Jamie, the john
When I first moved to San Francisco I was completely broke, living in a roach-infested hotel in the Tenderloin while studying to be a paramedic and getting my Master’s in journalism. Needless to say, I had no time for a real job. This led to working as a male escort.
It wasn’t as seedy or weird as I thought it would be. Largely, I just listened to women harp on about their failed marriages over a glass of wine at some upscale eatery. Only a few of the women directly propositioned me, to which I obliged, because I really needed the cash. There were some strange occurrences at times—like when, after several dates, I heard Susan’s husband sneeze in the closet; apparently he had been watching through a peephole, unbeknownst to me. I still receive christmas card annually, thanking me for helping them through a difficult time in their marriage. There was a handful of BDSM weirdoes and some embarrassingly trite role-playing, too. I grew accustomed to older women grabbing my package, winking with a devilish smirk as they stuffed $100 bills in my pocket.
But then I met Jamie. She was about 10 years older, sultry, intellectual, charming, and generous. She was a power broker in the financial district and we always had a great time together. Around our fifth date, I started falling for her. One night I confessed my undying affection, to which she just nodded, not smiling. I told her I didn’t want to charge her anymore, that I wanted to quit the agency and start something substantial with her.
“Check please,” she said.
Later I heard she was going on dates with another escort at the agency. She stopped returning my calls and emails. One day, I caught her outside her apartment and asked her what it was that I did wrong. She picked up her pace; speed walking down the pavement in her $300 heels. When I caught up and grabbed her by the wrist she turned quickly and said, “Don’t you get it, kiddo? I like paying.” I let her arm drop and just stood there as she clip clopped away forever.
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