I love your column and almost wish it was on Page 2, but then I'd miss out on madly flipping through all the adult and massage ad pages, desperately searching for your beloved column. (Yes, beautiful, I do know the contents page lists your column's page number—I'm not that senile, yet.) Anyhow, after reading your witty responses to all those dating idiots out there, coupled with the tantalizing hints you occasionally drop about yourself, I usually find myself fantasizing about you. But knowing that I don't meet your exacting standards—i.e., I'm not geeky enough and have a full-time professional job—I am forced to find satisfaction elsewhere. I see those lovely ads for escorts on the next page. So, what's the proper etiquette when dialing up an escort? Should I expect their photos to be misleading? What can I get for my money? Is "in-call" her place and "out-call" my bungalow? Are these call girls, or are they something else? Would they be offended if I only wanted a platonic dinner date at Canlis? Sure, it probably won't be the most rational thing I've ever done, but then again, life is about the journey, not the destination.
You sweet talker! First off, in the interest of keeping myself from getting the cold shoulder from my, gulp, b-b-b-boyfriend, I have to let you know that my standards have recently risen. Yes, it's true. The Girl of Date is seeing someone who not only is not a geek (though he is Greek) but is actually gainfully—and legally—employed as well. Full time. Yes, I'm astonished, too. In fact, unlike pretty much every guy I've ever been with, this guy actually makes more money than I do.
Now even though few of the exes could manage it, being more solvent than the Girl of Date is not exactly a difficult proposition. Pretty much a month of weekends-only garage sales on the moon would net more than I do, but my Greek actually makes about twice as much as I do! He even buys me dinner sometimes!
So anyway, as you can see, I'm taken. (At least for now.) Not wanting to leave you hanging, I set out to find answers to your questions. Even a non-hooker-hirer like myself knows that in-call means their place, out-call means yours. C'mon. But the rest of your query had me stymied. Using highly scientific research methodology, I opened the back of the Weekly, picked out the cutest escort on the page, and dialed a gal named Vanessa.
No answer. Impending deadline prohibited dithering time, so I hung up without leaving a message. Seconds later my cell phone rang. I recognized the number. "Vanessa?" I asked.
"Yesssss," a female voice answered suspiciously. I quickly explained who I was and began firing away questions.
"What should a man say when he calls you?" I asked. Vanessa thought for a moment and said, "Discretion is very important. Just be a gentleman. Be courteous."
Hear that, Jaymz? Discretion. So don't be yammering on about blow jobs and whatnot. Vanessa tells me, "There's a basic per-hour price for companionship, and we can then negotiate anything else in private. We're two consenting adults. No need to ask a bunch of questions on the phone."
She also informed me that a platonic dinner for two at Canlis would be delightful and not remotely out of the ordinary. I'll be expecting photos, thanks.
As to whether you get what's advertised, I reckon shopping for rent girls is a lot like cruising the personals—everyone wants to put their best, erm, foot forward. On our first date, the Greek told me I was a lot cuter than my photos, but he may have been fibbing in order to get into my pants. (It worked.) I asked a hooker-hound friend about the old bait and switch. "The biggest danger is you get someone who's had a hot photo taken of them when they're young, and now they're 15 years older." Hmm.
"So, is this a deal breaker?" I inquired. "Nah, it's not like I got there and she looked like Broderick Crawford."
As I pondered this, my wise pal added, "The important thing to remember is that even if someone does look like their picture, it doesn't mean they're a good lay."
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