escort diary® of Heidi Klein

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I think enough time has passed that I can reflect on my first call with some measure of perspective and humour. Thankfully I’m better at boundaries now. So let me take you back… to the night that started it all…

The booking is last minute. His query arrives via text message and the unfamiliar ping of my new work phone sends my heart into my throat. I am to visit the young gentleman at a hotel by the river. (“What if it’s a prank call?” I think.) A time is set, for later that evening. I have two hours to get ready.

And so begins The Ritual.

The Ritual is a series of steps that soon becomes second nature. I shower, cleanse, exfoliate, shave. I dry off and massage unscented lotion into my skin. (“Will it feel different to regular sex?”) Deodorant under my arms. A spritz of perfume. The fragrance is sweet and deep and I will only wear it for clients from now on, never around family or friends. This scent soon becomes synonymous with late nights, champagne, and sex.

I lay my lingerie collection out on my bed, eventually settling on my favourite pink corset with lace panties, stockings and suspenders. (“What if he hurts me?”) I dress with unusual care, placing the straps precisely and arranging the lace across my bust. My fingers are quivering.

I triple check my handbag for condoms and lube. Style my hair, brush my teeth. A flirty dress and cute ballet flats later, I’m out the door. The taxi driver keeps eyeing me in the rearview mirror. (“Does he know? He definitely knows.”) All too soon I’m punching numbers into an intercom and hurtling skywards in an elevator. I check my hair in the mirror and hum a tune to drown out my racing thoughts, my thumping heart.

He opens the door and everything is fine. He’s calm and suave. I blurt out that it’s my first time. He’s good about it in some ways. He tips me extra, tells me I need to charge more. Pours wine for me. In other ways, he’s not so good. He asks my real name. Casually, like it’s something escorts are fine with. Offers me a place to hang out if I want some company, as friends. I smile sweetly and look at the floor. I have so much to learn.

And I do learn. Because I am good at this. I am good at sex. I am fascinated by people and I want to know everything about everything. I have an excess of empathy. I desire closeness in the most intimate, carnal, honest way. I’m at my best when I’m alone with a person, no meaningless interference. I’m loving and I listen.

I absolutely covet the blinding rapture that is sex. The tastes, the sounds, the heat. Sex demands presence and creates a formidable shared energy that I love. And when we climax, the world disappears. We think about nothing, we are nothing. We are pure release. “La petit mort”, the French call it. The little death.

Afterwards, he’s thrilled with me. He’s like a young boy who’s discovered a gem on the ground. He’s speaking loudly and his face is bright. I am draped across the sheets, my naked curves on full display. My mind moves slowly for once and my body is relaxed. Satisfaction rolls through me in waves. We talk for a while, touch each other gently.

I shower and say goodbye. Head straight for McDonalds - the only place still open - and eat voraciously. I’ve never felt so hungry in my life. The lights of the night have a warm sheen. I feel happy. Could this really be my life now? There’s money in my bag. I feel safe.

My phone pings. This time it doesn’t make me jump. I open the message and grin. He wants to book me again tomorrow night.

I walk home sipping my chocolate shake, fighting the urge to laugh with excitement.

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