I'm a call girl. Different from a prostitute, I don't stand out on the street corner and just pickup anyone. My men are prescreened and rich. Most times, I don't even have sex with them. Sometimes, they just want to be seen with someone like me. As a family doctor is a general practitioner, you could say that I'm a specialist. Oh, yeah, definitely, I'm special.
I got the call that Bob, his real name, needed an eye candy escort to a swanky private party. Because Bob is a wealthy venture capitalist, I was given the call. My name is Christine. Tall, blonde, buxom, and beautiful, I was once a Texas beauty queen.
After a failed marriage with a supposed New York talent agent and a failed attempt at an acting career in Hollywood, you could say that I do a different form of acting for an audience of only one at a time. Now, instead of pretending to have sex on screen, I have sex for real for money, a lot of money.
I earn more in a weekend aboard a private yacht than a typical prostitute earns in a year. Why would someone pay me five thousand, twenty-five thousand, fifty-thousand, a hundred thousand and more to be with me for an hour, a day, a weekend, or a week? First of all, they can afford it. The money is of no consequence to them. Many of my clients are rich, super rich. They pay more to take their friends to a wine and champagne dinner than they do for an hour with me.
Secondly, I'm hot. Lastly, I'm good at what I do. I give them whatever sexual pleasure they want. I give them whatever erotic and exotic fix they need. I give them a lasting memory that makes them call me back for an encore.
You can think of me as dessert, if you'd like. Yeah, I like that. Think of me as white chocolate, only diary, sugar, and glucose free. I'm a zero calorie, high maintenance kind of woman. I'm sweet, non fattening, and delicious enough to eat. Better than an ice cream sundae after a meal, I'm the real deal happy ending. If I can't put a smile on your face, then you're either gay or dead.
He had already paid my fee upfront, twenty-five thousand dollars for four hours, from 8pm to midnight. No sex. He just needed someone to be clinging on to him, hanging on his arm and to be all over him and acting as if we were lovers. I needed to pretend that he was my stud of a man.
He wanted to have someone to have cocktails with, while having them make witty and intelligent conversation. It was important that he'd have someone sitting with him at dinner and have a nightcap with him later on the veranda that overlooks the city. Eager to show me off, he wanted us to be noticed together. He wanted a certain someone to see him with me and for her to know that he could get someone like me.
Some men hire me to make their ex-wives or ex-girlfriends jealous. Bob hired me to get the attention of a woman he had wanted, desired, and lusted over, actually. He pointed out his target, an attractive albeit forgettable woman in her late thirties. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe I had met her somewhere before. I meet a lot of people in my line of business. Only, unless they are paying customers, I don't generally pay as much attention to the women as I do to the men.
She looked like a dolled up housewife or someone's mother to me. Yeah, definitely, she could have been someone's soccer mom. Upon a closer look, she looked so ordinary, plain even. There was nothing special about her. She had not one feature that stood out, really. I mean, you can put anyone in an expensive gown and do their hair and makeup, and they'd look halfway decent.
For whatever reason, he was apparently enamored with her. Why, I don't know. He confided that they'd be a good match, since she was available and just as wealthy as he was.
"What does she do?" I asked wondering how someone like her had accumulated that much money. I figured she married into it or inherited it. I figured she was a Daddy's little girl in the way that homely Paris Hilton was or had inherited a huge fortune in the way that the even homelier Tori Spelling had.
"What does she do?" He looked at me disbelievingly.
"Yeah, where'd she get all her money?"
"She's an actress," he said trying to read me to see if I was kidding him that I didn't know who she was.
"Oh," I said looking at her again.
Now it made sense, the reason she looked familiar to me. I must have seen her in a movie. Only I couldn't place her. Maybe she was a child actress.
"There's just something about her that drives me wild," he said, while staring over at her and looking the other way, every time she looked over at us.
"Now that I look at her again, she looks a little like Jennifer Aniston," I said finally, pleased that she noticed me with him and happy that I fulfilled my end of the bargain. "Only, Jennifer is prettier."
"It's funny you should say that," said Bob with a little laugh. He was a man about three inches shorter than my 5'9" height without wearing my heels and with me in my 3" heels, I dwarfed him. "A lot of people think she looks a little like Jennifer Aniston," he said taking a sip of his double olive martini. "Probably because she is," he said with a chuckle.
"She is? You're kidding. That's Jennifer Aniston?" I looked at him. "You're not kidding. That is her," I said looking over at her again.
She didn't look anything how I envisioned a movie star should look. Not that she was a huge movie star, but she certainly had her successes, along with her flops, and she had enough of a fan base, mostly men, that Hollywood still paid her in the high seven figures to star in a movie.
Just nudging 5'7" tall with her 2" heels, she was shorter than how I imagined her to be and thinner. She was once Brad Pitt's wife. Wow. Now that I see her in person, is it any wonder why he left her for Angelina Jolie.
I wondered how she got him in the first place. Maybe she sucks a good cock. Jennifer looked too plain and not as glamorous as Angelina can look. She looked too much like the girl next door and I wondered if they had married just to boost one another's careers.
An agent's dream, sometimes prearranged marriages of stars can launch them both to superstardom, as it did with Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, and, perhaps, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. Now with the skyrocket successes of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, maybe Jennifer Aniston needs to find another famous man to marry to reignite her career and take her to the next level. Come to think of it, I can see her with George Clooney. Only, George likes the younger women.
Still, looking very slinky in the midnight blue chiffon gown she wore, she was super skinny. Only, compared to me, she looked ordinary, almost. She was dull in contrast when I was shiny. She disappeared in a room, when I lit it up. Why would someone like Brad and Bob and all the other celebrity boyfriends and lovers she's had want someone who looked like her? To each his own, I guess.
"That's her in the flesh," he said breathing out the words breathlessly, as if he was having sex with her already.
