#1: Confessions of a Call Girl

2007, Boston, Massachusetts

By KATE SCOTT

I am both a Wellesley graduate and a high-end call girl. I prepare law school applications between my appointments with Johns, and yes, the irony often escapes even me.

Although I sincerely enjoy my current profession, I must confess that I am rarely able to find someone to satisfy me sexually. After a year of working full-time in the world’s oldest profession, I magically stumbled across my type: the terribly unattractive and gross guys.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I feel my heart flutter quite a bit when I open the door and see a silver fox in an Armani suit, but I know that he will never be able to push me over that edge.

The coupling is all too real, and no matter the size of the bulge in his wallet pocket, my mind can’t help slipping into a more plausible fantasy: I am the summer intern at his very important nonprofit, where his charisma alone saves 10 starving African babies per day. He is my professor, and he has asked me to stay after class to discuss my latest project. He is Bruce Wayne, and I do love Batman.

Then there are the gross ones. I can’t seem to wrap my head around them. When my brain can’t make sense of the events I manufacture, my body can finally take over. Perhaps I found my calling, after all. Somehow, I don’t expect to write about this in the Wellesley Alumnae Quarterly.

Kate Scott is the alter-ego of a very well-kept and bookish Wellesley grad. Book worm by day, sex-kitten by night. She is using a pseudonym.

#2: The $10 Minute

Summer of 1988, Northern Virginia

By EMILY FAULKNER

One summer, when I was 9, my brother’s best friend played at our house every day. His name was Brian, and he was 10, and he had hair the color of dishwater.

Sometimes, when my brother wasn’t around, Brian and I did things together. He always started it, but I always followed.

We would put salt on slugs and watch them die. We would throw pebbles at the sides of cars as they passed. He would stare at my face and my curly hair, and I would blush, but I would let him.

One day, my brother was playing outside, and Brian came in. We were alone. Brian told me that he wanted me to touch him. Down there.

I was so horrified, I thought I might cry. What had I done to make him want this? Maybe I shouldn’t have let him stare at me. I knew, deep down, I liked the way his eyes made my skin go prickly.

Brian said he’d give me $10. I started to sweat. That was more money than I made after a whole week of chores.

He pulled his pants down, and I saw, for the first time, a boy’s penis. And it was long, and it was purple, and it was stiff. And it had a big end to it, like a mushroom cap. I almost cried. I couldn’t touch it.

He said it was OK, but I should let him touch mine.

I felt like the whole sun was burning between my legs, and then his fingertips brushed over my underwear. I let out a tiny shriek, and wanted to crawl under the bed and never come out again.

Though I didn’t lose my virginity until much later, and though I never cheated on a boyfriend, a part of me understands people who trade their bodies for money.

I’ll always know what I was willing to do for $10.

Emily Faulkner likes to skateboard before it rains and play Brahms on Steinway pianos, and she doesn’t kill slugs anymore. She is using a pseudonym.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, November 19th, 2007 | Email This Post

This entry was posted on Monday, November 19th, 2007 at 12:02 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.