HERE are three questions I get asked all the time:
1. What has life been like since going public as an escort?
2. Can you help me be an escort?
3. Do you have sex all the time?
The answers are:
1. You are reading about it now.
2. I mentor women to become escorts but am getting tired of the dumb ones (and it’s only the dumb ones) pinching my ideas and abusing my kindness.
3. No.
Yep, the answer to number three is a big fat no. I DO NOT HAVE MUCH SEX. Since going public as an escort/journalist I reckon I have less sex now than ever before. I know you won’t believe me, but it’s true. I had more sex as a journalist. I would estimate that a single mum in her forties – or any woman, really – who is on Tinder would have much more sex than me.
And that’s not because I am not working – I am – but because of clients, especially new ones, treat me differently now. Without wanting to sound like a big-headed hooker (I think there are a few out there), when men book me now it is more out of curiosity than to relieve a twitchy c**k. It is more to do with meeting this ‘Samantha X’ and finding out what makes her tick (um, French Champagne and a fat envelope stuffed full of cash?).
One word I hear daily from men is that I am “intriguing”.
I could be sitting next to a businessman on a flight to, ooooh, let’s say Melbourne, and after a brief chat he will say: “Wow, you are so intriguing.”
Or Sean my window cleaner will shake his head while laughing at my stories.
“You’re bloody joking! He didn’t say that, did he?” he’d say while wiping spiders’ webs from my sliding doors with a big, wet sloppy cloth. “I love your stories, Amanda. They’re so intriguing!”
I have clients who are writing books and want me to proofread them in my spare time (SPARE time!!). “I’m up to my fourth draft,” mumbled Andrew in between chewing his avocado toast over brunch the other day. “It’s only just over a hundred thousand words. I’ve emailed it to you, so when you get a chance, can you have a quick look for me?”
A quick 100,000 words? Sure, no problem …
Or dear Keith, who is writing his escorting memoirs and I rarely have time to help him (sorry, Keith!).
Or I’ll get an email from a client and it will read like this. In fact, it will read exactly like this as this is a real email (name changed, of course).
Dear Samantha,
I have to say I read your book on a flight to New York recently and felt compelled to write to you. Your story is fascinating and I must say, I find you intriguing. I am from London originally but have been living in Sydney for over 20 years. I am a lawyer who has also lived in Hong Kong and New York. I confess that I have wanted to explore the possibility of seeing you for some time but I was a little nervous given you are … well, let’s be honest, now so well-known. But my intrigue has got the better of me. Would you happen to be free for dinner next Tuesday night?
Cash no issue.
Yours, Fraser.
Before coming out I used to get emails like this:
R U free? Can U wear black suspenders and do U swallow? Ben.
For the record, I did meet with Fraser and he was lovely. And in our four-hour meeting, we had very pleasant sex – once, for nine minutes, and that was right at the beginning. The rest of the time we talked. (And as for Ben: no, I don’t swallow and FK OFF.)
I find that these days men are more interested in talking to me than having sex with me. And you may find it hard to believe that I often find myself leaving appointments feeling sexually frustrated, sometimes cursing the fact I ever wrote that bloody book. Instead of feeling refreshed, elated and relaxed after a marathon sex session with a nice man, I’d usually depart a hotel room feeling like I’d just done a Q and A and book-signing session. Take a dear regular, Lee. He was young, with a big head of frizzy hair and a weakness for working girls, and he had been a client with my agency since the day we launched. He would always buy the girls a gift and the girls loved him.
“Such an easy guy, so lovely – the sex is great!” I always heard as feedback from my girls. He was a pleasure to deal with and he was always so polite to me.
“One day, I’ll pluck up the courage to see you, Samantha!”
“The big boss!” he kept texting.
And that day finally arrived. He was so nervous I thought he was going to pass out. I tried to kiss him but his lips were trembling so much.
“Sorry, Samantha,” he said, scratching his head. “I am really confused. I’ve never been with a celebrity before. I don’t know whether to feel horny or starstruck.”
I had to laugh. Is that how clients saw me: a celebrity? It was very sweet – if only my sex life didn’t have to suffer.
“Celebrities need sex too, Lee,” I said, climbing on top of his shaking body.
Or there was Cam, the truckie who booked me for an hour at his city hotel one December afternoon. I knew that when I clapped eyes on him standing by the lifts, I was going to have the best sex of my life. It had been ages since I’d had sex, and the sun was out, it was Christmas time, I was in a good mood …
Cam wasn’t attractive at all, but you’d know by now that attractiveness rarely matters. I can have the best sex with the most unattractive men – and it’s usually those kinds of men who make me orgasm.
Most Melbourne escorts say the same thing: give us a man with a face only his mother could love and we will have great sex. Maybe we relax more? Maybe we actually like them as people more? Maybe we feel more powerful, more in control? A good-looking client just makes me nervous. A good-looking client who is an arrogant dickhead is the worst kind of client; any girl will tell you that. Anyway, Cam was bald and stocky with a moustache which had a bit of cheese in it (I think it was cheese). He was wearing a gold chain, a red checked shirt and these big, chunky workmen’s boots.
“G’day, Samantha!” He beamed, opening the lift doors and marching in before me. He lacked decorum, he was brash and rough around the edges. Perfect. All the ingredients for a good bonk.
When we got to the tiny studio room I put my bag down and went to kiss him. “Well, hello, Cam! You’re in trouble today …” I whispered seductively into his hairy ear. “Er, rightio!” he choked out, sounding petrified. “But before we get down to that, I suppose I’d better offer you a drink. Now, what do we have here … I don’t think there’s much …”
“Whatever you’ve got would be lovely,” I murmured patiently. A glass of bubbles wouldn’t hurt to get me in the mood – not that I needed it.
I watched as Cam plodded to the bathroom, fetched the plastic cup that his toothbrush had been in, filled it up with warm tap water and handed it to me, grinning.
“Here we go, love,” he said nervously, passing me the cup with shaking hands. “Water looks a bit cloudy if you ask me, but I think that’s because it’s warm.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” I smiled, putting the cup down. Well, that was a first. But I wasn’t here for the drink …
“Now let me give you something …”
I unclipped the straps of my dress and let it fall to my feet sexily, standing there in all my glory, showing Cam my body that was aching to be devoured. Surely he was aching to devour me …
“Oh jeez, Samantha,” he stammered, looking away. “I don’t mean to be rude but …”
He reached out into his rucksack, fumbling around.
Jesus Christ – this was it: my first psychopath! He looked a bit like Ivan Milat, he drove trucks on dusty orange freeways … What was he getting – a gun, a knife …
Nope.
My book.
A well-thumbed copy of Hooked that he held out to me with a proud expression on his face.
“I bought a copy of your book, love. Would you mind putting your clothes back on and signing it for me? I’ve been dying to meet you to find out how life has been for you since you did that show on TV … I have so many questions for you. I actually wrote some down here on this piece of paper. We saw you on Channel Seven – or was it Nine – my missus and me, and …”
I stared at his mouth moving and his eyes blinking excitedly. Remind me again why I wrote that bloody book?
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