Fast Girl (16 page)

T
he next day, I spent the morning getting ready with extra care. My regular, Bob, was paying me thirty-five hundred dollars to do the overnight with him, and I had to make sure I had everything in order. When I was ready to go, I sat on the edge of the bed in my hotel room with my phone in my hand. I knew Mark expected me to check in, but I wasn't looking forward to the call. Finally, I took a deep breath and dialed.

I reassured him that I was safe and having a great time, and he caught me up on all the happenings of home. Mostly, we talked about Kylie, who was our only real connection at that point. After a few minutes, our strained conversation had
run its course, and he put Kylie on the phone. In my brightest, most loving mommy voice, I asked her about school and gymnastics and told her I would be home soon. I could tell she didn't really understand where I was or why I wasn't with her, and her unhappiness momentarily shattered my illusion, leaving me feeling blue and guilty.

“Mommy has to go, Kylie,” I said. “I'll talk to you soon and see you on Monday.”

“I miss you, Mommy,” she said, tears in her voice.

“I miss you, too,” I said. “I love you.”

The sound of her crying was too much for me. It reminded me how much I missed her and our old family life. For a moment, I lost my protective bubble of adrenaline and ecstasy. I didn't want that. I threw down the phone to finish getting ready. I wanted to get to the bar where I was meeting Bob as fast as I could. I needed a glass of wine and some of that Vegas glamour to feel like Kelly again.

It was a relief to spot Bob's silver hair as he snaked through the crowded bar at Mandalay Bay, clearly glad to see me, just as my first glass of wine hit my bloodstream. I liked that I knew how to please him—I had worn the set of black lingerie he'd bought me at Agent Provocateur—and I looked forward to doing just that once we got upstairs. And I liked that he was paying me thirty-five hundred dollars to spend one night with me. The bubble was back.

“Hi, beautiful,” he said as he took the stool next to me.

“I've been waiting for you,” I said, knowing he'd like the sound of that.

We watched the NASCAR race, which he and thousands
of racing enthusiasts had traveled to Vegas for, in a suite at the speedway where we had more drinks. By the time we went back to his hotel suite by helicopter, it was as if the call home had never happened. We spent an hour together in his suite, and he seemed pleased with every move I made. I was surprised when he started getting dressed. We had all the time in the world, and I assumed he would want to go again before we went down to the casino so he could play slots.

“I've got to go do some business,” he said. “I'll be gone for three hours.”

“I'll miss you,” I said. “But I'll just go down to the bar and have a drink.”

I hadn't been at the bar for more than a few minutes when I felt myself being noticed by five guys in the back corner. I smiled at them, and one of them took this as all the invitation he needed and came over to me.

“Hi, how are you doing?” he said.

“I'm great,” I said.

After a few minutes of light conversation and flirtation, I'd been so friendly that he was smiling at me now.

“Come back and talk to my friend,” he said.

When we reached the table, I could immediately tell which friend he meant, and I understood that he and another of the guys were interested in my services, while their other friends were very unsure. I quickly focused my energy on the two who were into it.

“You should come up to our hotel room,” one said, a few minutes later.

“I'd love to do that,” I said. “But I can only stay an hour.”

“And how much would that be?”

“Three hundred dollars each.”

By this point, I'd had enough conversations with the other girls to understand that there was no rule against lining up our own clients in our free time, and that it was actually very easy to meet a man in a bar in Vegas and get him to pay for sex. But because these men often hadn't planned in advance for the experience, they usually weren't willing, or able, to pay our normal rates. That didn't matter to me at all, nor did the fact that anyone I met on my own would not have been vetted by the service to ensure that he was likely to be safe, well behaved, and not a cop.

Within ten minutes of having met them, I was upstairs in their room, making sure both men felt included in the fun. We had just barely started to run longer than the agreed-upon hour when my disposable phone began to buzz. The message from Bob read: “Where are you, my dear?”
Oh, shit.
Here I was, naked in a hotel room with two other men. “I'm in the casino,” I quickly wrote. “I'll be right there.”

I threw my phone back into my purse, scrambled to find my clothes, which were scattered around the room, and pulled them on as quickly as I could.

“What are you doing?” they called out, not ready for the fun to end.

“You don't understand,” I said. “I have a client. He's paid me for the full day.”

“No, no, stay!” they exclaimed again and again, trying to convince me.

“You don't understand,” I said again. “I have to go.”

They finally gave in and paid me the money we had agreed upon, and I gave them my number.

I ran to the elevator and got myself back to Bob as quickly as I could, breathless and buzzed on the adventure and danger of it all, very pleased with myself. Now that I was Kelly, I made my own rules.

After dinner and a few more hours in bed, Bob was ready to go to sleep. He'd given me my own room in the suite for the night, which was nice. I was glad to have my own space because I was far too wired to even think about sleep. I was watching television when my phone buzzed.

“Come on, sneak out. Just sneak out. Another friend wants to meet you, too.”

It was the guys from earlier. At that point, I would have much rather been out with them than with Bob, who'd gone to bed far too early for me and the fun, crazy night I'd wanted to have, but I knew better. I let them down gently and finally fell asleep. Living on the edge had finally worn me out.

I HAD ONE MORE APPOINTMENT
on this trip, and it was one I was particularly excited for because it was my first threesome with a couple as an escort. The couple was celebrating their twelfth wedding anniversary. Given how life changing my own anniversary threesome had been, I wanted to make sure theirs was just as great.

When I got to Steve and Lois's room at the Palazzo, I was thrilled. They were a good-looking couple, and since I was now being totally open with myself about my attraction to women, I knew this would be fun. But when we sat down to
have drinks and get to know each other a bit more, I could tell that this threesome had completely been his idea, and he'd had to talk her into it. Lois had only gone along with the idea because she loved her husband. I set about putting her at ease.

“So you're celebrating your twelfth wedding anniversary,” I said, looking directly at her with as much warmth as I could. “That's quite an accomplishment.”

“Yes, twelve years,” she said. “He's the love of my life.”

“You don't look old enough,” I said.

“Well, we are,” she said. “We have five kids.”

“There's no way you've had five kids,” I teased her. “What are you, an aerobics instructor?”

“No, I'm a teacher,” she said, giggling. “We're both teachers.”

I was glad to see her start to relax, and I took this as a cue to kiss her. When my lips first touched hers, I could feel her tense up, but then she gave in to the pleasure of the sensation and her body began to open on me. I did even more to put all the focus on her and allow her to ease into, and even embrace, this experience. Only, whereas my husband had held back during our threesome, sacrificing his own pleasure for mine, Steve did not take the same approach. He kept trying to insert himself between the two of us. It was nearly impossible to focus on her with him controlling everything, but I did my best. Even so, there was a moment during the session when she had had enough. She pulled away because he was paying more attention to me than to her on their anniversary. As soon as our time was up, I stood to gather my things. Steve abruptly went into the other room to get dressed, leaving her alone on the bed in a sea of rumpled sheets. She watched him
leave and then hurried into the bathroom. I could see that she was crying. I'd wanted so much for her to enjoy the experience, and I felt terrible that I hadn't favored her as much as I should have, because I'd let him take charge. Her tears shook me—I didn't want to drive a dagger into their relationship, even if it hadn't really been my fault—and I vowed to never let this happen again. I had to be in control and focus on the woman, no matter what the husband did. I hurried in to her, her makeup smearing as her tears fell.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “What's wrong?”

“This is our twelfth wedding anniversary, and this isn't the way I planned our night to go,” she choked out. “I never planned to have this threesome and be doing this on my anniversary.”

I felt awful. This had clearly been his gift to himself, and in turn, it had ruined the night for her. I tried to cheer her up, but it didn't help matters when he came into the room, already dressed and whistling. He ignored her tears and continued to focus his attention on me.

“I'll walk you down,” he said.

I looked over at her, feeling terrible, but my time was up, and I didn't see anything I could do about their marriage. I gave her a hug and dressed quickly.

“That was incredible,” he said.

I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, wondering how he could be so indifferent to his wife's pain. It was clear he was having the same reaction I'd had to my first threesome. I was glad he'd at least enjoyed it, but I still felt terrible.

“It was, wasn't it?” I said.

When we were alone in the elevator, he leaned in close to me.

“Give me your number,” he said. “I want to see you again as soon as possible.”

I was guessing he meant without his wife, but I knew, as much as I wanted to help, it was really no business of mine. I gave him Kelly's number.

When I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I was given a list of common symptoms. It was like reading a description of my recent personality: hypersensitivity, talking a mile a minute, delusions, unpredictable mood swings, irritability, little need for sleep, racing thoughts, grandiosity, spending sprees. But none of the symptoms resonated for me more than this one: increased sex drive. And not only that, but a tendency toward risky sexual behavior with potentially dire consequences, along with all the other self-destructive activities engaged in by those with bipolar disorder. Up until that moment, it had been so hard for me to explain how I could have ended up working as a high-end escort in Las Vegas, not only to my family and friends and the public at large, but also to myself. No matter how depressed or stuck or unsatisfied I felt in my old life, how had I ended up acting out as dramatically and provocatively as I had? Suddenly, it was all clear. It wasn't Suzy who'd decided to become an escort in Vegas and thrived in this new hypersexual reality. It was bipolar disorder. It was the disease that brought me there and kept me there even when the risks to myself, and to my family, mounted and mounted. While I fully support my friends who still work as escorts and all the women who choose to be sex workers, and I have no shame about what I've done, understanding my own behavior has been crucial for me. It has not only allowed me to make sense of what I've done, but also, it's helped me to truly forgive myself for the pain I caused my family
with my behavior. I have also come to realize that, while the life of an escort is not appropriate for me, I believe two consenting adults should be free to exchange sex for money, and so I cannot pretend to feel ashamed for having done something I don't think is wrong, just because it is taboo in our culture. That is my greatest hope for this book, to put an end to shame. And especially that anyone who suffers from bipolar disorder—or has a loved one who does—can finally set down the burden of shame related to any of the behaviors caused by the illness, or the illness itself, and finally focus on getting healthy and celebrating the many different ways there are to share our gifts with the world.

W
hen we got back to Madison, we returned to our new habit of staying out of each other's way. We were basically living in a marriage of convenience. Mark had come to realize that saying anything to me about my trips to Vegas or my behavior at home meant chaos, and chaos was something he did not want. He was considering everything from leaving me to telling someone about my double life, but he could not bring himself to do either. Trapped, he chose to cover, enable, protect Kylie and the business, and hope for the best, praying I'd eventually snap out of it and realize the recklessness of my activities. I stayed with Mark because he was my husband, and it seemed
like maybe I really could have everything. We were married for the sake of being married, for the sake of our daughter, our parents, the business, and because we didn't believe in divorce, except as a very last resort. And so we both resigned ourselves to the reality as it was and realized we could actually live this way.

In a weird way, we were both getting everything we needed to get by. I was happier than I'd maybe ever been. And at that moment, Mark just wanted to work. Plus, he had Kylie. His family. In many ways, I realized, we were like the clients I was seeing. They wanted to stay married, so they stepped out in secret with an escort in order to avoid jeopardizing their marriage. We wanted to stay married, so we made an unspoken agreement to just do our thing.

By this time, I had enough regulars to justify a longer stay in Vegas. Even though spring was finally starting to show itself in Madison, my weeks there in snowy, frigid March had felt endless. And I was instantly ecstatic as soon as I landed in Vegas for my April visit, one of the monthly trips I was making to Vegas by this point. I'd texted my dates to Roger, a high-ranking military officer who was a favorite client now. He was my first for the weekend. He'd made a point to see me twice each of the two weekends I'd been with him before, in February and March, so by our fifth appointment, he really was beginning to seem like an old friend. Only this time, he surprised me, showing me that the life of an escort never exactly becomes routine. I strolled into his suite, kissed him hello, stripped down, and sat on the edge of his bed, always captivated by the view of the Strip, no matter how many times
I saw it. Instead of coming over to me, he went to the closet and paused for a moment. I looked at him curiously. The next thing I knew, he pulled out a long light gray fur coat.

“Why don't you go try it on?” he said.

“Thank you,” I said, rubbing the coat against my bare skin.

I knew exactly what he had in mind, and I removed my bra and panties before sliding on the coat and letting it hang seductively open. I couldn't help but think of his mother, with her glamorous dresses and fur coats, who he'd told me about during all of our visits. It had become pretty obvious that the escorts he saw were filling some void for him, a void left behind when his mother died. I tried not to think much beyond that—if he was attracted to his mother I didn't need to know about it. I could tell he was in a lot of pain over her absence, and if this could make him feel better, I was happy to help.

When I modeled the coat for him, he was visibly excited, and he had me wear the coat for the rest of our time together. When I was getting ready to leave, he tried to pull me onto his lap to watch porn. I knew better.

“I'd love to stay, but I have another appointment,” I lied.

“But I don't want you to go,” he said, sounding like a cranky child.

“I don't want to go, either,” I said. “But I have to. You know I can't be late.”

“Can I see you tomorrow?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said. “Just text me.”

I was back in the clothes I'd worn to the appointment, and I turned to go, leaving the coat on the foot of the bed.

“The coat's for you,” he said.

“Oh, wow, thank you,” I said.

I pulled the coat back on with a dramatic flair, like it was the best gift I'd ever received, and gave him one last kiss before closing the door behind me. Once outside in the hallway, waiting for an elevator, I slid the coat off. I'd never been a big fan of fur, and it was already too hot in Vegas to wear it out on the Strip. But the extravagant gift was all that mattered.

I'd realized that most of the guys didn't need the incentive of an extra-long session to inspire them to write positive reviews. All I had to do was ask. I soon had my twenty reviews I'd needed to get ranked, and I was number two in Las Vegas. This was a huge thrill, and a sign for me that I'd made the right career choice. As far as I was concerned, this was as good as it could get. I knew number one, a voluptuous blonde in her thirties I'd been hired to do a threesome with. Her claim to fame was that she could come five times (or fake it five times, not that the guys knew the difference). She was gorgeous, incredibly sweet, and a total pro. I understood why all her clients loved her, and I knew I would never exceed her. This wasn't exactly easy for me to reconcile with my extremely competitive nature, but it helped some when I read my own client reviews like this one: “She is worth every penny. I will go bankrupt before I stop seeing her. I hope no one else goes to see her, because I want her all to myself. I never thought I would find anyone in this hobby like her.” Then I learned that being number two in Vegas meant being number nine in the world. I hadn't even known they had world rankings. How
was that even possible? Perhaps the biggest perk, though, was when Bridget informed me by text that my rate had just gone up to six hundred dollars an hour, of which the service would continue to get twenty percent, a fee I delivered to them every time I visited Vegas.

My trip to Vegas in June that year was just like the rest, and like all the previous trips, I loved every minute of it. From the time spent spray-tanning and getting my nails done, the conversations with bartenders I knew at the bars I frequented, and lunches with the girls who had become friends, I was in my element. I had worked and socialized enough with my fellow escorts to know that some, not the majority of them, could be extremely jealous and catty. But some impressed me with their success and power, much in the same way my clients did. I became friends with one woman who was a successful lawyer but enjoyed escorting so much that she flew into Vegas once a month to see a few exclusive clients. It was so fun to talk shop with these women, as they got the ups and downs of the job better than anyone else. One day in June I sat at the bar at Mandalay Bay, having lunch with my friend Lilly. We'd done a couple threesomes and had become pals.

“Do you live in Vegas?” I asked.

“Yeah, I do,” she said. “You?”

“No, I live with my husband in the Midwest,” I said. “I fly in a few times a month to see my regulars.”

“Oh yeah, like who?” she asked.

I tried to think of my regulars who I knew saw other girls, too.

“Roger,” I said. “He's in the military. I see him every time.”

“Oh, yeah, I've seen him,” she said. “Did he give you a fur coat?”

“Yeah, he did,” I said, laughing.

“Me, too,” she said, laughing as well.

From the beginning, escorting had seemed so normal to me, and it was a relief to talk to someone else who thought the lifestyle was normal, too. We ran through our lists of regulars without coming up with any other matches. And then, for some reason, I mentioned an Asian American guy I'd seen once.

“You saw him?” she exclaimed. “I saw him, too! He was so small, tiny.”

We both cracked up laughing. I felt horrible, but I couldn't help myself.

“I know, I felt so sorry for him,” I said. “He was so nice. I tried to make sure he had a really nice time even though . . .”

“I know, I felt bad for him, too,” she said.

Not that nothing out of the ordinary happened. It's just that even the most outrageous behavior was becoming even more the norm for me. Threesomes were common, whether I was hired by a couple or hired with another girl from the same service. Sometimes I was hired with more than one other girl, like the time three of us were called in for a pool party at the adult pool at Mandalay Bay by a businessman who wanted to impress his clients, or the time four of us were brought in for four businessmen who had the suite at the MGM with its own private pool. There was the strip club addict, who took me out with him to watch girls dance and then got a lap dance right in front of me. The veteran
who'd been shot in the stomach during the Iraq War and was overjoyed by our session because he hadn't known if he would be able to have an orgasm. The short Spaniard in town for the Electric Daisy Festival, a rave held at the Motor Speedway, who tripped on ecstasy during our session. The young professional golfer whose girlfriend liked to have threesomes but didn't know he was having an appointment with me. The even younger poker pro who'd just won his first big Vegas tournament and hired me to teach him about sex because he was being approached by lots of women now that he was rich and he didn't know what to do.

Even when things got dicey, I wasn't fazed in the least. I was usually very careful not to leave any of my belongings unattended or behind, especially not anything that could reveal my true identity. These were among the tips I'd learned from the other girls. I didn't bring my driver's license with me to appointments because men had been known to go through escorts' purses when they were in the bathroom. I paid attention to any computers visible in the room and casually threw a piece of clothing over them, just to make sure the guy wasn't secretly filming. I was a pro now—I had the whole thing down. I couldn't believe it when I accidentally left my iPad in the room of a client who I had picked up at a bar. Luckily, I was staying at the same hotel as him, and so when I got back to my room and realized what I'd done, I was able to quickly run over and knock on his door. He only had it in his possession for maybe three minutes, at the most. And when he gave it
back to me, he acted casual, as if he hadn't even noticed it was in his room. But sure enough, the next day, he sent a note to my personal e-mail address. This was the third man to have found out who I was. The previous month, a regular who'd also gone to the University of Wisconsin had recognized me. And still, I wasn't concerned.