A flaming sword: Truth, lies and double lives.

This week on TER, a hobbyist posted a rather repulsive question that's been haunting me like a bad song ever since. (I'm reproducing it here verbatim.)

How many woman live a double life? I've been a hobbiest for about 15 years and meet alot of wonderful ladies and not so wonderful. once in a while I get to know some of them as we talk before or after our session and they start to tell me that their boyfreinds dont know what they do or they have a regular job during the day. thats why they dont show their face. I got to admitte that turns me on a woman has some poor smuck at home thinking his woman is faithful to him or at their job she some teacher or lawer,admin assitant, any way I would love to here from some ladies and what kind of lies they tell thier spouse or freinds.

Wow. I couldn't wait to reply:

It's distasteful enough that many women have to lie to their loved ones about what they do. But to ask for sordid details about it-- for your own sexual titillation-- well, that's a pretty low source of amusement.

Lives can be ruined by lies and by truth. That so many of us have to balance on that tightrope isn't sexy. It's sad.

Several other folks pointed out to Mr. Sensitivity that men often live a double life as well... and the lies they tell their wives and family are hardly a sexy topic.

That's true enough, but let's be honest. The men who occasionally dabble in the hobby may have to account for their time and money with a lie or two... or three, depending on the level of their involvement. But lead a double life? That seems rather grand for the Ohio pharmacist who tickles his fancy at the annual convention in Toledo.

Providers, on the other hand, routinely juggle flaming swords. Law enforcement, psychos and the sexual whims of strangers go up in one throw; ruinous exposure to our family and friends comes down in another; and all the while, the floor tilts under the pressure of our own internal voice, chanting "What if? Then what? What kind of woman are you?"

A double life is almost necessarily a life in conflict. For our clients, I believe, the central conflict is hiding their true sexual nature under the veneer of monogamy. What their wives can't (or won't) give them-- variety, intimacy, excitement-- they find with us. While it's clearly a choice they are willing to make, I doubt there are too many men who really relish the subterfuge involved in seeing their ATF.

For the women who become providers, the conflict lurks under the veneer of our accommodating nature. We're wired to please. So it's a sweet moment to see that poor, needy soul achieve his moment of brilliance in our arms--- until the reality of the cold cash makes its equally compelling appearance.

Are we givers-- or takers? Our love is bought and paid for.... and I believe there exists many a fine provider who secretly loathes herself for accepting any payment other than gratitude. And to compound that ambivalence by half-truths and the emotional distance that secrecy imposes... well, there are many women who find it an unacceptable divide.

I don't live in that morass-- most of the time. In my evolution from a sexy girl to a sexy woman, then a swinger, then an escort, the joy and value of my sexuality has been drummed into me by sheer numbers. I'm thrilled to provide a thrill. And I've never been ashamed of being compensated for it.

But do I want to openly claim it as my birthright-- and with it, the scorn of society? Perhaps no more than my clients want to be labeled as tricks or johns. The unfortunate reality is that even in puritanical America, customers are readily forgiven. Providers are not.

Am I making a case for hookers as heroes? No. Am I making a case for cheating, lies, or bad faith between men and women? No again. But what I am making the case for is the recognition of what drives all of us: the need to be seen, be heard and achieve a sense of accomplishment and worth.

That white-hot sword drives a hard bargain. It's up to us whether it's worth it.

Playing the Numbers (A Life in Review)

Getting into the sex industry, like opening a Swiss bank account, is something many people dream of, but few actually experience. Lucrative, glamorous, and illicit... the appeal is understandable. The workings of the real thing-- a little more complicated than you'd think.

I know that when I decided to become Tabu, I was simply a sexy beginner. I'd figured I must be somewhat qualified to give it a try; I'd notched many a bedpost as a swinger and spent a lifetime honing my sexual skills. So at 40, I hoped, I'd be tucking a little extra maturity and business savvy in my g-string.

Well, I got up my nerve, had the SO take some pictures, and placed an ad on Eros. Within a month I found a stream of happy clients paying, playing and coming back for more.

Of course, my innocence couldn't last. One day a smiling customer asked, "Why don't you have any reviews? You should be on TER!"

I looked it up and realized that I had one more cherry to lose.

Like everyone who first logs on The Erotic Review, I made a startling discovery... that the culture of pay-to-play has as many aficionados as Fantasy Football-- and almost as many stats.

Literally thousands of professional escorts were profiled-- and each was scored by their customers on both looks and performance. To bolster the numerical scores, the clients fleshed out their impressions with detailed written "reviews"- some quite elaborate- that lovingly recreated the session they enjoyed.

Or not enjoyed. And there's the rub. Didn't float your client's boat? Whoops- your score reflected their disappointment.

8s, 9s and 10s are the gold standard. Average scores- 6s and 7s- well, you'll still make a living, but you'll be ordering the meatloaf, not the Maserati.

Who'd have thought there'd be a Consumer Reports for hookers?

So far, I've been lucky... with three years and more than 50 reviews under my garterbelt, my business has been enhanced by the credibility that my solid numbers provide. And I have yet to encounter the dreaded false review-- a made-up, sometimes detrimental account of a session, submitted by a player looking to achieve free membership on the site.

But I have been amused by the liberties some reviewers take with the truth... unless they really did take that provider to her 5th screaming O.

In the world of reviews, scores, and endless speculation over the virtues of provider A, B or C, some participants assure me that there's a clear parallel to the "real" world.

"Hey, I get a performance review, too, and my salary depends on how well my boss thinks I'm doing," a client once remarked to me.

"Of course you do," I agreed mildly. "But until your performance review is published on the Internet, with graphic details about the size of your cock, how well you went down on me, if you could f--k for an hour straight, and whether your belly's as flat as the GQ model I saw last week, then I'm not so sure you can really make the comparison."

Well, that ended that particular observation... but I have no delusions that my life on the review boards will end until I decide I'm finished with Tabu.

When I do decide to hang up the stilettos, I'll be a little sad, to be sure. But in honor of my many friends who have graced me with their approval, I can only hope I'll go out with a bang.

That's a 10 worth wishing for.

Confessions from the Campaign Trail, Part 1: Detroit

The day of his interview, the senatorial candidate from Michigan seemed nervous as he entered my room.

“I’ve, I’ve never been interviewed by the New York Times before,” he stuttered, as I invited him to sit. He glanced at me furtively before dropping stiffly into the chair.

My dress’s low neckline had slipped open just enough to reveal an edge of red lace. I took my time correcting it.

“So, Candidate Moreman,” I began. “While you’ve been very successful in business, this is your first foray into the political arena. I wonder if you’re prepared for the media scrutiny you’ll be undergoing? I notice you didn’t bring your press secretary with you today.”

“No, I didn’t feel I needed to put any ‘spin’ on my positions.... the thrust of my platform is very straightforward. Why– do you intend to trip me up with trick questions?” he asked, a little spirit surfacing in spite of himself.

“Hmmm. Trick questions? No.... I’m just looking to uncover the man beneath the positions, if you know what I mean. After all, your press machine has worked up enough interest that the Times sent their best political reporter here to speak with you. I’d consider that quite a coup, wouldn’t you?”

Before he could speak I leaned over and adjusted the hem of my skirt, which had crept up on my thigh. I glanced up at the would-be Senator and caught his eyes darting away from the line of my calf and the high-heeled pump dangling from one foot.

He cleared his throat before replying. “A coup? No, just a welcome opportunity to spread the word about my ideas for the people of Michigan.”

“Speaking of spreading the word, candidate,” I spoke in a lower tone,”There have been several very interesting rumors spread about you. For example, several sources have revealed to me that your personal relationships have taken– well, let’s say unusual turns."

“In fact,” I continued, “my research indicates that your carefully-honed image as a traditional, heterosexual family man may be one of the best shams in recent campaign history.”

Moreman gasped as he straightened up in his chair. “I beg your pardon, young lady! I’m the proud father of two beautiful daughters! ”

I paused a long moment. “That doesn’t mean you don’t like sucking dick, though, does it?"

Before I knew it, the enraged businessman had leapt to his feet and grasped me by the shoulders. He pulled me close in a tight grip and whispered fiercely. “You print that and you could ruin my career– and the lives of my family.”

“Well,” I gasped, breathless from his strong arms encircling me, “I don’t see how I can avoid it. Unless, of course....”

“Unless what?” he demanded.

“Unless you prove to me otherwise.”

His eyes glittered with determination. "Prove to you that I'm man enough to get excited by a beautiful woman? Is that what you're looking for, Miss New York Times? Because I think I can show you exactly what kind of man you're tangling with... unless you don't know what this means." He slipped his hands to my hips and pulled me into even closer contact with his strong torso... and a surprisingly large bulge that ground against my tight skirt.

My resolution wavered. Should I expose him... or let him expose me? When a jolt of pleasure shot up from between my legs, the answer seemed inevitable... but so very, very wrong.


(Part 2 in a future issue.)

No Batteries Required (Or, what makes Tabu hum!)

We're all grownups here, so let's be frank. Between my hobby (swinging) and our hobby (the Hobby!), your little vixen gets some action. So, you might ask, does that mean that I'm a constantly-seething cauldron of unmitigated passion?

Um, almost. The other day, I gleefully let my mind run free over all my favorite things... the little moments, gestures and fantasies that can make my panties sticky.... and I came up with the ones I always welcome with a wicked grin.

Not-to-be-denied erections. I admit it. There's something very fulfilling in making an ostensibly cool customer lose his cool-- and watching as he raises a tent-pole in his pants. (And darling, don't try to hide it with that throw pillow. Tabu sees all, knows all, and conquers all.)

The Stevie Wonder head roll. Yes, I may be kneeling between your legs. My mouth may be too full to speak. But I'm sneaking a look at your rapturous expression... and when your eyes roll back in your head and a groan escapes from deep inside your composure, a little electricity travels right down my spine.

The partner in crime. Have I divulged one of my little kinks? Then bless you if you whisper those naughty somethings in my ear... and watch my reactions as you add an extra filigree of lust to the mix. You shall receive the kingdom of heaven.

Embracing your inner porn star. When the mood's right for raunch, you can't go wrong... so forget you're a doctor, a lawyer or that you play one on TV. When you become Tabu's boy-toy, the immediate forecast is wet. Very wet.

Swoon happens. Unforgettable moments unfold when the heat rises and we realize that we're dealing with a force larger than ourselves. That's when I like to lie back, surrender my will and give you everything between my ears and my legs. Feel the rush? It may be your tongue that's dissolving my self-control... or the tingle that translates from your fingertips.... or the room that's spinning on the axis of your hard cock.

Only two words are necessary here.

Take me.

The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Hobbyists

What separates a decently successful hobbyist (sometimes gets the girl he wants, strikes out as often as he hits, expends a lot of cell minutes trying to hook up)...

from the hobbyist who quietly and confidently enjoys the sensual delights of his absolute favorites?

After three years in this delicate dance, I've seen the good, the bad and absolutely unforgivable. In the process, I've learned a few things myself. So for the fellows who'd like to improve their average, I'm offering the following observations. May they help you score the big Kahuna, whoever she may be.

1. Highly Effective Hobbyists PLAN AHEAD. This is especially crucial when a lady's on tour. After I've advertised on my blog for 3-4 weeks, Eros for a week and announced on TER several times in advance of my arrival, I still get initial calls on the very last night of a tour. To my great amusement, these spontaneous souls are shocked that my time is already booked.

Would you wait for the night of the Prince concert to call TicketMaster? OK, then.

2. Highly Effective Hobbyists OFFER THEIR CREDENTIALS. If I don't know you, a one-line email stating, "Hi, I'm Joe, Are you available tonight?" is going straight into the trash. The reservation form on my website has been crafted to get just what I need from you-- no more, no less. And since many of us ladies also offer easy screening shortcuts through Date-Check, RS2K or Preferred 411, there's really no excuse for the old "I didn't realize you needed to know who I am" ploy.

Would you let a nameless, potentially nefarious stranger into your bedroom? OK, maybe if her tits were big enough. But we girls have tits of our own.

3. Highly Effective Hobbyists DO THEIR RESEARCH. Nothing charms a lady more than the fellow who asks her to reiterate every piece of information that's already on her website, her ad, her TER profile, or her blog.

Even the MILFs among us don't have the time or the inclination to spoon-feed you. After all, aren't you the boys who sent a man to the moon?

4. Highly Effective Hobbyists LEAVE THEIR EGO AT THE DOOR. We know you're a big man at work. Leagues of lowly-paid minions cower at your presence. But lording it over the lady you've selected for some very intimate companionship is simply bad form. Of the dozen or so clients whom I truly detested and will never see again, the main common denominator was arrogance.

Yes, we're here to please. But you know the saying.... if Momma ain't happy, then nobody's getting the goods.

5. Highly Effective Hobbyists LEAVE US WANTING MORE. You wouldn't linger at the party till the exhausted hosts stagger off to bed. So when you're enjoying the lady's company, be equally aware that when the party's over, it's over.

We want to feel regretful that you had to leave after only an hour... not remember that we had to drag your ass to the door after you camped out for an extra 30 minutes, sloooowly tying your shoes. That's what loafers are for.

6. Highly Effective Hobbyists LIKE WOMEN. As odd as it may sound, some of our clients resent us, look down on us, and simply don't have our best interests at heart. These are the fellows who quiz us on our private lives, ask our real names, disclose confidential details to other parties, or gossip about us to their other dates.

It wasn't attractive in high school, and you can't fit into those pants anymore, either.

7. Highly Effective Hobbyists KNOW IT'S JUST A HOBBY. Yes, we adore being your girlfriend for an hour or two... and when you're genuinely nice, we often have very fond feelings for your presence in our lives. So let's agree... we won't fall in love with you, call you at home, get our feelings hurt when you see another lady, or boil your rabbit.

Do the same by us, and we'll be good.

Why Johnny can't read, or, what the teacher's doing after school

This trip to Chitown has raised even my kink factor a little... and I have to love it when what appears to be a mild-mannered GFE boy devolves into a hot little freaky boy....

Yesterday, Miss Tabu was a loving schoolteacher, who had to hold her favorite student after class for a serious talk. While I was cleaning the blackboard, my sweet student carefully donned his fishnets and skirt, stuffed his bra and once into a long blond wig, emerged as "Amy."

Poor girl... she trembled as I sat close and reminded her that she was only 14... too young to be caught behind the bleachers, experimenting with boys. It was clearly my job to show her what boys can really do. After an intimate first-hand demonstration, she shudderingly agreed that Teacher knew best.

Detention was never like this.

George Clooney or George Costanza... who's behind Door #307?

Recently someone asked me if I'd ever had a client so handsome that he made me shake like a little girl.

"Well," I started to retort automatically, "I'm not easily shaken. Stirred, maybe." Then I remembered Tony.

A businessman from Canada, he engaged me for dinner and dessert while he was visiting Miami. But when his hotel door opened in response to my knock, I thought, Shit. I must have gotten the wrong room!

While I was mentally backpedaling, he spoke.

"You must be Tabu," he greeted me, his hand extended. I'm afraid I shook it rather mechanically as I tried to re-gain my composure.

Now, here's the part you have to understand. Nine times out of ten, I meet someone much closer to George Costanza than George Clooney. I almost expect a little paunch, maybe a bald spot... it makes me feel at home.

But the gentleman inviting me so graciously into his room wasn't George or George. He was Brad Pitt at the Oscars. Tall. Tan. Aquamarine eyes. Strong shoulders, a sculpted waist, and a tight ass-- all packed into extremely well-fitting slacks and a dark gray cashmere sweater.

I won't lie. All night I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was just too good to be true. Eventually he had to show his true colors-- he'd be impotent, selfish, grabby, something.

But no. He bought me a delicious meal, entertained me with witty conversation, enquired my opinion, engaged my interest... and when we returned to the room, he wooed me as ardently as a long-lost lover.

The moral of this story? Actually, I see two. The first I hear in my mother's voice: Sweetie, handsome is as handsome does. And the second, I hear in my own: Sometimes there is no other shoe!

Notches in the Bedpost

Sometimes seeing an escort is all about the obvious. Man gets horny, man finds website, man seals deal.

Other times, it's not so simple.

When a polite young fellow sought out my company a few months ago, I hesitated at first. "Rick" was only 27, under my age limit by several years. But he patiently provided everything I needed to feel comfortable, including the names of three escort references. They all assured me he was a charmer.

The night of our appointment, Rick appeared to be everything the girls had said: masculine, attractive, soft-spoken and confident. Still, I wanted to take his measure. Slipping my hands under his shirt, I grazed a fingernail across his nipple. He caught his breath... and the sudden engorgement against my leg told me that I'd struck a nerve.

Soon we had sampled every tasty delight that room service doesn't deliver... and the time seemed right to reach for a cover.

"Um, wait a second, Tabu..." he murmured as he stopped my hand. "I need to tell you something."

I paused and looked up his face: his expression was a mixture of pride, chagrin, and hesitation.

"I'm a virgin," he said.

I pulled back and gazed at him in confusion. But before I could question him, he elaborated.

"I know it sounds strange, but I'm saving that one thing for the girl I finally end up with. It's old-fashioned, I guess... but it's just how I feel about it. I hope you aren't upset."

Wow, I thought. And then I'm sure a moment went by before I framed my answer-- because I wanted to give him the respect of an absolutely honest reply.

"No," I assured him. "I'm certainly not upset. I think it's great that you're sticking with your principles. The girl that does win your heart is going to be getting a man with some real character."

The rest of our time was spent in a lovely cuddle and intimate chat, and soon it was time for him to leave.

"I really enjoyed meeting you," he said as we hugged at the doorway. "Thank you... for everything."

"It was my pleasure," I said sincerely. And as I watched him make his way down the hall, I thought-- there goes one in a million. A man who knows what he wants, what he stands for, and how to draw the line when the line needs to be drawn.

From the mouth of babes.

Paris Hilton, Tiger Woods and Tabu?

While I can appreciate the perks of being rich, I've never understood the quest for celebrity. Sure, it may get you past a velvet rope or two, but what about when you're on the way to 7-11? Do you really want paparazzi dogging your Slurpee-craving butt?

Last week in Tampa, my friend Allie was very amused when I got "outed" on the street. Some poor slob in a pickup- probably an honest hobbyist or lurker- comes rolling up as we're walking back to our hotel, coffee in one hand, Walgreen's bag in the other, in jeans, sunglasses and in decidedly non-provider mode.

"Hey," he yells from the driver's seat. "Are you Tabu?"

I quickly glance at Allie in a bit of a panic. "Excuse me?"

"ARE YOU TABU?!?" he bellows.

"I don't know what you mean," I manage to stutter out, blessing the red light that's keeping him from following us as we turn the corner.

We get all of ten feet away before Allie bursts out laughing.

"Shut up," I mutter. "Jesus! Just tell everybody in Tampa, why don't you, asshole!"

She can no longer contain herself. "Hah, hah, you're famous! I'm so impressed! I'm with a celebrity!"

"Oh, yeah, that's great," glancing back over my shoulder. "What if you'd been my sister, or a civvie friend who doesn't know I'm Tabu? That would be pretty hard to explain, wouldn't it?"

For a nano-second she considers that scenario."Well, yes, that could be pretty awkward," she concedes. Her face sobers, then lightens again.

"But I'm not! And you're so famous he knew you from a single glance! Oh my God!"

Well, dear readers, I do not consider myself famous... at least outside of a small circle of interested parties in Miami, Chicago, DC and now, perhaps, Tampa.

But if in your wanderings, you do spot a certain busty redhead that you're sure you've seen before, do me a favor, please. Wait till I'm gone before alerting the media.

I'll do the same for you.

Make mine vanilla!

"Oh, she won't go there, she's vanilla."

"Don't bother with them, they're vanilla."

In several of my social circles, it's a useful but rather derogatory phrase. Not into swinging? Poof- vanilla! Prefer actual sex to being tied up and flogged? Oops- vanilla again.

How otherwise cheerful non-participants came to be known by an ostensibly bland flavor is a question for some other scholar. But I do know that when it comes to pleasure, fun and trying anything once-- well, sometimes I'm vanilla, too.

As my most casual readers know, "naughty" is my middle name. But even your resident sexpot doesn't jump into everything with both boobs.

After all, the thrill of sexual titillation arises from as many impulses as there are human beings. And the impetus that drives us to find one thing exquisitely enticing--- while another leaves us drier than Aunt Fanny-- well, it's the most personal judgment call there is.

So whether it's chocolate or vanilla-- or the hundreds of delicious variations in between-- I believe the very best flavor is the one that makes you stop, taste, and savor the moment. Because in the days and nights and days that make up our lives-- there's rarely anything sweeter.

Don't call me Madam! (or, Paranoia Abounds!)

Yesterday I saw one of my regular, mild-mannered fetish clients. All was great until after our session, when he rather nervously asked me if Iwould "remove all traces" of him from my email, cellphone, paper calendar and Rosetta Stone, and never contact him again.

I was a bit stunned and when I asked where this sudden directive came from, he cited the "DC Madam," who was arrested recently for running a high-profile,15-girl prostitution ring for a total of 13 years. The madam in question briefly floated the idea of selling her "43 lbs" of detailed client records (!) to the highest bidder. A federal judge quickly derailed the idea.

My nervous client, neither well-known nor likely to be, envisioned himself the unhappy recipient of media glare if I was ever taken away in cuffs.

Let me tell you what I told him (after assuring him that his very existence would be forever eradicated from my consciousness.)

Women who run large-scale prostitution rings with celebrities and elected officials as clients naturally attract attention from law enforcement and the IRS. Millions of dollars of undeclared income... famous names... and a revolving door of indiscreet "employees" create a target worthy of pursuit and prosecution.

On the other hand.... low-key, tax-paying, individual providers operating out of a single discreet location- no fanfare, no employees, no racketeering-- simply aren't worth the government's attention, time or money.

The DC Madam is facing a host of serious charges which range from pandering to tax evasion, money laundering and more. She's in deep shit.

I, however, am no Madam. And if, to my misfortune, a local vice cop slips through my screening someday and takes me downtown, I'll pay my misdemeanor fine and go home. It won't be fun, but it certainly won't be front page news.

With rising gas prices, hurricane season and new episodes of America's Next Top Model on the horizon, we all have much weightier issues to worry about. So let's get on with the show.

“Cleanup on aisle five!”

Good sex is messy.

Whenever I focus all my attention on a luscious, meaty, quivering cock, I fully intend to drain every single ounce of goodness out of it.

Now whether that ends up creating a creamy glaze over my breasts, or dotting and pooling in delicious eddies on a manly abdomen, or cascading in pulse after pulse down my very greedy throat.... I can hardly choose a favorite.

But I think I look lovely in pearls.

Becoming Tabu - or, How a little girl from Texas found her inner harlot

When I was still in Sunday School, ladies' romance magazines were a forbidden but tantalizing lure into the adult world. Every article promised a mysterious pleasure that was just out of my reach.

"I knew I should resist his advances, but when he touched me..."
"One woman's secret rendezvous with lust..."

I'd grow warm between my legs as I read the barely-veiled accounts of illicit encounters. As I slipped into the world of trembling hands, hard kisses and racing pulses, my own incipient urges demanded their due. Exploring my own sweet girlhood, the pages of Modern Romance formed the backdrop: shuddering, velvet-leaved and imbued with eroticism.

One night my eyes lit on a portrait of a man overwhelmed by passion, literally sweeping an unresisting beauty into his arms. "Tabu," it touted, "the forbidden perfume."

Ah, I thought, what kind of power must that woman be hiding, to create a desire so rebellious, so ardent. My quickened heartbeat memorized the syllables of her allure.... Tabu. Tabu. Tabu.

When it came time to unleash the confident and sexual woman I eventually became, there seemed no other possible choice. My tigress would not be a girl next door or a long-suffering slattern. She would be the darkly welcome addiction-- one who would drive men to make secret visits in the shadows, to work long hours in the service of her demands, and one who would answer their passion with a desire as hungry as their own.

Every day she lives in me as real as my heartbeat. Because becoming Tabu is a transformation that leaves unchanged the essence of my true self... the little girl, enthralled. The woman, unbound.

I’m the Other Woman: A Guide for the Principled Provider

Gentle Reader, here is today’s question for your consideration.

A well-regarded provider reports that she’s been victimized by a fellow provider: her belongings are stolen, her equanimity’s disturbed and her reputation is temporarily tarnished by association. It’s a sordid little mess that crops up as commonly as fungus.

Now, I’m not overly worried about the upstanding lady; she’s dealt with such ugliness before. What I do wonder about is the victimizer-- the Other Woman.

How different can she be from me? We both work in a shadowy and marginal world where we’re sharply judged on our weight, our looks, our conversational skills and our performance. Our daily living depends on the sexual whims of strangers. On a good week, we’re idolized as the consummate girlfriend. On a bad one, we’re haggled with and belittled. At all times, we live under the real threat of arrest or assault. On the surface, there’s every reason to let our emotions run away with us.

Yet, I, for one, cultivate a calm, drama-free life. I get along with anyone who treats me with courtesy and respect. I don't propagate rumors, refuse to give references or steal other girls' images, ideas or thunder. For the past year, I’ve allowed a friend to use my incall without fear of her outing me or allowing riff-raff into my space. I practice playing fair.

So what I don’t understand is how so many of us can routinely lie, denigrate, cheat, backstab and connive against each other. Even when justified, such behavior not only reinforces the world’s idea of us as desperate or tainted– it batters our daily happiness with mistrust and manipulation. It’s no wonder even the steadiest of us can get shaky on our foundations.

Hence, my question. Is this the nature of our business, or the nature of women? Do we act badly out of malice, or because we have no agreed-upon moral compass? Maybe it’s time we did agree on a handful of positive principles that could help turn our collective faces into the light. I’ll start with four ideas and I would welcome anyone else’s thoughts.

Principled Providers agree that:

Because the world rewards us for our cunning and quick wits, we’ll use them
to thwart dangerous clients and keep each other safe.

If a steady client disappoints us by moving on to greener pastures, we’ll view it
not vengefully, but as part of a large karmic circle. The client our competitor
loses today may call us tomorrow.

We’ll replace shrewishness and petty jealousy with motivated admiration.
There will always be someone who markets, dresses or looks better than we do.
We’ll look at how they’re doing things– and learn.

And we’ll recognize that we all deal with our daily degree of difficulty.
So even if I can’t help you make your rent, I can refrain from broadcasting
your situation over the Internet.

Gentle reader, I’m far from an expert on the profession of providing. But I do consider it an intimate and honorable vocation. Because for every instance of simple sexual pleasure I give my clients, I also know that for many of them, my friendship and non-judgmental presence in their life transcends the value of money.

In the end, we’re all doing good. So isn’t it time we do good for each other, as well? Whether the champagne’s bubbling or it’s the end of a weary day, each of us is the Other Woman.

On Martin Luther King Day, I have a dream. Let’s do her proud.