I could see myself reflected in the golden elevator doors and I smirked at myself. Behind me, I could see the expensive marble floor, the impressive (if a little gauche) Corinthian columns, and the gilded trim that was stretched around the perimeter of the lobby. Everything, including me, had a slightly gold-metallic tinge from the reflection, giving everything the impression of being made of money. I really couldn't help but sneer at myself; I looked so perfect from that perspective; like I belonged.
What I mean by that is that I looked like money, like self-consciously ostentatious cash. I looked like the sort of vulgar power, elegance, and sophistication that this place was trying to cultivate. That the men who lived here wanted to associate themselves with. I was wearing my most expensive pair of black, five-inch stiletto heels that ran a couple of inches up my calves. Those calves were quite shapely (a favorite feature) and, while they looked bronze in the reflection of the elevator, were actually the sort of sophisticated pale white that I cultivated all over my body. Tans are nice for some people, I guess. But tans turns to wrinkles and can be uneven. Soft, creamy white skin lasts longer and has a timeless appeal. And it fit perfectly now, in the dead of a New York winter.
Above calves were several inches of exposed skin. Despite the cold, I was wearing a rather short (but by no means slutty) dress that fell a few inches above my thin knees. The dress itself was a simple, dark blue affair that hugged my figure like a second skin. To that end, it tapered out as it ran up my thighs and then flared widely at my hips. I could not see it, but I knew that my most commented-upon feature, my large, round, but toned, ass was rising like a helium balloon behind my back. From my hips, the dress narrowed down to my narrow waist. I spent a good deal of time keeping this particular feature fit and trim, making sure that the sudden contraction from my hips to my waist was particularly dramatic. From the narrowest part of my waist, the dress tapered back up to my chest.
This dress was selected, in part, because of the way in which it accentuated my breasts. It fit so tightly and held me up firmly. Further it had a low, swooping round neck. A couple of inches of cleavage were exposed from my C-cup breasts and the full round shape of them was clearly visible. Between my breasts was the large pendant of a gold necklace, some sort of precious stone polished to a perfect shine. My breasts were not quite as wide as my hips, giving me a slightly off-balanced hourglass look. My shoulders were covered by my coat (a thick, fur item that fit the false-elegant theme), but it was possible to see the short sleeves of the dress. I knew that deep in the sleeves of my coat were my narrow, delicate arms and long, thin fingers. There were expensive bracelets and rings and on my hand (not too many, just the right amount to be a little trashy).
Regardless, growing up out of the top of the dress was my long, elegant throat. My oval face was rested above that perch. I had a strong, but feminine chin sitting below thick, deep red lips. I knew that beneath those wide lips were perfectly straight, white teeth, but they weren't visible through my smirk. I had a small, slightly upturned pixie nose and wide, desperately gray eyes. My ears were quite small and large earrings hung from them. I knew that my face had a somewhat severe, icy beauty that made me look intelligent and intimidating. My hair was silky, full and impossibly black. It hung down loose halfway across my back and laid slightly across my eyes, giving me a mischievous air. The whole package was around 5'3 tall (not counting the heels) and a little over a hundred pounds (I'll never tell exactly how little).
I suppose that the only thing that threw off the vision was that, over my right shoulder and in the distance, I could see the doorman behind his small desk. He was looking at me, ill-concealed disgust on his face. It was roughly the same look that the driver who had picked me up and was waiting outside for me had provided when he opened the door and let me in. I guess they knew why I was there.
My beautifully maintained body split in half and I looked into the elevator. I looked briefly over my shoulder at the doorman. I slipped my long red tongue out from between my lips. I ran it along the thick length of my lips and winked at the doorman. He looked slightly flustered and turned away. But I didn't pay attention to what he did next. I turned back to the elevator and stepped inside.
Well, fuck the doorman. But he was right. He knew what I was doing here (had seen me here many times, in fact) and apparently didn't approve of it. That was fine by me. A callgirl can't afford thin skin. And at the age of 25, I was more than a veteran at this and barely even thought of the moral aspects of my work anymore.
Hell, I guess I've never really thought about the moral aspect of my work. I started this when I was 18 years old, fresh out of high school. I had absolutely no interest in college or the military or a job of any kind. My family never really gave two shits what I did. They had important lives (or so they thought) and didn't really have any time for me when I was growing up. They'd pissed away the money they'd inherited from my grandmother and weren't really interested in bankrolling me while I lived the same kind of pointless lives that they lived. But I knew I liked nice things, I wanted money, I was sexy and I liked fucking. Day after graduation, I put up an ad on Craiglist and the rest was history.
Some girls like to mythologize their first time, to build it up into some sort of terrible, horrible, wonderful event. I can remember talking to some of them. They'd cry. They'd describe every little detail. They would talk about the way it made them feel. It was like a made-for-TV movie. Lifetime: I was a Craigslist call girl. That wasn't my style. I had fucked before my first time getting paid. There were only two differences between normal sex and callgirl sex: I had to pretend it was good even when it was shit and I got paid. A little acting was well worth the paycheck. Guys would pay a premium for a young girl, right out of high school. I'd wear my brother's letter jacket when I gave a blowjob. Johns got a real kick out of it.
I didn't stay on Craiglist long. That was only a half-step up from being a junkie on the street in my opinion. I guess it was other girls who helped me out. You get numbers and contact information from a girl you got to know (in one way or another) when she couldn't work. You call or text a guy and say, "I am Mary's friend, she said we'd get along. How'd you like to go on a date?" He'd know what that meant and set something up. Eventually, I got together what I called my "stable." A collection of stalwart regulars who always paid, didn't hit, and I knew were clean (both in terms of disease and legal trouble). Sometimes a new guy would slip in for a date, but I relied on my regulars.
And date is the correct term, I truly believe that. I was young, I was good looking, and I created the illusion of class that sophisticated Johns wanted. Glamor, I guess would be the most accurate word. And the guys expected it to kind of be like a date. It wasn't like Craiglist stuff and it wasn't like what I heard about street girls. This wasn't some 15-minute thing where I didn't have to pretend that I cared, just let a guy lay into me. They paid enough to deserve my interest and my charm. I dressed up nice, I smiled broadly, I laughed at the jokes. For a lot of guys, this was the major appeal. Most of them weren't exactly good-looking guys (not that I cared, do you care if your boss is good-looking?) and they wanted people to look at me fawning over him and think "what is that guys deal? He must be rich or interesting or something." The fact that he got to fuck me, for some guys, was secondary. Though, I think they all liked that they could fuck me whenever they wanted to. The sureness of the sure thing with a hot young girl was more important than the thing, if you catch my meaning.
So it was a little bit of acting on my part, pretending like I was truly enamored with whatever guy I was with that night (or that part of the night, I sometimes had two or even three dates in a night). But the payoff was great. I don't just mean the money (though that was excellent). I got more out of it than that. No, not fulfillment, don't think that I am getting sentimental about this. I got gifts (Johns loved to give an expensive gift in public. More Johns thought they were Richard Gere than hookers thought they were Julia Roberts), I went to all of the best restaurants, the most exclusive clubs, I had the best drugs.
Although, on that last point, I always tried to be careful. Look, anyone who doesn't get out of the business eventually ends up a streetwalker. That is the nature of the business. If you suck dick until you're 50, no one wants to pay real money for you and if you want to keep doing it, you have to do it on the streets. Unless you got some gimmick. I understood that, I knew I couldn't do it forever. But I also knew that the fastest way to the bottom of the rung was drugs. Heroin was especially bad in the circles I ran in, but I knew from stories about girls with meth or crack problems too.
Certain girls aren't cut out for this business. They need to make themselves numb to do what they need to do. I get it. I needed to be numb too, but I was able to do it organically. To divorce myself from my feelings internally. Some girls needed heroin. I guess that meth made some girls super horny, into any kind of thing the John got into. That made it possible for them to keep working. I stayed away from that stuff, I knew that if you start doing drugs just so you can do your job, pretty soon you are doing your job just so you can get the drugs. So I never got too hard into anything. A little coke every once in a while, pills other times. Never enough to really form a habit. Though I admit, by 25 sometimes I need a little bump before I hit the circuit for the night. When I was walking into the elevator, I still had a little bit of a buzz going.
I guess I had been a little tired that night, before I had gotten myself all coifed and ready. I wasn't really thinking about it consciously, but I guess I knew I was getting a little long in the tooth for this life. At 25, most of the girls I came up with were out of the life, strung out, in jail, or dead. Not many girls kept their looks and their interest as long as I did.
Some of it, I guess, was that I didn't mind the job that much. I mean my 18-year-old thought that I liked fucking, so why not get paid for it had long since faded. I didn't really know if I liked fucking anymore. I didn't hate it for sure. But it was just a job. I didn't get involved in the whole morality thing. I never really gave a shit about whether I was doing something fulfilling. Most jobs aren't. But most jobs also pay shit. And I guess that was the real reason I was still doing this. The reason that I spent a lot of hours (and a lot of money) every week at gyms and salons and boutiques was because it was an investment in the business of my body. And that business was still paying out handsomely. I was a skilled worker, I demanded top-flight payment.
