Then a few tepid knocks at the door. I got up from the bed, nervous as always, and answered. In those first few moments of eye contact before saying hello, I could already tell she was happy not to be calling on another middle-aged man with scary looking eyes, or a father of three with his wife at home and a sad look on his face. Remember what I told you: the pretending of the eyes. It’s absence can mean everything. In Karly’s eyes, I saw a lot of things, but none of them were pretend.
“Karly?”
“Oh. Yeah, that’s me. You’re… Byron?”
I had already gotten used to the idea that most escorts were around my age, in the prime of their money making years (or probably past it, as gross as that is). But still, maybe there was an absence of the pretending in my eyes as well. Because Karly had a glow about her, and she instantly made me nervous beyond the typical apprehension that comes with transacting money for body, at least for me. It felt like the wrong girl got the wrong door, and only after 22 minutes of hilarious innuendo would we both look into the camera to uproarious live-audience applause, saying things like ‘you thought I was a what?’ and ‘you thought you were meeting with who?’, and realize it was all a mistake. A guy like me wouldn’t pay for sex when he has a girl who is more than willing keep him company, emotional and physical. And a girl like her wouldn’t sell her body when she has a college degree and connections in the city. Except I did, and she was. We were both surprised, and we both could see it. But hey, none of it was pretend.
Nick Denardi 