Buy the Hour: Misadventures of a Modern Working Girl

By Alex Lieberman

I dont go to the circus, I steer clear of my friends childrens birthday parties hell, I wont even wind up a jack-in-the box! I avoid these simple things all in the hopes of never coming into contact with a clown. But now I found myself in a hotel room with the door shut behind me, staring into a greasepaint nightmare with a hard-on. I had two choices. I could run for my life or I could stay, face my fears, and let Pennywise pound me foolishly...

Buy The Hour, a (mostly) true memoir, takes the reader along on Alex Liebermans hilarious journey as a nice Jewish Long Island girl navigating the (cough cough), ins and outs of the seedy sex-for-money trade in the south.

If Joan Rivers had been an escort in her younger days, this would be her story.

Part voyeuristic erotic fun, part Jewish whining, and part eye-opening expos on the real world of escorting, Buy the Hours first person account reveals the inner working of the hobbys subculture, and will have the reader laughing, gasping, crying, and, oddly enough, relating to its storyteller Kim and her alter ego Alex, a reluctant escort who finds having sex with strangers is sometimes the easiest part of the job.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491834381

Alex Lieberman

Alex Lieberman is the "nome-de-play" of a Long Island born-and-bred girl who finds herself in the alien world of Atlanta, learning the tricks of the sex trade. Her blog, Alex the Reluctant Escort, documents her trials and tribulations navigating the escorting world. Her writing has been showcased in Penthouse Magazine and her stories have delighted radio talk show listeners nation-wide.

Book preview

Chapter%201.JPG

New to the Oldest Profession

I was in what my mother referred to as the shmate business (retail clothing sales), ever since I could walk. And I was pretty great at it, if I do say so myself. My clients, my girls, loved me. I could tell a client when a pair of jeans she’d been coveting for months made her thighs look like the colonel’s drumsticks covered in some weird blue batter. Or that the simple black dress simply must be bought, even if she had nowhere to wear it, because it is a staple of every woman’s wardrobe and frankly made her look like she could hula-hoop inside a Cheerio. They’d always listen to me, and I slowly found that honesty is the best policy when selling high-end clothing. Not that I have a choice about being blunt. I mean, Jewish girl from New York? Hello? So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I’m equally as blunt in my new line of work…

My name is Alex and I am an escort.

I’ve never said those words before. For some reason, they seem so foreign now. But I’m also thinking no big deal. Maybe I need to say them a few times, with emphasis.

My name is Alex and I am an escort.

Nope. Still no big deal.

The economy hadn’t come back yet… well at least not my economy. Every other news story is about a politician, actor, or sports star getting caught cheating with a hooker or a stripper. And Gloria Allred represents every tramp they were caught with. Is the fact that a nice Jewish girl decided to spread her legs for money really that surprising? (Note to self: get Gloria’s number. You never know.)

I don’t have the typical drawn out tragic story about an abusive family, low self-esteem, yaddah yaddah yaddah. I simply needed to pay the bills. I found myself with my rent, car payment, and a pile of other bills all due in less than two weeks and I only had enough money to cover half of them. That didn’t include having my roots colored, or eating.

Yes, my roots take priority over eating. I am Jewish after all.

So there I was, at two in the morning. with a nervous stomach and visions of sleeping in one of Atlanta’s many MARTA stations, or as I like to call them, future zombie dwellings, when I started trolling Craigslist for part time jobs. I couldn’t quit my job at the boutique. Even though I wasn’t making any money, the discount was awesome. Maybe I could make some extra money as an evening hostess? No such luck. Part-time at a bookstore? Yawn. Flex-time fabulous personal shopper? There isn’t even a category for that on Craigslist. Talk about a tragedy.

I finally hit the erotic category which, by the way, no longer exists.

When you look back at your life, you can usually pick days or events that symbolize your personal forks in the road. The places that determine your future. Sometimes you wind up sitting on one or two of those forks and stabbing yourself in the ass. This was one of those ass-stabbing moments.

Partly from curiosity and partly because I felt I had no choice, I read on, hoping this fork wouldn’t come back to haunt me. A lot of escort ads looked enticing, but all of them wanted a picture of my face just to apply. And there was no way in hell I was sending them a picture. With my luck, I would pick the ad that was a practical joke played by someone I knew. (Makes you wonder: Is paranoia just a form of Jewish guilt combined with premonition? I’ll have to look into that.)

But three pages in, I stumbled across an ad for escorts who wanted flexible hours, lots of money, and most importantly, anonymity. It listed a phone number, which was good. Because if I had to email and wait for a reply, I am sure rational thought would have set in and you might not be reading this today.

I dialed, thinking all the while, It’s two in the morning, who is actually going to pick up?

Someone did.

29105.png

Andrea, who would become my pimp, my agent, the sisterly voice on the other end of the line, answered the phone. She talked about being empowered, making your mark, preparing for the future. She talked about the oodles of money I’d make. Even though I hadn’t actually met Andrea, for some reason I trusted she had my best interests at heart. She said exactly what I needed to hear as I embarked on this new adventure. She was an inspiration.

Well, she was a great bullshit artist.

You text me the hours you can work by 1 every day. We start taking calls at 3 p.m. and stop at 3 a.m. We want you to be on at least five hours a day. Once you call in, we will send you out on appointments. We text you the address, your stage name, and his name. If it is a hotel, we give you the room number when you get there, as well as parking info. After you arrive, you check his ID and pick up the envelope he has left in plain view for you. You excuse yourself, go to the bathroom, make sure ‘the drop’ is correct (the fee for my services in the envelope), text me ‘okay,’ change into your lingerie and go back to him.

What do I do then? I asked.

You be his girlfriend for an hour. Call when you’re done and walking out. If I have somewhere for you to go next, I will text you. Oh, and don’t forget your supplies.

Huh?

My supplies. Oy vey. I get embarrassed buying tampons. How the hell am I going to buy condoms, lube and baby wipes? I was about to go to strange residences and hotel rooms to have sex with strange men, but here I was stressing about buying supplies. Why don’t I just walk into the CVS with a hooker sign on my back?

Andrea was smart. She knew how to keep her girls around. She had a network of regular guys with notes on each one. Good looking. Big tipper. Overweight. Cums quick. If you were a new girl that she wanted to keep around, she gave you the easy appointments. For my first month, I got those. I remember thinking, This isn’t that bad. This is easy.

29115.png

I remember my first appointment. Andrea sent the text: Your name is Shelby. Client is John Shelton. (Names have been changed. I would never out anyone, not even the assholes.)

I put the address into my GPS and it showed my arrival as twenty five minutes later. Are you kidding me? Why the hell is Atlanta so spread out? Well, at least there won’t be any traffic at ten at night. I hate traffic. I’m one of those people who reads about someone being shot because of road rage and gets it.

I was given instructions to park at least six houses away from his. He didn’t want his neighbors to wonder why he had company so late. I’m sure the sight of me walking in five-inch heels and a miniskirt at 10:30 at night was much more discreet. Idiot.

I knocked on the door. I would probably have been a nervous wreck but for the fact that my feet were throbbing from hiking up his long, steep driveway in my terribly uncomfortable, but fabulous designer FMPs. (Sorry, fuck-me-pumps, I’ll share more on hooker acronyms later). I couldn’t wait to get inside and take them off.

The door opened.

Hi, I’m John. No, seriously, his name was John. It’s nice to meet you. You look exactly like your pictures.

I do? What pictures?

Thank you, I said and went to introduce myself.

Ummmm… Ummmmm…

Shit. What’s my name again? WHAT’S MY NAME?

Fuck it. He didn’t care what my name was. He showed me in, and I picked up the envelope that was in plain view. I checked his ID, asked where the bathroom was and excused myself. I counted the drop to make sure it was correct. Twenty, forty… four hundred, all there. I texted Andrea okay and took my clothes off.

As I opened the bathroom door in my sexy bra and panty set, millions of thoughts were racing through my mind:

. . . Thank goodness he is good looking.

. . . Please let him take the lead.

. . . Am I going to have to blow him?

. . . Can I leave after he comes?

. . . What if he doesn’t come? Will I have to give his money back?

. . . Does my ass look fat?

I heard him call Shelby, I’m in here. Oh yeah, I’m Shelby.

I followed the voice and found him lying on his bed naked. The lights were still on and I asked if I could turn them off.

But that’ll take some of the fun away, he said.

Great, I hate having sex with the lights on.

I climbed on the bed next to him and was relieved to find he took the lead. I didn’t have to do anything but respond to what he was doing. He kissed, I kissed back. He touched, I touched back. He went down, I enjoyed. By the time we were having sex, I was actually getting into it. He was good looking, had a nice house, was nice to me and, frankly, knew what he was doing in bed.

I caught myself wondering why he was single. Who was I kidding? He wasn’t. You’re not on a date, I reminded myself. You just got paid. Now make him come, get your clothes on, kiss him goodnight and leave.

After he finished, I fixed my makeup, got dressed, and walked out of the bathroom. John was waiting by the door in a bathrobe, but something seemed off. The way he was standing was strange, then I realized he had his hands behind his back, obviously hiding something.

Shit. Everything had gone so well. Please don’t tell me he’s going to turn psycho and kill me. Or worse, lock me in his basement and make me his sex slave. He was good, but not that good.

He put out one hand to hold mine, turned it over and with his other hand he placed an additional $200 in my palm, kissed me on the cheek and said he’d call again soon.

I walked what seemed like forever to my car, got in and called Andrea to check in. I started to go into details but she cut me off and informed me that she wanted me to take the rest of the night off because the next night was going to be very busy. I asked her how I should get her money to her and she told me to hold onto it and we would take care of the drop tomorrow. Then she complimented me on my incredible performance. Apparently, John called when I was on my trek back to the car to rave about me (or so she said. Great bullshit artist, remember?). I said goodnight to Andrea and started laughing, then crying, then laughing hysterically again.

That was easiest money I had ever made.

That same thought had me laughing and crying all night.

29117.png

The next morning I woke up wondering who I was. I’m the nice Jewish girl who can’t keep a straight face when she lies. The girl who immediately falls into a funk when she thinks she’s hurt someone’s feelings. The girl who thinks women who sleep with men on the first date are skanks. Had I become the kind of girl that Judge Judy would berate in her courtroom?

I love Judge Judy. Most people ask themselves What would my mother think? or What would Jesus do? before making a life-altering decision. I ask What would Judge Judy think?

But I knew what her answer would be. She would say, Are you fucking nuts? Have you lost your brain? And then continue to tell me what a low-life piece of scum I was before deciding for the plaintiff. Sigh.

So why wasn’t I crumbling on the ground sobbing? Why didn’t I feel the need to drown my sorrows in alcohol, or spend the rest of my life on a therapist’s sofa? Maybe it’s like getting drunk and making an ass of yourself. It feels normal and fun at the time. The horrible hangover and guilt happens the next day?

Nope. I felt fine.

I worked at the boutique until 5 p.m. then went to my first appointment for my new job at 7 p.m.

Fast-forward to 3 a.m. and my eyes were bloodshot and burning. I had experienced tired eyes before, nothing a little sleep and Visine couldn’t take care of, but what was going on down south of my eyes was a whole other story. I had never, ever experienced a tired coochie, cooter, vajayjay (vagina if you must) before. When Andrea told me we would be busy, I never dreamed I would have four appointments in one day. I was happy to have the money, but I felt like I had just finished the Pony Express run from Salt Lake City to Sacramento, bareback.

My (pick your favorite euphemism for snatch) was throbbing.

I was fine up until the fourth guy. He was young. Young in the escort world means that they think lasting a really long time is a good thing. Young and dumb (Y&D). Forty minutes later, he still hadn’t come. I was starting to chafe. At one point, I could have sworn I saw wisps of smoke coming from down there. I think I went through half a bottle of lube just on that one appointment alone, hoping we wouldn’t set off the hotel’s smoke detectors.

Now that I think about it, he probably took the little blue pill—that stupid fucking blue pill that gives a guy an erection for four hours or longer. Who was the brain trust who thought that was a good idea? Don’t get me wrong. I like sex. Sometimes I even love it. But 40 minutes of continuous thrusting by someone you met just prior to entry can be ranked right up there with a root canal, performed by a bad dentist, with rusty tools.

Let me pause for a minute to make sure I was being honest about the root canal comparison. Yep. It was that bad.

By the time it was over, the tip he gave me was barely enough to cover the cost of the antibiotics I would need for the bladder infection I was sure to get.

29119.png

Finally it was time to do the drop. The money—fifty percent of my earnings—I had to give to Andrea, my pimp, cheerleader, protector, boss, confidant, and enabler. I thought she would give me a place to meet her, scared that it would mean that I would have to show my face. Somehow, knowing she didn’t really know who I was made me feel safe. But then she let me know that I wasn’t going to be meeting anyone.

At that moment, I could actually hear my brain say, Ahhhhhh, thank God, followed almost immediately by, What the fuck? If a brain could do a double-take without actually causing a person to go into seizure, mine did.

My relief turned into confusion, then sheer panic, as she explained the process of doing the drops.

Put the money in an envelope. Then I want you to go to Einstein Bagels on Peachtree and find the newspaper boxes. You know what I mean? Good, so pick one that’s a free paper and slide the envelope into the middle of the window copy. If that’s the only one left, pick a different box. And please make sure no one sees you do it!

Are you fucking serious? Suddenly letting her see who I was, meeting her face to face, breaking the hymen of my anonymity so to speak, seemed perfectly fine by comparison. It was 3 a.m. and she wants me to sneak a bright white envelope stuffed with cash into the window copy of a newspaper box? Was I working for the CIA now? As if this job isn’t difficult and secretive enough, now I have to play like Popeye Doyle from the French Connection?

What if someone sees me? How do I explain what I’m doing?

Then I faced facts: If anyone saw me at that hour, they were probably going to rape, rob or kill me anyway.

But first, I had to go to a 24 hour CVS to buy the envelopes. What do you think that cashier was thinking when I walked in at three in the morning, a panicked look in my red eyes, walking funny, and all I bought was a box of envelopes? (Dammit, I should have bought Visine while I was there.) But then, I took comfort in the fact that she surely had seen stranger things happen at that hour.

Once outside, I looked around to make sure no one was lurking nearby, opened the newspaper box, and slid the envelope into the middle of a window copy of Creative Loafing (an Atlanta-based free entertainment newspaper). I ran to my car and called Andrea while I sped away, convinced—a dozen people somehow saw me and were now running to get the money. Snipers were lining the roofs of nearby buildings ready to hold their breath and pull the trigger if my drop was short. I kept looking down at my chest expecting to see the tell-tale red spot of a laser target. But nobody saw me and presumably my drop was collected since Andrea never said anything to the contrary. I never got used to this part of the business. The drops always scared me more than the appointments.

Something is wrong with that, isn’t there?

Chapter%202.JPG

The Swing of Things

Weeks later as I walked around my apartment wearing nothing but my brand new Christian Louboutin heels, the sleazy hangover of what I’d been doing night after night barely registered anymore. I replaced the guilt of my commercial promiscuity that was weighing heavily on my shoulders with the fabulous leather straps of Chanel and Valentino handbags. Every time I felt I was losing a little piece of my soul, I replaced it with a pair of soles, preferably Jimmy Choo. I always had great taste and sometimes bought nice things, but I was never able to walk into the high-end boutiques and point to several items with less regard for price, knowing I could pay for them right then and there… in cash.

I love cash.

I love it because you don’t get a bill a month later to remind you what a moron you were for paying almost $900 for a pair of shoes. They aren’t even that comfortable. For that kind of money, they should come with someone walking behind you to massage your feet every two hundred steps. I actually thought about having my pinkie toe removed to make my shoes fit better, but apparently it throws off your balance. Who knew your pinkie toe was basically a kickstand? Sigh.

For fun, I started calculating my acquisitions in terms of the number of appointments needed to buy them. A Gucci belt was two appointments. A Louis Vuitton purse was six appointments. A Dior dress was eight, (or one very kinky one). I briefly tried to break smaller things like manicures and sushi dinners down even further to blow jobs, cowgirls and feigned orgasms, but it was too overwhelming.

I loved the feeling of being able to purchase whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. The thought of saving for a rainy day never entered my mind. In fact, I still seemed to spend more than I made.

Isn’t that what got you into this predicament in the first place? You’re selling your body for Chanel!

That statement, spoken in Judge Judy’s voice in my head, should have been a siren going off in my head, but I wasn’t hearing it. I guess I am damaged in a lot of ways. Being an intelligent, good person never brought me the happiness that these patent leather, snakeskin and cashmere treasures did. Even if store-bought happiness was short and fleeting, I didn’t realize it because I had the cash to keep it going. Every time I tried something on and paid for it with my wad of twenties and fifties, or strutted out to my car carrying large shopping bags whose names represented a major portion of Fifth Avenue in New York, I was in my own little heaven.

I am a selfish, superficial, spoiled JAP (Jewish American princess), who would not sell her first child for a Prada bag, but would definitely sell her own pussy for one. Does that make me a bad person?

If sleeping with men for money is like getting drunk, and guilt is the hangover, I considered shopping to be my rehab. My favorite designer boutiques were my own personal Betty Ford clinics. I was in rehab often.

29121.png

Working at the boutique during the day and escorting at night was exhausting, but also exhilarating. I liked walking around the store listening to all my co-workers complain about their simple lives and everyday problems while I giggled to myself.

I had a secret, a powerful secret. One that could destroy me and everything I had, but one that made me very special and different. I felt like I was a superhero in my own right—Retail Girl by day, Super Whore by night. You may laugh but there are a lot of similarities! We (superheroes and I) become stronger when we are on a mission to do good. Our costumes fit snug to our bodies underneath our civilian attire (Spandex, the choice fabric for superheroes and hookers alike.) We do a lot of our work horizontally, they fly, I lie. No one knows our true identity and when we leave the people we have helped they are smiling, relieved and thankful!

The only real difference is that the people I helped typically had to clean themselves up after.

I was on a high. I was making money, more money than I had ever made. But, it wasn’t just about the money. Andrea had been right—satisfying men sexually, taking their money and walking out the door knowing that I couldn’t care less if I ever laid eyes on them again, gave me a sense of empowerment. I was their fantasy and I could make them think I was really into them, but ultimately I had my Super Veil up and, unlike my labia, that shit couldn’t be penetrated.

Like Superman’s Clark Kent, I was Kim, working among mere mortals at a boutique, (but always decked out in the latest fashions). But I did the man of steel one better; I could be whoever I wanted to be when I was SW (super whore). I could be a law student doing this to put myself through school. A school teacher with a sex addiction, an actress, a high powered marketing consultant for Coca Cola… anything. I loved it! It’s amazing how good I was at lying about who I was, but how bad I was at lying about what I actually thought. Honesty had made me great at selling clothes but it occasionally tripped me up in between the sheets.

Honesty was my Kryptonite.

I was in the elevator wearing a black trench, black dress pants, and a super starched white shirt. I looked great. Clark Kent had nothing on me. But unlike Clark, I had a matching bra and panty set on underneath. My mother always told me to wear clean and matching underwear because you never know when you’re going to be in a car accident. Could she have been any more pessimistic? (Now that I think about it, I had no chance at a happy life. It wasn’t until The Secret came out that I discovered that positive thinking actually existed.)

I knocked on the hotel room door. Please, please don’t be fat I thought. The door opened…

UGGGHHHHH!!!!!!! He was, REAL fat. So much for The Secret.

I walked in and almost choked from the cologne he must have bathed in before I got there.

I don’t mean to be rude but would you mind showering before we get started? I asked.

I showered right before you got here, he said.

I know, but you apparently got a little over zealous with the cologne, I wanted to say while I felt my throat closing. Instead, I said ok and went forth to get ready. When I came out of the bathroom he was sitting in the desk chair naked.

Easy was left at the door the second it was opened.

Difficult showed its face when I almost suffocated from the cologne.

Repulsive came out of nowhere and ran me over me like a Mac truck. How was I going to do this?

Baby come over here and suck on Daddy’s lollipop, he said.

OHHHH

MYYY

GOD!!!!!!

Was he going to pick up the 40 stomachs he had so I could find it? And if he did what if he let them drop on me? I could already read the headline, Dead Hooker Found Suffocated in Businessman’s Stomach. I could feel the honesty, the Kryptonite, flooding to the surface, eating through the fabric of my disguise.

Look sweetie, if you want to lie on the bed I will be happy to get you off with my hand but that is all that is going to happen here, I said.

But, your ad said Girl Friend Experience, he whined.

Yes and if my boyfriend ever gained as much weight as you he would be getting a hand job too.

In the elevator once again… (Yes, he went for it; let’s just let that ugly experience die now.) I marveled at my own super powers. I could actually set my own rules, set my own standards. If things didn’t work out like my customers planned, well, even when Superman saves the day sometimes the people he saves get a little scuffed up in the process. But they’re always happy in the end.

29124.png

Of course, sometimes even Super Whore had her bad days.

Finishing with what I thought was an easy appointment, I started getting dressed in the bathroom. I smiled at myself in the mirror, proud of making this fifty five to sixty year old come in a matter of minutes. I had climbed on top of him, nuzzled his neck so I wouldn’t have to kiss him, and rode him hard for five minutes. He asked me to slow down but sensing that he was about to come I closed my eyes, pretending like I didn’t hear him and rode him faster. That was how a lot of my appointments went—Andrea would let me know that I had someone waiting so I’d have to hurry it along.

She didn’t care about repeat appointments. It was all about quantity, not quality. She knew I was a brunette, but would send me out on appointments for blonds. Tell them you went back to your natural color, she’d say. She posted fake pictures on different escort sites with different phone numbers. Whoever was on was the one who got the appointment. It didn’t matter to her if a guy called for a tall five foot, nine inch, long-legged Swedish blond with double Ds. If no one on-duty fit the bill, she would send the girl that looked the closest to it, or any girl at all.

Andrea’s bait-and-switch backfired on me during my previous appointment. (I’ll get back to the sixty year old still catching his breath in a minute.) In that appointment, I arrived to the hotel on time and was let into the room only to be told that I wasn’t a full figured redhead with adorable freckles.

No shit.

The guy started yelling and carrying on about how this was bad business, disreputable, dishonest. I started to laugh in his face but quickly stopped when I realized I was just making him angrier. He was actually throwing a temper tantrum. For a minute, I looked around for a camera, thinking Ashton Kutcher was hiding behind a mirror for his new show Punk’d—the Escort Edition.

The customer went on to scream about how he was going to let people know about this scam and he was going to make sure I didn’t get any more appointments in Atlanta. Who was he going to call? The hooker police? (He