Tiger Woods and the Art of an Affair

Unless you've been in a coma this past weekend, you've heard the story about Tiger Woods's car crash. According to authorities, Woods sped out of his driveway at around 3 a.m., crashed into a tree as well as a fire hydrant. His wife, supposedly, broke the windows of his escadale with a golf club in order to pull him to safety.

The truth, however, is slowly coming out as well. Read about Woods's thinly-veiled confession here: 'I regret those transgressions,' Tiger Says.

So, another athlete caught dicking around. No surprise there, really. I hate to say it, but pro athletes aren't known to be champions of marital fidelity. Or any other kind of fidelity, actually. Deep down, I think most women know this -- that if they marry an athlete, they should expect him to stray eventually.

However, as a sex worker, I can't help but think that Woods could have kept this whole thing under wraps by just using escorts instead of having full-blown affairs with other women. Please understand that I'm not excusing his behavior. However, given the propensity in which both men and women cheat, there are ways to go about it without wrecking the marriage they both signed up for.

Assuming Woods's wife wants a divorce, he could stand to lose millions. While prenuptial agreements will certainly help, it's unlikely she's going to walk away without a seven-figure payday. As for their two children, well, it's no mystery who's likely to get full custody. And with Daddy on the road so much already, I fear Woods might be relegated to the typical visitations during Christmas and summer vacation.

How would an escort have prevented this? First and foremost, any good escort knows how to keep her mouth shut and not talk to the tabloids. Secondly, they often meet their clients in busy hotels in major cities -- not night clubs where there are a million people with camera phones, waiting to capture any evidence.

The agency the escort is signed with would have gladly made arrangements to maintain anonymity. My own agent has done it before when I worked with a celebrity client this past summer. Really, it's not that hard.

My advice to woods? Beg and grovel for forgiveness. If not, get yourself a good divorce lawyer and be prepared not to see your kids as often as you'd like. And while I earn a living off of infidelity, I'll say that you were damn stupid not to think your wife would find out. Women are far, far more intelligent when it comes to men in regards to relationships.

They smell lies. Pick up on inconsistencies. Check and double-check your stories with a variety of sources and informants. Quite simply, women are clever -- so clever that it's rare a man can get away with lying for long.

She Knew All Along

I told Briana that I’m an escort, which really wasn’t necessary. According to her, she knew all along.

I’m sure the look on my face was a mix of shock and relief. Shock that she’d somehow uncovered the secret that I fight to keep under wraps every minute of every day. Relief that she at least knew what I did for a living, and wasn’t either in tears or throwing blunt objects at my head.

“Honestly, Julian, it’s not that hard to figure out,” she said calmly. “You live in a beautiful apartment and work a lot of strange hours. I figured you were either a drug dealer or a male escort.”

“So what finally tipped you off?” I asked.

“When we had sex, you didn’t act like most guys do. You made everything about me. It was like I was a job. The fact that you showered afterward didn’t help matters, either.”

I never imagined that my work as an escort would somehow impact the way I have sex during my non-working hours. But the more I look back on it, the more I realize that Brianna is right. I really do make sex all about the woman. My needs come second -- no pun intended.

“So, where does this leave us?” I said. “I understand if you want to break things off. Hell, you’re not the first person to do so.”

“Look, I understand that your career choices are none of my business. But… I just can’t imagine being with someone who earns a living sleeping with as many women as he can.”

“It’s not all about the sex,” I snapped.

“No, I’m sure it isn’t. But be real with me, Julian. At the end of the night, the women you’re with want one thing -- and that’s why they paid you to give it to them.”

“Right. Well, at least you’re honest. You can show yourself out.”

Brianna looked hurt at that last bit. She opened her mouth to speak one last time, but didn’t actually say anything. Gathering her things, she walked out the front door of my apartment and left me alone. I’m familiar with that word by now -- alone. It seems my job has a way of fucking up most every romantic relationship I even attempt to embark on.

So, what’s a gigolo to do? I’m not about to quit my job. I’ve pretty much written off the job opportunity up north, even if the recruiter keeps saying they’ll be in touch as soon as possible. Right. I felt like telling her that it’s a lot harder to bullshit a whore than some wet-behind-the-ears graduate.

In light of these recent events, I’ve decided to put a moratorium on romantic relationships all together. No dates, no friends setting me up -- nothing. I have all the sex I want or need at work, and I don’t see the point in setting myself up for failure and discontentment when there’s plenty of that to go around in the first place.

I have a few other cover letter / résumé / writing sample packages to send out via e-mail. All they need is a final proof-read before I send them to a recruiter who, most likely, won’t get back to me. Maybe I’ll still click that send button. Maybe I won’t. Time will tell.

Mes chères études

It seems that students engaging in prostitution isn't exclusive to the United States or Great Britain.

In France, a student known only as Laura D. wrote a memoir entitled Mes chères études -- French for My Dear Studies. While studying at Paris University, the modern-language student found herself short on rent and other bills, and turned to prostitution to keep a roof over her head.

Click here for a link about the book, courtesy of the Times in London.

Her mother and father -- a nurse and workman, respectively -- lived in what is essentially welfare housing, and couldn't afford to send her any money. However, even their meager wages meant that Laura didn't qualify for any student aid, a scenario which is not all that uncommon in either Great Britain or the United States.

While surfing online at her apartment, Laura discovered that sex work has gone online -- that is, potential clients advertise their desires on message boards, hoping to find someone who will provide for them.

From what I understand, Laura is now working at a Paris restaurant, and doesn't want to return the world of sex work. Good for her. Judging from her statements to the press, she didn't find the experience enjoyable, and truly felt victimized by her sheer desperation to keep herself solvent.

As someone who's blessed enough to work in the high-end of this business, I often cringe at some of the stories from those who aren't as fortunate. As I've said before, anyone who answers an ad from a website like Craigslist is asking for trouble. One needs an agent to screen clients and ensure that rates are paid by the hour, often with a credit card number to guarantee such.

Of course, not everyone finds themselves in the high-end of the industry. I never forget just how fortunate I am to be afforded such a privilege, and I detest those who take advantage of sex workers, if not outright abuse them. More than anything, I hope that Laura's story will finally make people realize what I've been saying all along.

Education costs are out of control. Young adults around the world are literally whoring themselves to earn their degrees. I for one would like to see her (generally incompetent) elected officials get off their asses and do something about it.

The Day After

After reading my last blog entry, you’d think Adam had just won the lottery.

He just called me a little over an hour ago. Having just finished work himself, he was settled into his apartment, eager gossip over the latest drama to happen in my life. His questions mostly revolved around what led me to kiss Bailey -- and if I enjoyed it.

“I’m not sure,” I said, halfway laughing myself. “I guess I just wanted to make those girls shut up”

“Did Bailey freak out?”

“He was a little shocked at first, but he laughed afterward, too.”

As Adam and I continued talking, I heard what sounded like zippers in the background. After the first loud bang hit the floor, I assumed that Adam was packing luggage for Thanksgiving. He confirmed my suspicions, telling me that he had a flight early Wednesday morning, and that his family was meeting him at the airport.

“What are your plans?” he asked. “Going back up north?”

“No,” I said. “Staying down here with some friends.”

“Really? I’m surprised.”

“Christmas will be enough. Speaking of which, I need to think of what to get my parents. One Christmas and one Hanukkah present. Separate wrapping paper for both.”

“Multi-faith families,” Adam quipped. “They’re the wave of the future.”

“And no matter what the religion, come the holidays everyone gets drunk.”

After I let Adam go finish packing, I began typing this entry. These days, I often type up my entries in Microsoft Word before copying and pasting them into Blogger. I’ve created a folder just for blog entries. It’s called “MAN ABOUT TOWN” and it’s password-protected.

Within this folder is the monologue I’ve prepared for Briana -- the one that will enable me to tell her about my profession. Even looking at the little icon makes my heart race. Come next Monday -- when Brianna returns from the Thanksgiving holiday -- I’ll find out whether she and I have a future.

If not, I’ll probably be depressed for days. After that, however, I’ll be on the mend. If being an escort has taught me anything, it’s compartmentalization. It seems no matter what the trauma, I can deal with it and move on. A very, very useful skill to have.

A Kiss is Just a Kiss

I'm afraid I may have crossed a line with Bailey.

A group of us were out at the Mary Brickell Village this past evening. There are plenty of nice bars and lounges there, to the point where the area has surpassed Coconut Grove in terms of "hipness".

Moving on. What began as a fun night out soon came to an end. People needed to be at work or class the next morning. Soon, it was just Bailey and I. No big problem. He's arguably my best guy friend, and it was nice catching up.

So everything was great -- until his ex-girlfriend walked through the door.

Honestly, that's what happened. What she was doing in Downtown Miami's Brickell district is beyond me. During the course of her relationship with Bailey, she rarely strayed more than a few miles of his apartment. A real home body, that one. Unless it was to drag him to see any number of chick flicks, from Nights in Rodanthe or Twilight.

Bailey spotted her first. He gave me a light slap on the shoulder, then gestured in his ex's direction. I was just as surprised to see her as he was -- perhaps even more so. I told him that we could just pay the tab and leave, if he wanted. Or stay, and just try to avoid contact at all costs.

"Fuck it," Bailey said. "We're staying."

"Good plan."

"She had enough control of my life. Not anymore, though."

Of course, this didn't stop one the ex's friends from coming by the bar and pretending to stumble upon us. The little tart probably thought she was a good actress. Bailey was polite enough to exchange pleasantries. I was not.

"She always said you were uptight," said the tart, referring to Bailey's ex. "Arrogant too. Snotty, as well."

"I think you mean snooty, sweetheart," I said.

"Whatever," she said, huffing. "Later."

When Bailey and I finally made an exit, his ex-girlfriend (who I'm now convinced as serious mental issues) made a point of calling him out. Bailey, rolling his eyes, asked her what she wanted. He had to be up early the next morning, he added. Whatever she had to say, she had to make it quick.

"Jesus," she said. "I see Julian's attitude is rubbing off on you."

"Oh, that's not the only thing I've been rubbing off on him," I said. "You were right, you know. Bailey and I were having an affair."

The ex-girlfriend sneered and rolled her eyes.

"What, you don't believe me?" I asked. "Do you need proof?"

"Fuck off, Julian. This doesn't involve you."

"Don't talk to him like that," Bailey snapped. Then, as he turned to look at the smile on my face: "Julian and I are very happy together."

"I don't know why you're so surprised," I said. "After all, you accused Bailey of being gay the minute your relationship went south. Well, honey, you were right."

Then, for reasons I still don't know, I titled Bailey's face towards mine and kissed him right on the mouth. Nothing open-mouthed, but lips-on-lips contact nonetheless. The gasps from the table of tarts was loud enough to hear, but I doubt the rest of the bar even noticed.

"So, if you'll excuse us," I said, "we really must be going."

As soon as Bailey and I were outside on the street, I erupted into laughter. Bailey -- looking like he'd just seen a ghost -- joined me a few seconds after. What the hell was that? he asked. Have I gone bisexual without informing him?

"No," I said. "I guess my job has just relaxed my sexual politics, that's all. Now come on, let's catch a cab before we run into anyone else tonight."

And catch a cab we did, into the beautiful Miami night.

The Last Supper

Catherine really enjoyed her vacation.

For her last night in Miami, we had dinner at a nice Italian restaurant on Ocean Drive. Most locals can tell you that most restaurants in South Beach -- especially those on the world-famous Ocean Drive -- are overpriced, but everyone has to dine ocean-front at least once.

Taking in the salty air, swaying palms and turquoise water, she lamented the fact that Northern California was so wet and gray for most of the year. Not as bad as Seattle or Vancouver, but far from the sun-drenched playgrounds of Los Angeles or San Diego. I was lucky to live in Miami, she added.

“I often think the same thing,” I said. “Great beaches, great friends, good job.”

She smirked. “That last bit is up to interpretation.”

“Come on, let’s not, shall we?”

“I’m just saying…”

“I know exactly what you’re saying,” I said. “And you know I had that job interview up north. But until they get their act together and call me back for a second interview, I’m staying put.”

“Still nothing? That’s odd.”

I reminded her that I’ve been in contact with the woman from recruitment via e-mail for the past three weeks. She (the recruiter) apologized for the delay, saying that the company is still screening candidates and it’s taken longer than expected. They’ll be in-touch as soon as possible, she wrote. And thanks for following up.

“Well, if they didn’t want you, I doubt they’d bother with any pleasantries,” Catherine said. “So that’s a good sign, right?”

“A job offer with a signing bonus would be better -- but I see your logic.”

When the conversation turned to dating, I finally confessed to having a bit of a crush for the newest woman in my life, Brianna. Catherine immediately perked up, and asked a slew of questions pertaining to our exact relationship status. I answered as best I could.

Yes, she and I have slept together. No, she doesn’t know what I do for a living. Yes, I’ll be telling her soon. No, really -- I have a little monologue typed up and ready to go when I feel the time is right. And that time is rapidly approaching, I added. Part of me is actually quite excited about the confession itself. What a bold experiment.

“Experiment?” Catherine said, her face like she’d just bit into a lemon. “What do you mean, experiment?”

“To see how she reacts,” I explained. “For the first time since I started escorting, I’m going to be completely honest with a romantic partner and see how she reacts. It’s exciting.”

“And if she rejects you? What then?”

“Then I’ll know it wasn’t meant to be. But if she accepts it, well, that can be the start of something completely new.”

I meant every word. Regarding Brianna, I let my heart run ahead of my brain. Before I get too attached to someone who may look at me in disgust when she discovers my occupation, I need to be honest. Enough with the lies, the drawn-out confessions and feelings of betrayal.

Julian doesn’t both with such silly semantics -- and from this point forward, neither will I.

The Stroke of Midnight

Wow -- up before noon on a Sunday. Sometimes I forget what the morning looks like.

Anyway, I had an interesting (and educational, at least for the client) night at work. By the title of this blog post you might think we had sex at midnight, which is true, but it's what happened before that's the interesting part.

I arrived at the client's apartment at around 10:30 p.m. on account of traffic. I'm a stickler for punctuality, but in Miami sometimes one can't help arriving late. Thanks to my agent -- who was kind enough to call ahead and cover for me -- the client didn't seem to mind.

Her apartment was nice. Not five-star or something out of Ocean Drive, but nice nonetheless. I know I've mentioned that I see a lot of wealthy women, but they're not my sole client base. Sometimes I'm known to slum it with the middle- and upper-middle class.

Moving on. The client had paid for a two-hour booking, and I figured we would drink a bit of wine, maybe watch a DVD, then have sex. I was right on those points, but there was something else she wanted me to do. Simply put, she wanted me to masturbate for her.

"Is that all right?" she asked. "I just... I've never seen a man do it before."

"Really?" I asked. "Lord knows we do it often enough. Surprised you haven't caught us by now."

She laughed, blush faintly staining her face. "I asked my ex, but he was too much of a prude to let me. I really don't see the big deal..."

After we made our way into the bedroom, I found myself in a Clothed Female, Naked Male (CFNM) situation. I let her touch my chest, scratch her fingernails against my abdomen, even run her hands through my hair. She complimented the softness of it -- my hair, that is -- and how I "have waves that women would pay good money for."

I lay down on the bed, my back tickled by the soft sheets. Then, reaching down, I begin stroking myself, trying to find the proper rhythm. I didn't want to ejaculate, seeing how the client still likely wanted to have sex. I have a fairly good reboot factor -- usually about five or ten minutes -- but seeing how I was already late, I didn't want to keep her waiting for anything else.

"Tell me what you're thinking," she said. "What you're doing."

"I'm thinking of the time I lost my virginity," I lied. In reality, I was thinking how long I should keep this charade going. "I remember her perfume, the way her hair fell over my chest as she sucked my cock. The way she tasted when I licked her cunt."

The client was cradling her breasts, before one hand vanished between her legs. "Now tell me how you're doing it."

"Start off slow," I said. "Not too rough. Guys don't like that. Squeeze gently, then release. Brushing your thumb across the head of his cock. Let your hand warm up -- or wear rings that are cold. Hot and cold. That's the best..."

I had closed my eyes during this, and when I opened them I saw the client standing nude over me. I ceased masturbating and slipped on a condom. Then, as she sat on my lap, I pressed my mouth onto hers and tasted the wine we both had before.

"Thank you," she said. "Now I know what I'm doing."

"Don't mention it," I said, and eased the client onto her back. "Now we get to the good part..."