I would pick up The Met (now defunct) every week. Every now and then I would pick up The Observer and look in the back pages. There were ladies who offered massage or domination and there were mysterious “escorts.” I was intrigued by the idea of offering phone sex, but with the problems the college phone system always suffered, I knew it wouldn’t work.

One time, (with the aforementioned boyfriend), I had gone to visit a photographer who advertised a need for nude models and paid $300-$500 per shoot. He was a professional and had a great studio. His portfolio was full of Playboy-style photos of womanly women. I think I looked too young for his taste, although he was complimentary. I know I didn’t look sophisticated enough. We talked for at least half an hour and when I left, he told me I could come back and pose if I wanted. But, of course, the boyfriend vetoed that. I was a little steamed since the pictures and the photographer seemed harmless and very nice (but it wasn’t “art,” in my opinion). The boyfriend had already put a stop to my (free) nude modeling for art/photo students. He really cramped my style.

As the relationship with my boyfriend was winding down, I struck up a friendship that summer with a non-traditional student who lived on campus. Her name was Anna. One day I showed her an Observer ad for the much-envied Dallas Fetish Ball (I finally attended it years later and it really wasn’t wild, or maybe I’m jaded). That sparked quite a conversation. I showed her some of the other ads that I found intriguing. I explained my need of money. I was hoping for support and not recriminations. What I got was a surprising history and lots of advice, which I sorely needed.

Just after my 22nd birthday, I called this one agency that claimed it had been around since 1971. After a game of phone tag, I got to talk to the woman who ran the agency. I can only imagine that I sounded as green as I said I was. We made arrangements to meet that Saturday. She gave me directions to Hurst (nearly to Ft. Worth). It was two hours of driving, one-way. But I was going to work for an escort agency! I was going to sell my body and rake in the dough!

On the way there, I stopped in the Wal-Mart of another town to buy scented candles and condoms. I wanted good new condoms instead of the school freebie condoms that all the students used. Anna had said Trojans were the best, so I bought Trojans and KY Jelly. I was too embarrassed to buy this at my local Wal-Mart, although how condoms being used for free would ring up any different than condoms used to make money, I don’t know. I was wearing jeans, ankle boots and a tucked-in white shirt with French cuffs. I looked fresh and smelled good.

I drove all the way to this Motel 6 off some highway near Ft. Worth. I had gotten my first cell phone (for driving-safety reasons) only a couple weeks prior. I proudly called the lady and left a message. She called back just a few minutes later. I reached for the phone, then panicked. I didn’t know how to answer it! I’d never had a call before! I scrambled for the manual and by the time I found out how to answer my phone it had stopped ringing. I called right back, but didn’t get an answer. I left a message explaining myself and waited with a book I’d brought. After waiting in the hotel parking lot for an hour, I realized that I would not get a call back. I probably sounded like a lunatic.

I drove to DFW Airport in defeat. I had a few dollars in my pocket. I wanted to try picking up men in a bar like Anna had talked about (and I had spent many hours at the airport photographing people and planes). But I chickened out because I worried about not having a plane ticket and instead drove to the Westin Galleria where she said she’d had some luck a few years before.

I went into the bar. New to cocktail-drinking, I didn’t know what to order, so I got a coke. There were three other men in the bar and none of them paid me the slightest attention. I left. Hungry and feeling very blue (and poor), I wandered into the Galleria proper and went to the Bennigan’s there. I assumed I could get a cheap drink at the bar and go home.

The bartender who took my order (“I only have $3, please help!”) made me a Long Island Tea. Then he mixed up shots and gave me the leftovers from the shakers of other people’s drinks. He could see I wasn’t having a good day. He chatted me up and got me pretty well buzzed. Finally, I was ready to leave. He wanted me to hang around and wait for him to get off work (only another 30 minutes). I wanted to get home. I shouldn’t even have been driving. I thanked him profusely and left. At least I could pick up a bartender for free. What an accomplishment!

I went home and cried. I felt like such a failure. I was unable to properly operate a cell phone. I couldn’t pick up guys in a bar. I couldn’t be a proper hooker. If I couldn’t even sell my body, what hope did I have? If selling one’s body was the lowest depth to which one could sink, where was I on that mythical ladder of life? I couldn’t sell it. I tried! I really did! There were just no takers. I bawled myself to a drunken sleep.

The next day I was awakened by a very worried Anna. It had been so late when I got home and I was so upset that I didn’t call her. I told her about my failures and laughed a little. Then cried a bit more when I got off the phone.

Next week: I finally break into the adult industry with another agency who successfully rips me off!

3 thoughts on “my adult industry history part IV

  1. Though you’ve obviously read and are responding to my posts, please keep your advertising to the site link in your name. Otherwise I’ll consider you as spam and completely delete your comments.

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