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I grew up in central Russia. When I was little, I wanted to be a tour guide and see the world. Then a tour bus came through our town and it was small and stinky with no air conditioning. The tour guide had frizzy hair and sweat stains under her arms. I thought tour guides in the United States probably had it better.
I had the phone number of a Russian woman who had said she would host me. When I arrived at JFK, she told me to take the train to Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. I knew about it because in Russian movies it’s a place where you can buy smoked salmon and caviar and nice clothes, and where only people who really achieve can go. I felt lucky.
When I came out of the train station I saw all these ugly people, people in wheelchairs, old people, and the streets were smelly and the people were wearing clothes worse than what people wore in the Soviet Union and the train station was loud and I thought: Fuck, this is not the America that I heard of.
I spent four days there before I met a girl who said I could live with her in Manhattan. When I got there and looked around, I understood the fuss. I understood why all people want to come here.
I applied for jobs at restaurants and medical offices, but no one would hire me. I saw an ad for dancers and called. They picked me up in a truck filled with other young girls. There were a lot of drunken men at the club, trying to touch different parts of my body. I made $300 and decided I would never do that again. I answered another ad, to work in a Turkish cafe. The owner said, you don’t have to work: If you just let me fuck you, I’ll pay you. No thank you, I said. Actually, it was more like, fuck off, you stupid dude. I’d been in New York two weeks, but I was getting better at English.
Then I saw an ad about massage. It said I didn’t need experience and I could make up to $500 a day.
I stood in a room with another girl and when the guy came in and got undressed, I did what the other girl did, and rubbed his back and his legs. Then after 30 minutes the other girl got undressed, and I realized, “Oh, this is why I’m getting $100 an hour.” So I got undressed and we jerked him off.
I started working five days a week. After two months, the spa told me I couldn’t work there anymore. I don’t know if it was because they were mad because I had been seeing private clients, or they just wanted to keep getting new girls.
The other girl from the spa and I decided to rent an apartment and to work on our own. We pooled our savings and bought a massage table and a bed and we started advertising on Backpage.com. We were making about $800 a day each. Most of the guys wanted more than a massage, which is what they all called a hand job, and they offered to pay more. I’m not sure what my friend did, but I always said no.
One of my regulars, he would come for a massage three times a week, and always give me nice tips, sometimes $100. He asked about my life in Russia and told me I might feel better if I talked to a psychologist. He gave me the number of one he’d heard of, who spoke Russian, and extra money to pay for a few months to talk to her. And he offered me $1,000 an hour to have sex with him. It was tempting, but I thought that if I ever fucked for money, I would never respect myself again. He told me he liked me just the way I was. He told me he would like to help me get into school, to take care of me. He told me I would be a great psychologist, because I made people feel comfortable.
So when he invited me to the Plaza Hotel one night, I went. He had an expensive suite with great views, opened a bottle of expensive champagne, and we started to talk. We talked for a while and then we got undressed and had sex. He gave me an envelope with $1,000, but he said it wasn’t payment; it was just because he liked me so much.
He had to leave the next morning for a business trip to Chicago, but I stayed in the suite and ordered room service — orange juice and a big fluffy omelet with mushrooms and beautiful golden toast and little pats of butter shaped like sea shells. I was so happy. I felt like Vivian from Pretty Woman.
He didn’t call me when he got back from Chicago. I called him, but he didn’t answer, so I called him at work. His secretary told me he was “not available.” She told me he would not be available, ever. I opened my eyes that day.
Clients knew me as Angelina or Anna. Angelina was “sweet, intelligent, fun and playful… a devoted pleasure seeker who takes enjoying life very seriously indeed.”
Anna was more shy, a “European companion who adores luxury travel… often passionate, sometimes hilarious but rarely forgettable.”
Angelina cost $800 an hour, $4,000 for the night; Anna ran $900 and $5,000. According to rankings in The Erotic Review (TER), the Yelp of the commercial sex world, each rated in the top 1 percent of all escorts.
But there are lots of young, pretty girls in my business. What got me to the top — and what kept me there — was my work ethic and attention to detail. I was successful because I learned some hard, valuable lessons about making it in the sex-for-money business.
Here are some of them:
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