Survival sex

So I was feeling rather jaded when I entered Liane's apartment for the first time. And I was worried about the rent. My jaw almost dropped when Liane said, "You mustn't talk to my clients about money -- I will pay you if there's ever a problem."

This was not an escort service: Liane was a proper madam with clients she could count on. I had read about such operations in books, a long time ago, as a child. But I had grown accustomed in my teen years to working escort and, for someone who starts out in a bar, working escort is a glamorous self-improvement. Meeting a reputable madam like Liane isn't necessarily in the cards.

In that split second, as Liane prepped me for my first date in her apartment, everything changed. I had never before met a madam or working girl who took so much pride in her clients. None of the nightclub managers or escort-service owners could afford to; they didn't even aspire to. Their prevailing attitude was that johns pay -- "they" pay -- and "we" collect or get paid. Winners receive, losers give. Liane's ideas about "us" and "them" were different. Johns were not just transient wallets, they were permanent connections -- to be treasured. Suddenly, I sensed that Jeannie had been quite barbaric. When I realized how primitive the escort agencies were, I knew how lucky I was to have stumbled into Liane's apartment -- and how important it was not to act as surprised as I felt.

I did everything in my power to stay on Liane's good side. Her normal clients were as nice as the best clients I had ever encountered working escort. Her better clients -- well, you don't even meet guys like that through an ad. They're much too careful. I didn't kiss the bedsheets in gratitude, but I paid all my cuts on time. When Eddie, that first client of Liane's, asked for my phone number, I pretended I didn't have one -- told him I was staying in the home of a prudish relative. This way he wouldn't feel rejected; he could see me again, through Liane. And did.

Liane had one thing in common with Jeannie's escort service: a possessive vigilance regarding girls who give their numbers out. Of course, I'd wanted to give Eddie my number. He was a quick $300, and I was tempted when he said, "I'll be in town next month for two days -- at the Waldorf this time. Liane's an old pal, but she doesn't have to know everything, does she? I'll have a nice room."

But if Liane found out, she might stop giving me business, and I could end up working hotel bars and escort services again. And if I did, I was bound to get busted -- or something much worse. Seeing Eddie repeatedly, for $180 instead of $300, getting about half as much as some girls were making for the same work, I was deeply tempted. Of course, I wasn't staying with a prudish relative -- but I didn't know if I could trust him to stay mum. I played it safe, very safe. I wasn't going to let go of the opportunity Liane had given me: to work at the highest levels with the best clients.

Other girls, well established in their apartments, with private clients of their own, felt confident about taking Liane's clients -- especially her hotel dates. When it comes to "stealing" dates, hotel calls fall into the gray zone. You're not in another woman's apartment, where pushing your number on a man is an out-and-out no-no. What the madam doesn't know won't hurt you, and Liane understood that some of the older girls gave their numbers out. But she expected loyalty from new girls. And while other girls could afford to lose her business, I simply couldn't. The reality was that the new girls, the loyal girls, were the ones who got the most business from Liane. She used the other girls only when she had to. (And that's why, today, I hear from Liane only once in a while.)

After my initiation into the rough-and-tumble of clubs, bars, and $200-an-hour coke dates, I was willing to keep seeing Liane's clients on Liane's terms. I was meeting diplomats and famous publishers. Her clients were often mentioned in the Times, and their faces sometimes appeared in those engraved portraits on the front page of the Wall Street Journal. But most of all, I could relax with a new client; I didn't have to think about whether he was a cop. Or whether he was going to pay. Though I still paid a cut to a madam, I had arrived. My technique was improving. My bedside manner was smoother, more confident. I began to see my previous adventures (and misadventures) through different eyes. I could concentrate on cultivating my clients, not just surviving, and was surprised to discover that I actually liked being good at oral sex. But I wondered if I would get stuck on this lesser track -- the unambitious track occupied by girls who don't give their numbers out.

Next Page: Before I wanted to be a hooker, I had wanted to be a librarian

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