How can becoming a lady of the night be all bad? There’s no need to feign scandal or use hush tactics with such a profession. I dare any solid upstanding woman to be different by defying the conventional. Though I’m sure someone would probably condemn me for consensual debauchery. It outweighs unemployment or employment with no time off for good behavior in an otherwise proper setting. I would tell my grandkids I’m a self employed hobbyist.
Call girls shouldn’t be mistaken for anything less than Ivy League attendees who read Voltaire and the Sunday funnies just because one would become street smart by banging for bucks. I’ve been pondering this whole lack of consistent work thing. So I decided to do some dissecting of my own to determine a future as a concubine, climbing the whore-porate ladder to a possible high class Madame. Cause hey, if Heidi Fleiss can attempt to take it all off, so can I. At least in Nevada where there are licensed brothels, with the exception of my declining energy levels. But I won’t have any better chance of scoring if I stayed home to play Dominoes.
Aside from the illegality, prostitution comes with wonderful perks. Flexibilty, tax free wages, work in a cushy environment. Mattress manufacturers are thrilled that their products are being used so often. Stripping is far more lucrative and less dangerous than waitressing. I may not be able to cure the world’s perplexities by being promiscuous. But being an insomniac would guarantee that I could work through the night. Wearing fake eyelashes and ruby red lip shimmer could easily escalate me to a sultry six figure income, though I’d be in dire need of falsies and a cellulite concealer. And a good set of blindfolds for my patrons. It wouldn’t be necessary for a humongous wardrobe except to stock up on scanty bedclothes, and stash some cash for a tummy tuck. There’d be no place for my usual driveling dialogue. And sleasy attire can keep a girl somewhat modest and when harboring sexagenarian skin. They can also be an enthralling head turner for any get together unless I’m sporting a girdle. Who would have thunk that whipped cream could be used for more than a sundae, and fishnets could buy me that Audi Spyder GT. But if my escort wants to skimp on the green stuff, I’d be ready to tell him a thing or two. I’m no cheap date. He could easily hire someone in another red light district, because I don’t work on any clearance corner.
Also, in spite of the Eliot Spitzer scandal, I would never work for pimp daddies. Not when they take entire earnings from people they call prostitutes. Harlot sounds so much nicer. Even if someone did consider me “hot,” it would be justified with the flashes and all. I would wear a Cinderella bracelet at all times to reassure myself that I wasn’t the paradox of porn. And I’d have to cut myself off from eating whole tubs of Hagen Daas that could make me look like an extremely large hussy. This profession may not be good for the fundamentalist Christian out to break a scale.
Just in case the feds misconstrue my street walking, I can always use the excuse that I’m waiting for a friend to take me to a Halloween party. If it’s not October, I’ll say I’m in the performing arts headed for a casting couch and I’m on my lunch or dinner hour, and just happened to be in the neighborhood. Although a leather mini and stilettos could be a bit skeptical on a sixty year old. And I may have to get tipsy to get gutsy enough to pull off this bodywork, but I’ve always loved my martinis. They say pay depends on appearance, experience, and drunkenness. Okay, youths would bring a premium. But I’m an expert on toe massages, and waiting on people hand to foot.
I just have to remember not to fall asleep. I won’t have much hooker humor if a guy takes off with my dough. And I can’t get fuzzy and mix names. That could ruin my chances of getting asked out on another disreputable date. It would be a good idea for me to show up incognito by wearing a wig, doubling up on the blush, penciling in wider eyeliner, and camouflaging age spots……just in case my next trick is a young gun, or somebody I know.