Memoir of an Escort

Last night was a fucking adventure; I have to write it all out. My first call of the night, I met a sexy and charming older guy, Adam, (maybe fifty, but in great shape) in the bar in the gorgeous, marbled lobby of the Dan Hilton. He said he would get a room if I insisted but that he had a lovely beach house not far away and that it would be lots more fun there. He told me I was beautiful, just his type, with a sexy mouth, and would I accept American dollars? He paid $600 right there in the lounge, before I even agreed, discreetly slipping it to me as he leaned forward and lightly kissed my neck. He was obviously intelligent and classy, confident and sexy. The level of clientele could go very high in this business; there was Showli, a couple of MK's, captains of industry, and visiting celebrities. With this man, it was clear that money wasn't an issue; he wanted to show off his beach house. He was so attractive, he smelled good and was very persuasive but I was a bit worried, the office wouldn't know where I was, they always counselled against this type of thing, and yet something in me just said, go for it.

So, after I call the office from the lobby and tell them it's a go, we get into his car (a big beautiful all-terrain vehicle open to the sky); he takes off, and we leave the city, heading south. He drives and drives, I try to keep track of where we are but it's pretty hopeless. We're passing joints in the bouncing jeep or whatever it is, laughing, the radio's tuned to The Voice of Peace, which broadcasts off a ship in the Mediterranean, they play the best mix of music, we're singing along, it's fun, and he's so good-looking. Something in the fragrant Israeli night air is so seductive, so sensual; it makes you excited to be alive. I'm already feeling aroused. Every now and then, he touches my bare thigh (I'm wearing a mini skirt), giving me little shivers. His hand is brown and strong looking, very sexy. Now this is my idea of a good client; I much prefer the better class of customer, despite the fact that the encounter usually takes longer and is more challenging. I'm sure that I won't want any other customers tonight; after such a charming and intelligent man, I couldn't face a lowlife or a crass adolescent.

He turns off the main highways, we're on unpaved gravel now, and the road starts to get dark. He shuts off the radio and it's suddenly quiet.

"So where's this beach house of yours, Adam?"

"How do you know there truly is a beach house?" My heart starts banging in my chest; a sharp sting of fear piercing me. I am silent and he goes on. "You know, you seem like a bright girl, and yet here you are, doing something so very stupid. You don't know me and you're at my mercy. My name's not Adam by the way, you don't know me from Adam." I glance quickly at him but he's not smiling.

"Right, you're actually Jack the Ripper." I say lightly. I inhale deeply on my cigarette, thinking fast, smoking nervously.

"As I said, you seem bright and yet you're doing something so stupid. Working as a call-girl is already not that smart, fairly dangerous, that's one thing, but leaving the safe hotel in the bright city and coming with me, a complete stranger, to the middle of nowhere, that's really stupid. I'm not a regular client of your service, you don't know who I am, and, think about it for a minute; I could just rape you right now, take back my $600, even kill you if I want to, and then leave you here in the dunes for the seagulls' breakfast."

I freeze. I feel my heart thumping hard and fast.

He had said this so matter-of-factly that it sounded like a possible, even reasonable, course of events.

I look around. We are indeed off the main roads and driving through the sand dunes on the beach. I can smell the sea but I can't tell in which direction it is; it would help me orient myself. The moonlight is bright but everything seems so deserted. It doesn't look like there could be a beach house or any type of dwelling anywhere nearby.

I smoke my cigarette, glad to have it to serve as a weapon if needed, albeit a wimpy one. My mind is racing. What to do? He was driving too fast for me to consider jumping out. Maybe he was one of those who liked to scare women for fun – what is it with men who enjoy scaring women? Should I play along?

I smile at him, summoning any charm I can muster, what with my stomach churning and my pulse flying. I feel like I might throw up any minute but instead I put my hand on his thigh and say flippantly, "Oh, I'm a pretty good judge of character, you know, I have to be, in my line of work. I can tell you're a decent guy." I open my purse, ostensibly to fix my makeup but I'm thinking of my nail file and my keys, which might serve as more effective weapons.

He looks at me. It's too dark to see his eyes but even so, hejust doesn't' strike me as crazy or violent; there is no trace of it on his handsome face, although I know people can switch in seconds. The worrisome thing is that he hasn't smiled once since he started this crazy conversation.

"I mean it, " he says. "Look how vulnerable you are. Even if your office gave a damn, and I hope you're not so naïve to think they do, I mean, let's face it, they don't, they're not going to make waves if you disappeared, they wouldn't even report you missing, and they wouldn't even know you were missing until tomorrow night, right, I mean, they can't reach you, we're not at the hotel and really, THEY HAVE NO IDEA WHERE YOU ARE. YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHERE YOU ARE." He doesn't scream the last words but he emphasizes them in such a way that they resonate in my head.

My fingers close on the nail file. My heart is racing, beating so loudly that I am sure he can hear it.

"You're scared now. I can feel it."

He stops the car and, in a rough voice, tells me to get out. We really are in the middle of nowhere, among a cluster of small sand dunes. I brace myself, holding the nail file in my left palm, but at the same time I'm thinking, Right, like I've got a chance against a fit man who served in the Israeli Defence Forces, and does reserves like everyone else here, like he couldn't deck me in two seconds. I should learn Karate or something, I should get myself a gun and learn how to shoot, I should...

Then he tells me to walk ahead of him while he directs me left here, right there. I'm getting even more disoriented but I notice the smell of the sea is getting stronger, and I start to hear the waves rolling on the shore; we are heading west, towards the ocean. There is no other sound; there are no cars or people anywhere, no sign of life. My heart starts to bang faster and I contemplate pleading for my life. I could never outrun him, that's for sure.

Suddenly, thank goodness, as I crest a larger dune I come upon an unbelievable sight: just beneath me, a few hundred metres away, is a beautiful house, made of stone, glass, and marble, designed with bold architectural flourish. There are entire walls of glass, gardens on the roof, and at one side, chunky grey stones and steps leading to a large deep green pool. The black ocean is steps away. And, even though we are on the sandy beach, the garden is cultivated like an oasis, with large palm trees bearing huge dates, with papaya, mango, and guava trees that fill the air with the sweetest, headiest scents, and a wild profusion of colourful flowers. The garden and pool are discreetly lit up and it's breathtakingly lovely. In the ocean, far away, I see the twinkling lights of Abby Natan's ship The Voice of Peace.

I am so relieved I almost cry; although he still might be a kook, he hadn't lied about the house and I begin to doubt there will be any violence.

We enter the house through glass doors that lead straight to a large kitchen and without a word he serves up cold drinks. No alcohol for me, and I watch him open sealed bottles of juice and pour them into chunky green glasses. We drink, walking through the spacious hall of the main floor, with its high cathedral ceiling, to the sunken living room facing the ocean. There are colourful paintings on the granite walls, buttery leather furniture, and colossal desert plants at every turn. I still have the nail file in one hand, although I am feeling a little more relaxed, trying to stay casual despite the affluence and beauty all around me. I note the location of the telephone. I finish my drink and put it down, not knowing what to expect. He still hasn't spoken. He takes the glasses and goes back to the kitchen.

I turn my back and look out though the glass doors at the rolling waves, just outside, and the lights of ships flickering on the black sea, including The Voice of Peace.

"You're a sexy woman and I've been rock-hard for you since I first saw you in the hotel, so let's not waste any more time, " I hear him say, suddenly right behind me, breathing into my ear.

His arms are around me, his hands running up my waist, along my breasts. I feel his lips on my neck. "This first one's for me, I'll take good care of you later, " he whispers in his deep voice and, before I know it, he bends me forward over the back of the sofa, lifts my short skirt, actually tears my panties right off, forcefully spreads my legs with his strong hands, and swiftly slips two long fingers inside me. I am surprised at how excited and wet I am, after all that fear and tension in the jeep, but he is the one who moans when he feels my wetness inside. Then, without another word or a kiss, he unbuckles his jeans and smoothly enters me. He rolls his hips and starts fucking me. I drop the nail file.

Afterwards, we go for a skinny dip in the green pool, under the stars, which are low and bright and numerous in the black sky. He plays some lovely music which I don't recognize and I don't bother asking him to identify because I'm too busy kissing him, he is fondling my breasts, twisting my nipples in the warm water. I feel his hands slide up my thigh, then gently stroke the skin of my inner thighs, moving upwards, softly spreading the lips open. I moan against his mouth. He is such a good lover, what a bonus; money and pleasure.

He offers up some lovely fresh fruits which we eat naked by the pool, sweet mango and guava juices dripping down our chins, we lick each other up, and after a cleansing shower (there was an outdoor stall made of marble and stone), we wrap ourselves in big soft towels and go up to his stunning bedroom. The ceiling was made of glass and actually slid open to the starry night sky. But I was too busy, because that's when he really made love to me, so slowly, so sweetly, so lovingly. Pinning my arms, he kissed me deeply, he suckled at my breasts, he nuzzled my neck, he stroked me gently everywhere, he did everything I loved while he rocked and rolled inside me. It was so good, I'd have paid him, I think.

The only down side was that, later, he lectured me, quite sternly, on safety and on never going anywhere with any client, no matter how decent they seemed. He said he had a daughter my age, that he was "in the police, " and that he came across many dead young women, killed in all kinds of ways. It would be such a waste.

I told him I didn't believe him, that he must be trying to scare me again. Police officers don't make the kind of money he had. But he said he was fairly high-ranking, the equivalent of some kind of regional commissioner or minister or something, and really, what the fuck do I know from police forces. Funny, he smoked up with me and he had a nice stash of delicious pot, but he also warned me about being very careful where I bought my hash. He said that, unlike in Montreal, where you could get hash or pot or even coke and acid from nice, middle-class kids working their way through college, in Israel only criminals dealt in drugs. He was very intelligent and sweet and respectful. And really so handsome: he had a chiselled jaw, short iron grey hair, light green eyes, and deeply tanned skin, with sexy lines running down his cheeks. His teeth were white and his smile was warm. He asked me to stay the night, said he'd double the $600. Of course I said yes. I could fall for a guy like this. But of course, he was married and classy, what would he want with a girl like me?

The rest of the night was amazing, though tiring; he didn't stop making love to me for hours. He wasn't there just for the fucking, if you know what I mean, he wanted to enjoy the whole package, sample the entire menu, if you will. So I earned every penny I made last night. I have to say, however, he ensured that I enjoyed myself. He went down on me for so long, and he was so good at it, I thought I would faint with pleasure, and then just the way he touched me everywhere, as if I were so precious and pure. When we finally decided to go to sleep in his king-sized bed, he snuggled with me so warmly and sweetly that, out of nowhere, I was overcome with sadness and, like a stupid fucking baby, started to cry. I cried hard, hiccupping and sobbing, for a while. I was embarrassed but he was cool. He didn't seem surprised,didn't ask me why, didn't tell me not to cry; he just nuzzled me even more and kissed me gently, on the forehead, over and over again, like a kind father, until I stopped. Finally,we slept.

In the morning, he had an erection and I thought he might want to make love again but he said I looked too young without makeup and anyway he didn't want to take advantage of me. Can you believe that? So instead, he made a sumptuous breakfast with all kinds of tropical fruits and lovely cheeses and breads. He even cooked up fluffy omelettes for both of us.And the coffee was heavenly. Everything was top quality,the food definitely and the lovely china, silverware, and linens we used. I relished every moment.

One of the nicest calls I ever had, and, luckily, he called for me many times after that, getting progressively kinkier each time. Great tipper.