The first time I sold my body for money, I was twenty-six. I had been working at Mitchell Brothers for a few years. A guy came in one night and dropped a bunch of cash on me. During our last dance he asked how much for sex, a fairly common question in this profession. Normally I explain how I can’t do that, but I was feeling glib and money happy, so I randomly told him twenty thousand. He said OK. We were standing in one of the Cabanas and he seemed serious. I looked him in the eyes. He was serious. I was single at the time (I was never single for long back then, being that I’m a serial monogamist), and twenty thousand dollars is a lot of money, so I did something I had never done before, I got his number. A couple weeks later he wires me half the money and buys me a first-class ticket to Aspen. Or was it Vail? I can’t remember. He gave me the rest when I arrived. This guy was obviously wealthy. He didn’t even balk at the money. Needles to say, his house was huge and was just one of his many houses. He was in his late thirties to early forties and average looking, but he had some funky teeth. He was interesting enough. Well traveled. Intelligent. Collected wine. He brought his own bottles to the fancy restaurants we went to, and each time the servers and managers would freak out.

I didn’t tell anyone I was going, not wanting to be judged or to worry anyone. Explaining my superb ability to judge people isn’t usually enough evidence of my assured safety for close friends. So, as my protection plan, I told him that my best friend needed to hear from me at certain times of the day, and that if she didn't she'd call the cops. This was my ironclad plan. The only way of making sure that he didn't chop me up into little pieces. I’d pretend to make the call, dialing my voicemail, and fake a conversation. Yup, iron-clad.

He didn't chop me up (obviously). He did, however, want an uncanny number of blowjobs. It’s not like I could say no, or that I wasn't in the mood. I was bought and paid for. I cried in the bathroom at one point on the second day. Being intimate with someone you don’t want to be and the pressure of earning your keep is more difficult than you’d think. The worst part (aside from the six blowjobs a day) was that he knew my real name. He needed it in order to purchase the plane ticket. He kept saying it over and over as I sucked him off. It was maddening. We use fake names for a reason. I didn’t want to feel like myself. I wanted to feel like a separated piece of me. I concentrated on the money, making him come, and the flight home.

About a month later, he flew my friend and I to New York for the same amount each (twenty grand). A weekend, just like Aspen (or Vail). It probably seems crazy that I would put myself through that again, but it’s hard for me to say no to that much cash. Plus, money is relative, meaning the more you make the more you spend, which is why it’s easy to be a dancer and always feel broke. Also, I’m willing to admit that there may be a broken aspect within me, a part that’s willing to sweep my feelings under the carpet in order to earn a living.

I figured this trip would be much easier because my friend and I could share the blowjob burden, and I was right. It was definitely easier having a friend with me. The night before we left he made us an offer: fifty thousand a month each to see him one weekend a month—a mind-blowing offer. Unbelievably, I turned it down. My ex-boyfriend and I had talked about getting back together just before I left on the trip. What a mistake. That girl continued to see him for over four years! I can't even remember which boyfriend I had said no for. I've always been a sucker for love. I don’t have many regrets, and although I don’t begrudge my decision, that would have been a lot of money to stash away or invest. I guess it just wasn’t in the cards.

The second time I hooked was with one of my long-term regulars from the club. He paid me five grand. We had dinner first and then went to a hotel room he had booked. The sex took all of thirty minutes. It was sort of awkward, and I sensed he was disappointed. We didn't have any real chemistry in the sack. He stopped coming to see me after that. The next three men went like this. All regulars from the club. They paid me five large each (getting twenty thousand on my first time out was incredible, but not every man can afford that-even five thousand is a decent amount of money), and if memory serves, they all seemed a little disappointed. The long build-up left me with an impossible fantasy to live up to. Or I’m just a shit lay.