What happens in theManhattan sex trade, behind closed doors? In this collection written by an elite Manhattan Madam, she reveals 7 stories detailing a week in her life with Johns, freaks, sex addicts, and other assorted clients.
She describes herself in the Preface:
If you want to try to sum me up, I am the NYC Madam that has never been caught. Look at me once and it's obvious that I'm...different. It's there in the way I move, the way I react. It doesn't matter how crowded the street gets. People bump into each other, men walk into the street unwittingly, trying to catch a second look. Heads turn like something just caught fire, and then the cells phones come out for a shot of my body, especially the small of my back where it meets my ass: solid, rounded muscle shaped like two teardrops. Hands brush crotches and then wallets, right in the street. People sense I am not free. Expensive. You see the question arrive on their faces: "Can I afford her?" For a fact, sadly, most Johns cannot afford me.
But in just a moment I'm usually gone. Carrying this kind of magnetic load, I have to be smarter to avoid trouble. Sometimes I need to vanish into thin air...
...My Johns are intelligent. They have to be to afford my prices, usually $2000 an hour (certain discounts may apply, depending on the client). But hookers, to be honest, are usually stupid. Too many girls are too dumb to do anything else. The good ones stand out. Rebecca spotted my ability after only a few months on the job. It was a great compliment to me -- and I'm proud of it to this day -- when she told me I could rise to her level.
So, yes, the risk is always there, but it's mostly manageable...until you become very successful. Yeah. That's the Catch 22. After you've busted your ass and you finally succeed in hooking the lawyers, the wise guys, the powerful politicians, the NBA stars, this is the moment they want you.
More aptly, the guys posing as "The Law" wants your important clients. They want your black book.
By the way, the book now is not the proverbial little notebook bound in leather. It is your email, your iphone data, your cloud. But cell phones and computers get you caught, which is why I am bothering to explain this to you, at all.
All this stuff gets handled for me by Wiz Kid, from the Lower East Side, Loisada. The Puerto Ricans are the best hackers. Go figure. Puerto Rico is not exactly MIT (what do salsa, maduros, or rice and beans have to do with C++?). But that is just another misconception. Some of the PR kids that grew up in the projects of Loisada, like Xavier Montague and the others (look them up), have a genius for this. The Spanish empire rivaled the British. Wiz Kid makes sure my calls, messages, emails, texts as, change as often as my t-back. This young conquistador guards my secret information. And at some point you need to unplug it all. The set-up emails from the Johns get deleted and the transactions get written down on paper that gets hidden deep in a subway tunnel, let us say.
...For the price of this book, you're going to get a week in my life. After all, you paid for it. But remember, when you want more at the end, that these are the only secrets I will give you.
If you've read this, far, maybe you feel like you're beginning to know me. But, in truth, the other side is probably true. I know you.
"How could she know me?" you're thinking. "I haven't spoken a word to her."
Because I have seen you before.
