Before I got my grown up job as a copywriter with Publicis Seattle, I was going to school full-time at the University of Washington and working as a bartender. I was paying for college with my GI Bill and didn’t have to live in my mother’s basement drinking alone and reading Harry Potter. I could do that in the confines of my own apartment, a fact I was incredibly proud of. Apparently, I shouldn’t be, though? My friend Becky (name changed for purposes of protecting her identity and my safety against being shivved as retribution) came to visit me at the Polar Bar and we began catching up. We went out for a cigarette and she said, “Can I tell you something? I mean, you have to take this to your grave.” Oops. Well, that’s the hazard of dating or being friends with a writer.
I nodded my head as she proceeded to explain how she was no longer teaching 2nd grade, but had ventured into the exciting world of being an escort. While in modern pornographic films this is an obvious vocational transition, in the real world this is a bit of a non sequitur.
“So, you’re a prostitute now?”
This, for some reason, offended her. She told me she was not a common hooker.
“So, you’re a high-class prostitute?”
She began to get frustrated with my apparent ignorance of her new line of work.
“I go on dates with rich, older men. I keep them company and they pay me for my services.”
Color me confused, but last I checked keeping old, rich guys company with your vagina and getting paid for it is prostitution. Here’s where the differences between street hookers and escorts becomes clear. A street hooker has the lady balls to say what she actually does. She continued to rave about her new job as if she were pitching it to me. Turns out she was.
“I can get you started, make some amazing money, you know? I’m trying to get a really amazing team.”
Was she trying to put together some kind of elite slut squad? When our vaginas combined we’d form Voltron? Swap out my black vodka splashed pants for some matching crotchless hooker pants? My answer, of course, was no. I was perfectly content where I was and though I had no clue where my dignity was, I hadn’t fallen to the point where I’d consider getting smacked in the face with old man balls for a condo in Madison Park.
As we were saying our good-byes she turned to me and said:
“You know, Anna, I come here and I just feel bad about seeing you in this place, you know? I’m ending my night with a few grand and staying in a huge condo. I really want to help get you out of this bar.” Wait. What the fuck? Did a hooker just talk down to me?
She winked and swiveled her hips all the way out the front doors. I just continued to stare blankly, my mouth agape. It felt like the first time I heard Kim Kardashian’s pop debut: horrifying and funny, but mostly just confusing.
I haven’t spoken to Becky in a couple years, but I hear she’s enjoying a mind-numbing addiction to cocaine. I’m glad she’s still living the dream.
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