “get dirtier.” Dirty is never something I had a problem with. Dirty on camera was a different story, however. I lost my position and started dancing more. That’s when I met “Bentley.”

Baber in a "Mystique" magazine shoot in 2004 (MarkDaughn.com)

The First Time I got Paid for It

When he approached me at a strip club in Orange County, “Bentley,” a tall, handsome Asian man, was very generous. He offered $100 for every half hour of my time, and I decided to sit and have some wine with him. We drank as he told me about his mistress problems (“Too much of a party girl, too flaky,” he said).  He told me he had been seeing her for a while and was giving her $10,000 a month to help her pay off credit card bills. It sounded like an incredible deal to me. I joked that if he needed a new mistress, all he had to do was say the word. It was meant as a joke, that is, until it wasn’t.

The first time I took money from a man knowing there was going to be sex involved was with him. We met for a drink, and while sitting at the hotel bar, he slipped me an envelope with several thousand dollars in it, just short of the monthly fee we had discussed.

I excused myself to the restroom, entered the stall, sat, opened the envelope, and counted the cash. It was real and it was all there.

Raised devoutly Christian, I prayed for forgiveness for what I was about to do. I prayed for his family and that they never had to know what he did with other women. I prayed to be forgiven for actually liking him. I prayed to be forgiven for being unable to make good money doing anything else. Then we made our way upstairs.

I didn’t know what the other girls do when they are about to have sex with the men who paid them. What was the appropriate thing to say at that point? “Hey, I guess we’re about to fuck now. Just do me a favor and don’t try to put anything in my ass?” Or, “Do you mind if I don’t give you a blow job today? I’m going to be spending the evening with this guy I’ve been dating, and I kind of have a rule that I don’t blow more than one man in a single afternoon.”

He opened the door to his highly overpriced hotel room. I sucked vigorously on my cocktail straw while he made another drink from whatever was in the mini-fridge. His large hand ran down my arm, up my side and around my back, where it found a zipper. He wore nice shoes. He had a bulge in his pants. It was big. His shirt was pressed. His lips tempted me to put my own on them. His long eyelashes made his eyes look luxurious. He smelled good. His pants were growing. With his free hand, he clinked his glass to mine. We toasted to a long and prosperous friendship.

This wasn’t prostitution, I thought. I had his number and he had mine. I was going to be his mistress—we’d have a long-term relationship.

The sex was quick and mostly unsatisfying. He was on top and although he was attractive, the act was bland. As soon as he finished, he left. I had a room all to myself to reflect on what had just taken place. I sat in the window and watched his Bentley pull out of the parking garage and onto the street. He called me before I got in the shower, and I tried not to let him hear me getting stuffed up with tears. He said he had a good time. I said I did too.

I thought about his wife and wondered if she would be suspicious. I wondered if she would kiss the lips that had just been on my body. I wondered if his kids would hug him when they saw him, put his arms around the shirt I had just buttoned back up for him.

I sat there in the room with the envelope in my hand and felt empowered. The money numbed the minor pangs of abandonment and confusion, the questions about why he had left in such a hurry.

Driving home, I felt even better—excited and unstoppable. I had made in a few fun hours what it would have taken me three painful weeks to make normally.

Baber in "Mystique" in 2004 (MarkDaughn.com)

My relationship with Bentley didn’t last long, possibly because he was disappointed that I didn’t want to do endless amounts of coke with him or that I was too “deep and thoughtful,” as he put it, for moments that were supposed to be carefree and superficial.

I learned that if I wanted to continue making money from men like him, I shouldn’t ask too many questions. I shouldn’t challenge their integrity or intelligence. In fact, I should discourage them from thinking at all. Men like him had to make too many decisions during the day. Responsibility and thinking were things they desperately wanted to escape from, which is why they sought out the company of girls like me.

So began a series of paid courtesan-style “relationships,” all of which ended when I moved to New York.  And I have to say there was some relief in that. It’s a lot easier to have these types of agreements arranged through agencies. It’s less emotionally messy, and your privacy is guaranteed not to be interrupted or disrespected. The fact that an “arrangement” is legal and prostitution is not doesn’t make up for the many headaches and complications that come from dealing with these men on your own.

A Few of My Favorite Johns

Going full-time as an escort with the Emperors Club was a life-enhancing experience for me. And the sex wasn’t as difficult as people might expect. For the most part, clients were well-groomed and typically in their 40s. Even with the men I felt less attracted to, I was always able to find something I thought was nice, and I’d try to focus on that. I had plenty of “real life” encounters with men I found less attractive and far less charming than many of my clients. Some men didn’t care about sex as much as general intimacy and conversation. It surprised me to learn how much sex wasn’t actually had as an escort.

On rare occasions, I’d have to see a client who was a bit too intoxicated for my comfort. Even on those rough nights, however, I’d still get home unharmed with a colorful story to tell the one friend I had who knew what I was doing.

There were professional gamblers and boxers, top-tier doctors and lawyers, high-flying finance types, an Ivy league professor and several successful entrepreneurs. But the one I’ll always remember, my dream client, was a sexy French restaurateur.

I already knew who he was before we met in his room at the Hudson Hotel—I had googled him, something I often did with clients (due to their high visibility, they were usually easy to find). He greeted me at the door with a glass of wine and a gift bag from Victoria’s Secret, a kind gesture that wasn’t expected or required. I tried on the lingerie, and we took full advantage of the mirror against the wall in his room. Up against it with panties to the side, we could both watch each other and ourselves. I didn’t expect I would ever be so turned on by a man who paid me to be with him, but this was a pleasant surprise. I insisted we fit a second round in before our time was up.

With a young, fit body, a healthy head of sandy blonde hair, a warm personality and prominence in a glamorous business, he was not the kind of man who had to pay for sex. Actually, I’d say 90 percent of my clients weren’t. I’m not sure what his specific motivation was. It was either the convenience or just the thrill. It’s possible he had an addiction. In my dealings with clients, I often felt like they could be addicts. But I didn’t mind, and it has never been my job to overthink it. I was more than happy to accommodate his desires, and he seemed more than happy to be with me.

Surprisingly, he was comfortable enough to give me a business card and tell me to call if I ever wanted to bring my friends by one of his restaurants. I thought that was a good sign he’d be calling again. But I never heard from him.

Courtesy Valerie Baber

There was also the hot professional hockey player, in town for a game. He was nicely dressed, and even nicer undressed. I debated whether or not I should break my rule and give him oral without a condom. It wasn’t often that I had a client I found so inspiring that I was willing to take a chance and treat myself (and him) to something less clinical. I was on top most of the time. And that’s how almost all of my clients preferred it. I guess if I were paying $1,500 an hour, I wouldn’t want to do any work either.

Southern Comfort

He was an older man, probably 40 years my senior, with a thin upper lip that covered slightly yellowed teeth. And as Southern men are said to be, he was very much a gentleman. He knew me as Ashley because he had selected me from the higher-end “Icon Model” portfolio. He was the first of only two clients to meet Ashley. Financially, this meant that he paid $5,400 for the two hours spent with him as opposed to the $3,000 I would have made as Raquel.

Icon Models had interests like classical music and equestrian sports. They hunted pheasant, studied at Oxford, knew the difference between a watch and a timepiece and could participate in a debate over the superiority of Walker Black vs. Laphroaig. They had pedigree, or at least the ability to appear like they did. They also had an expensive wardrobe, the ability to sit up straight, speak proper English and pretend for a couple of hours that they were genuinely interested in the hobbies and fineries of the ruling class.

I wore my most elegant pieces: diamonds, Gucci dress, Prada heels, a golden silk pashmina and Agent Provocateur underneath. The only thing that wasn’t designer was my clutch, but it matched my shoes and was just big enough to fit a nice stack of cash. I sipped a martini and he enjoyed a scotch on the rocks.

He told me about his family. Unfortunately, his wife didn’t care to be affectionate with him anymore. It was not an unusual story, and I was happy to be there to fill the void. He had children and grandchildren. We cuddled and caressed. He needed the affection. At the end, he told me I was a wonderful companion and that he would love to meet again. Nobody had ever called me a wonderful companion. It was sweet and sincere. I put a lot of love into my visit with him, and I was touched by his compliment. Despite his age and looks, he was a great client—what I didn’t realize at the time is that he would also be my last.

Baber stretches her muscles for "Hot Rod" magazine

What I Learned About Men

Having spent so much time in a position that allowed men to unload, I was often exposed to a uniquely honest perspective that most women never experience. Kind of like a reverse priest. What my clients revealed to me about sex, love and relationships is something I’m truly thankful for. Men aren’t pigs. Like women, they just need to be appreciated, loved, listened to and not judged. They need to be touched and adored. They need to be with someone who puts effort into maintaining all the things that attracted them in the first place. It seems simple enough, but these things so often go neglected by their wives and partners. My insider understanding of what makes men tick and what turns them off is something I’ve found endlessly helpful, both socially and in my personal relationships.

 Knock, Knock. Who’s There? It’s the FBI 

I usually avoided answering calls from unrecognizable numbers, but for some reason this time I picked up. Agent Kenneth Hosey introduced himself and insisted I let him know when we could meet. Not wanting to say something I might later regret, I asked if I could call him back.

About a half an hour and more than a few anxiously paced circles later, there was a knock at the door. I froze until another, much more determined knock came. The next knock rattled the apartment. I had to answer or they’d cause a commotion and alert my well-to-do neighbors. I went to the door but didn’t open it. I was sure that FBI agents were like vampires. If you don’t open the door for them, they can’t come in. Through the wall, I said that I didn’t understand what was happening and didn’t feel comfortable speaking to anyone without an attorney first. They asked to be let in to explain, but I refused and told them I’d have a lawyer call on my behalf as soon as I found one.

I was afraid to leave the apartment. From what I knew, they could arrest me the second I walked out. No one had offered this kind of training when I signed up for the job, so I relied solely on instinct and what little I had learned from television crime shows.

When I reached him, New Jersey super-attorney Michael Critchley was staying late at his office. He said he could meet. I told him everything that happened, from the moment I discovered the Emperors Club, to what the FBI agents had just said to me from the other side of the door.

I felt violated and confused. Why was it anyone’s business what I did in my private life? I hadn’t hurt anyone. I paid my taxes. I helped women with strollers down subway stairs. Still, I had just been stalked, humiliated and harassed by the FBI in front of my neighbors, my privacy and life interrupted traumatically. My new lawyer gave me a sense of security; unfortunately, he also cost me the $25,000 I had saved to go back to college.

I managed to put off meeting with the feds and flew back to L.A., but I eventually returned to meet with them at the New York federal courthouse with my attorney. At a long, square table in a stark conference room, I signed a proffer agreement, and spoke to the group of agents who came to question me about my history and my affiliation with Emperors. They asked me to identify people in photos, but it was clear that I had no new information on the club or the clients that they didn’t already have from their year of surveillance. They asked me if I would do it all over again, I gave them the answer they wanted and we parted ways. I heard nothing of the event after that, just emails from my lawyer to remind me of the next big check I had to write.

My photos and bio were all over the news, along with those of other girls like “Chrissy” and “Maya.” And of course, Ashley Dupré—whom I’ve never met—got it way worse than anyone. Most of us weren’t outed so completely or spectacularly, but it was mortifying all the same. There would be plenty of awkward moments with friends, family and modeling agents who recognized our images and descriptions. 

(Courtesy Valerie Baber)

Onward 

Months after the incident, I was still consumed with an extraordinary sense of grief and loss. After a lifetime of struggling, things had finally been going right for me. I had found excitement, financial independence and what I thought was security in the Emperors Club. And it had all been suddenly taken away. I was forced to struggle again with money. In addition, I was made to feel as though I had done something truly horrible. But I knew with every fiber of my being that I had done nothing wrong. In fact, I’m still unsure what “crime” was ever committed.

Eventually, my efforts to look positively at change helped me to remember that when one door closes, another opens. After relocating to the U.K. to receive two university degrees, I managed to earn some part-time, fully-clothed work and found myself surrounded by people who gave me a different sort of satisfaction. Being able to tell people what I did for a living was nice, and so was staying the night at the house of someone special without having to worry what the doorman might think or if the neighbors would see, and for no other reason than because I wanted to.

Valerie Baber is a London-based writer and author of the memoir, Notorious VIP: Confessions of an Emperor’s Club Companion, which is currently being shopped. Her writing about travel, scandal and romance can be found here

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  • In reading your exploits you have made me a fan of not only your perspective and writing but of this website.I look forward to your book and there is no judgement on my part. Its your journey and your experiences which have made you the person you are. Wish you the best!

    1 Reply - Reply Now
    • Thanks for the kind words, Laz. We’ll make sure Valerie sees them too

  • Well written and very informative. I make no judgement of you and wish others would do the same.

  • She was the same WORTHWHILE HUMAN BEING as a sex worker as she is now having degrees and different work. Look at the CPS supervisor who was just arrested for child abuse (the poor kid had a dead chicken hung around his neck). Those judged as lowly will rise and those judged as respectable  shall be revealed as con artists. LOL. A persons job doesn’t qualify or disqualify their worth as a human being. SOME OF THE BEST PEOPLE I KNOW ARE SEX WORKERS.

  • Show More
  • 1 Reply - Reply Now
    • This site has a weird platform. If you try to post a long post it doesn’t tell you that your post is too long and in this case it simply didn’t post what I wrote at all. Weird. 

  • Its time to DECRIMINALIZE sex work!

  • I don’t think the Emperor’s club was all that.  Portfolioelite and Monalisa were much better because they kept a very low profile.  The owners were women and very professional.  Annie Watt from PE is out of the business for a few years now and Mia Mohr from Monalisa shut her site down.  Both avoided publicity.

  • And this is the human experience and never ends and never will…

  • nice piece. i pray God to forgive u ur sins. WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT A MAN TO GAIN THE WHOLE WORLD AND LOOS HIS SOUL? life shouldnt be all about money, there is more to life than money. always pray to God to help you discover ur purpose in life. what will you be rememberd for after this life? may GOD HELP US ALL IN Jesus name. amen

    2 Replies - Reply Now
    • Pray for yourself. Stop indulging in the fantasy that everyone who enjoys their body and money are ‘sinners.’ Worry about your own sins. Not everyone believes in your invisible friend. Get over it. Move on and find a life and leave other people alone. The world would be so much better if religious fanatics like you stopped  trying to impose your make believe on the rest of us.

    • Peter, I too wish the world was not focused on money but as it stands you need money to survive. If a person decides they want to offer sex to earn a living, this is for that person to decide and no one else. I do recall that Jesus had a sex worker as a disciple. A MOST beloved disciple.

  • This is a great story! And this was my favorite part:”Men aren’t pigs. Like women, they just need to be appreciated, loved, listened to and not judged. They need to be touched and adored. They need to be with someone who puts effort into maintaining all the things that attracted them in the first place.”

  • A good honest ‘what happened next’ If only I was in NY with a spare $1500 back then

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  • I remember Valerie from PlayboyTv, you could see that she had a great personality, was smart, and basically would pop off the screen like any famous celebrity would. It’s a great story to read. Just from what I saw on Playboy TV. I had just figured she had married and got a really good job.The best part of it is that after getting her Masters and all of the life experienced gained so far. I think the best is yet to come for Valerie. I am curious about the next ten years of her life and where it takes her. Hopefully we can get another article someday. 

    1 Reply - Reply Now
    • Great work Valerie!!!

  • Great article!

  • tried 4 times now. I give up.

  • so frustrating. I’ve typed the same response twice now but each time it just deletes once i click post it.

  • Very interesting article. But I wonder, does all the money and providing service to clients “of-means” make it better? Is it easier because their spouse has neglected them. Would it feel different if the clientele were someone more like me, chronically single, moderate physical appearance and confidence, moderate income, and the session was only $300 for an hour? And, what of those women who work on that level? Are they lesser? It’s interesting how money and profile change how we look at things.

    2 Replies - Reply Now
    • I certainly can’t speak for those women working at 300 rate, but it really all comes down to personality. Like any regular women, not all escort is of the same demeanor and personality. I wouldn’t think they are lesser either.

    • As a retired sex worker who worked at the high end- I also had clients who were not men of means. I had disabled clients. I had my ‘pro bono’ clients who could not always afford my rates and yet needed companionship. It is wonderful to have clients who can afford the top rates, because it means that we can also offer our services and time to those who can’t afford the high fees. No, all the money from high end clients doesn’t make it ‘better.’ Whether or not all high end sex workers feel the same way, I can’t say. I did know quite a few who were like me in caring about our ‘bread and butter’ guys who didn’t always have the means to pay  our normal rates. I always felt that my work provided me with the satisfaction of being able to be available to chronically single, moderate income guys who needed my services as much as the men who could afford to pay thousands of dollars for an evening of my time.

      1 Reply - Reply Now
      • Norma I concur! Since sex workers have been continually silenced our experiences have not been highlighted other than those that suit the agenda of the opponents of decriminalization. They don’t want the healthy scenarios to be given any air time. The Internet has allowed us a platform thank goodness. 

  • Wonderfully written VKB! Honest and immersing. Proud of you. I’m in NYC now, any idea who I can call?  Just kidding! Love’ya!  

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