Winning hearts and minds

is the start of winning happy repeat visits, I'm finding.

Lately I've had an unusual number of new friends who clearly crave validation for their desires... and for themselves.

Perhaps it's the turbulent times that's manhandling my new friends... and when they come to see me, I understand that words, a smile and a touch can fulfill one very basic need.

My time comes with many small pleasures... and one larger one. Acceptance.

Let's treat each other as if we count. Because we do.

238, 239, 240...I'm the queen of the world!!

Last week, a curious Fl hobbyist did a little number crunching on The Erotic Review (see my blog http://discovertabu.blogspot.com/2007/10/playing-numbers.html here if you don't already know about TER) and the results made me squeal like a little girl.

Like a little girl? you ask. Why yes, and it's very odd, considering I was one of the (ahem) most mature ladies in the rankings.

ANYWAY, this fellow had the site rank all the TER ladies who have at least five reviews. That gave him a total of 5,935 ladies nationwide.

He then had TER rank these ladies in order of their performance ratings.

Out of almost 6,000 providers in the US, your little MILF was ranked #240 with a performance average of 8.98 (out of a possible 10.)

So I guess all that practice in the swing club and Tabu's lair has finally paid off!

Just today, I had a lovely appointment with a charming gent who entered the hobby almost exactly a year ago. In the meantime, he's embraced the TER ethos, learning to analyze reviews, pick the top ladies and get his mojo working in the best possible way. He found me through that sweet maze of rankings... and I couldn't be happier that he did.

So here's to clawing (I mean meowing) my way to the top 5%. It's great to be recognized... and even better to know I still have room to improve.

If you're on my"to-do" list, you may be in for a wild ride. Because your little missy will be working on gaining the top 4% now.... and there's ony one way to make it happen. You'll be the judge!

Good cop/bad cop... mmmmm. What a choice.

As much as I love the donuts, I have to admit that there's one part of my job I love even more....

and that's cuffing those miscreant boys that think they can bribe me into slipping out of my uniform.

Why, just last week, a would-be gangsta shouldered his way into this innocent officer's hotel room in Detroit. And before I could give him any well-intentioned warnings, he slapped down a envelope and looked at me defiantly.

"Well?" he demanded. "What do you have on under that robe for me?"

"Excuse me, sir," I began, "You may want to wait just a minute before you start asking me questions. There's something about me that you really need to know."

"I don't think so, Miss Hottie," he replied, reaching for the tie of my silky robe. "I want to see what I'm buying."

"Well, all right," I conceded, stepping away from his hands. "If you really want to see what you're getting, I hope you like silver and black."

I dropped the silky panels to the floor.... and watched his face go pale as I was revealed in full police uniform.

"You're under arrest, Mr. Hottie," I sighed. "I tried to warn you."

"Uh, wait a minute," he stammered. "There's been a mistake. I didn't know you were a cop!"

I had to giggle at his weak protestation. "Of course you didn't, sweetie-- but now you know, and now you're going downtown."

His face crumpled and his shoulders sagged in defeat. "Isn't there any way we can work this out? I can't let this happen! I'll be ruined."

I felt a brief moment of pity. He did look sincere... and I had been on a lonely stakeout for almost a week. Maybe instead of going downtown, he could just go down. Yeah, that was an idea.

An hour later, still breathing hard, I realized there's a reason I'll never make Sergent. But then again, sometimes rank is over-rated. Just like making collars.

AWOL for a friend; back to Tabu.

This weekend I had to say a permanent goodbye.

My friend John, a smart, lovable and funny 50-year-old, slipped away into a quiet place after a devastating fight with cancer.

During that fight, his wife, my equally admirable girlfriend, showed me what courage really is. A feisty ex-New Yorker, she never backed down from the challenge of dealing with every aspect of their everyday life; when John quickly became too weak to function, she emerged as even more than she imagined she could be.

Not that I'm painting her as a saint. Plenty of days I got my daily call that started with exasperation; nothing was simple in their last journey together except their love for each other.

And now, that love continues and changes.

Hellos and goodbyes, mourning and rejoicing. There's no getting around that eternal balance.

I love both my friends, and now I'm going to get to show one of them just how much. When life feels diminished by absence, the presence of our friends and family helps fill the abyss.

And for me, re-embracing my inner Tabu is my way of celebrating the continuation of beauty, sensuality and life.

John wouldn't have had it any other way.

Two for Two! Swing Dates Sizzle!

I have one word for the past 2 Friday nights. Yumm-eeee.

Thanks to the two lovely gentlemen who couldn't wait to raise their "hands" for my new swing club rendez-vous, your little vixen got to show off her favorite club, its sizzling citizens and the naughty-and-nice atmosphere that gets everyone rocking.

In fact, I feel a bit like an evangelist lately-- "Come to me, brothers, and let me show you the way!"

Fortunately, my impulse toward religion stops there... unless you count my recent fantasy fulfillment for one wicked little girlfriend of mine. That evil girl wanted me to tell her all about the bad Catholic schoolgirl at confession. Oh, my-- she was sooo bad that the priest had to come right into her side of the confessional and show her the errors of her ways... sin by sin.

Oh, the depths I'll explore for the sake of some curvy-girl nookie.

But then again, maybe that talent for erotic imagination is what has made me so many delicious friends.

Where the mind can go, the cock and pussy can follow. Just ask the two boys who squired me through the halls of iniquity. They imagined what could happen when you get 300 hot swingers together -- mixed thoroughly with a healthy dose of Tabu-- and the reality of it all.... well, I think it surpassed their wildest wet dreams.

So here I go again today, powdering, silkening, and fine-tuning that sexy spot between my ears for another erotic adventure in Paradise.

Heaven's got nothing better.

Sit. Stay. Roll onto me. I learned everything I know about sex from my dog.

As I was stroking my best friend's ears Saturday night,(and yes, my dog was there, too) it struck me how similarly I'd trained both.

My dog waits impatiently as he watches me dabble in debauchery. "Get on with it," his eyes say, as I'm rolling in a tangled mess of sheets, arms and hard breathing. When the bed surface calms to a gentle rocking, he'll launch himself into the middle, hoping for a clear spot to land.

My two (or sometimes three-legged) friends- well, they've perfected the exaggerated eyeroll in lieu of puppy dog eyes. They look around, and when I'm discovered in flagrante delicto, they heave a histrionic sigh and announce, "Well, she's as good as gone for a while." Being human apparently means that they know better than to jump into a mess.

On the other hand, humping a pillow clearly transcends man-animal boundaries.

When I was a yearning little girl, my pillow could be smoothed into the broad shoulders of my heartthrob. And if a little pelvic thrust came into play at a pivotal fantasy moment, well, who would be the wiser? The Dog-King, possessed of a fleeting hormonal urge, frankly hops into position and wildly humps for 20 or 30 seconds... eventually becoming distracted by a passing siren or Shiz-tzu.

It appears we have more in common than not. And so when I observed a pack of well-heeled homo sapiens indulging in that most animalistic of pleasures in my living room Saturday night, I simply had to hand it to those naughty dawgs.

But it was one at time, buster-- one at a time.

Puritanism at Playboy: Pitying the Girls Next Door

What happens when you shack up with the oldest playboy in America?

Apparently, not much.

For a year now I've been indulging in a guilty boob-tube pleasure... setting my TIVO for The Girls Next Door, the reality-based account of Hugh Hefner and his three platinum "girlfriends" Holly, Bridget and Kendra. They're delightfully oblivious to the actual real world, as they order room service, shop for designer g-strings and buckle up in the Playboy jet for jaunts to Monte Carlo.

On the surface, it's simply ducky. But as I've dipped my toe in the Playboy pool over the past few months, a sad little trend has emerged as an undercurrent in the girls' daily lives.

Chastity.

The youngest, 22-year-old Kendra, clearly feels her hormones kicking in; she's the breast-flashing, skirt-flipping tease on almost any occasion where there are attractive men present. In a recent episode, she railed at the girls' 9PM curfew. Bridget, the most demure of the group, would fit in at the local PTA. Hef's main squeeze, the ambitious Holly, does share the king's bed... but in flannel PJs and with a bowl of popcorn.

A blind man couldn't miss the irony. Hooked up with the man who practically invented the sexual revolution and the closest these bunnies get to satisfaction is their Rabbit. (See battery-operated boyfriend.)

What's a MILF to think? That LA's finest surgical enhancements, pricey sex-kitten duds and peroxide do not a sex life make.

So to the "girls" and Grandpa, I say, "It's your cage, welcome to it."

To my own decidedly less glamorous but genuine "let's go" sex-style, I say "Hallelujah!"

Because you know what they say. There's no business like "go" business!

Coupling Up: the Dynamics of Hubby, Wife and Me.

About once a month or so, I get a call to meet with a couple.

I'm ready to slip right into my stilettos: my website offers a special rate for them ($525/hr; exactly 1.5 times my ordinary rate for an individual) and I candidly state that I enjoy both men and women. (And anyone who reads my blogs about swinging knows that I'm more than bi-flexible.)

But when it comes to actually booking and seeing a couple... well, I could get laid in a convent more easily.

Something always goes a little wacko when they call. First of all, 99% of the time, it's the husband, and he's either 1) conspiratorially planning a "seductive surprise" for his uninterested and unsuspecting Vanilla Wife, or 2) he's oozing pretension and assuring me that I should overlook my screening requirements so I can meet his Trophy Wife, who's 33, a 40DD nymphomaniac and a former Playboy bunny.

Sigh. In the first instance, why is it my job to clue Mr. Horny Toad in that his conservative lady will not only NOT appreciate his thoughtfulness in procuring a hooker for them-- she may very well take a really big walk. With half his wallet and all of the house.

To Mr. Trophy Wife, I want to say,"This is freakin' South Florida, dude! You can't swing a cat without hitting a bleached blond beach bunny with 40 double D's. And if your wife is so hot, (whose existence I doubt) why not introduce her to the local talent here at a swing club? I'm sure you'd have them lined up."

Everyone needs a hobby, I suppose, (mine's stamp collecting), but I just wish these guys would take up golf.

Then I could spend more of my time licking. Meow.

The Ultimate Hybrid

I fell into a gender cliche the other day-- headfirst, I might add. Upon seeing an extremely well-built fellow, big and broad-shouldered, I remarked, "Wow, now that's a man."

It's a natural reaction... but how true?

That same week, I was proudly lifting a 50 lb box when a woman irritated me by warning me against it. "You'll hurt yourself with that, get a man to do it," she admonished.

Maybe it's simply context. I don't like my strength being minimized by virtue of my gender. Likewise, the object of my admiration, Mr Muscles, may not like being stereotyped as a big lug.

The fact is, we all start out female. Whether we grow a Mr. Happy or not is purely an afterthought of our chromosomes. So there must be something about women that makes good raw material for everyone. However, that universal truth failed to console me years ago.

When I was little, I wished desperately to be a boy. Even now, I think being a man must be delightful-- having that sexy meat to swing around. But I've gown fond of the eternal and internal mysteries of pink, as well.

In the end, I've come to believe that we're all a big happy mess of everything. That's the only way I can account for my men friends who cry at the movies, my bodybuilder buds with clits, and everyone in between.

Long ago, Nature must have realized something we're still discovering. So when I look at myself in the mirror-- strong and feminine-- I smile. My little engine, like yours, purrs along as one of evolution's first hybrids.

As long as it runs, I can't complain.

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.

36-24-36, Hut! I was a happy little fan till....

This morning, the highly resistible (as opposed to irresistible) Bill Parcells showed up on the local news amid speculation that he'll be joining the Dolphins front office.

Well, thank God. Not that he's joining the local down-on-their-luck boys, but that he's NOT going to be Coach. Being their Coach would mean a whole new era of forced participation in the Parcellsization of the media.

I've already lived through the "Tuna's" ignominious reign in New England. Then he ham-handed my original hometown team, the Cowboys. And now-- it seems I can't get away from him.

From the moment he shows up, even veteran sportscasters lose their normal equanimity. His bluster defeats rational thought. And when a things don't go the Tuna's way, well, watch out.

Is he an indisputably excellent coach? Yes. Is he an indisputably obnoxious man? Yes again. Can he help the hapless Dolphins regain their balance? I hope so.

Is he a welcome addition to Tabu's world (which does include enjoying men in tight white pants?)

I think you've already figured that one out.

And the Oscar goes to...

OK, my last blog asked the question-- "Why don't fellows repeat when you have a great session?"

Tokai presented an interesting answer and one, I confess, I hadn't thought of... even though I suppose it's very obvious to the hobbyist. A really good provider makes the gent feel as though it's been great for her... even if it's actually been less than stellar. That's her job. So, he asks, how can a gent tell the difference between genuine arousal and pleasure and a Meryl Streep-worthy performance?

It's a conundrum. But if you want to look at it from another point of view, forget the provider. The flip side is how we've made the gentleman feel. Though I'm no Ph.d in sex, I've been around this phenomenon a few times myself... and I think I can tell when a raging hard-on, star-struck gaze and breathless thanks are the result of genuine chemistry. There are sessions and there are extraordinary encounters.

I believe the extraordinary encounters - the 10/10s - deserve the chance to be repeated.

So here's my challenge, if you care to take it. If you've had a mind-blowing experience with me-- or any lady-- take a chance and see her again. Should either of you expect the same to-Nirvana-and-back experience? Why put pressure on yourselves? The chemistry that kicked your endorphins into high gear will very likely still be there--- and so will the chance to create another delicious memory.

I love my job. And when my most memorable encounters turn into the opportunity to create an even deeper level of pleasure and connection... well, that's simply the best.

And as Christmas approaches, I think this hard-lusting vixen and her friends deserve the best. Don't you?

Love 'em and leave 'em?

Yesterday, a hobbyist brought up an interesting question. When you have a fabulous experience with a provider-- one that transcends normal pay-to-play titillation-- do you repeat with the lady or flee, in fear that you'll develop too much emotional attachment?

I've had several clients with whom I've had totally rocking, over-the-top, mind-blowing experiences. As I said goodbye to them, still panting, I could hardly wait until they returned.

It's a frustrating mystery to me why some never came back.

I'm not the type who usually has guys "fall in love" with me-- I'm sexy and giving, but it's clear that I'm not available for anything more. So I don't think an untoward emotional attachment explains it.

When you're paying, presumably, for a mind-blowing time, why wouldn't you want to repeat? Some of my 10/10 reviews came from just such sessions--- but even those hobbyists haven't always become regulars.

My escort girlfriends and I have talked about this phenomenon many times-- so I know I'm not alone.

Boys-- if we REALLY rock your world, reward us with repeat visits! You wouldn't want us to cry ourselves to sleep!

Hobbyists: Which is the Deeper Satisfaction?

Lately I can't get a little conundrum off my mind. Here it is.

When you and your lady-of-the-moment lay back on the pillows and take a deep breath of release after incredible sex, it's clearly an exhilarating moment for both of you. She gave you pleasure... you returned the favor.

But after you've returned to your regularly scheduled programming, which stands out as the more lasting mental satisfaction?

Is it the memory of your own physical rush and release, the intense sensation that she provided you? Or is it witnessing her hardened nipples and quickened breath...and knowing that through your own expertise, you rocked her world?

Lately I've come across some clients who clearly cared at least as much about my gratification as their own... and who later remarked on their happiness that they could please me. Others thank me profusely for what they receive, and seem content with that alone.

So, hobbyists and readers, to which camp do you belong? Or do you?

There are no points or penalties for either answer... so please comment!

A Charmed Life: when Pavarotti kissed me

Even the greats must make their exit, and in Italy early yesterday morning. Luciano Pavarotti stepped behind the curtain and will be seen no more.

In his later years, Pavarotti allowed his enchantment with celebrity to overwhelm his very real and exquisite talents. But even when he had to be carried on and off the stage, suffering from self-inflicted gout, "the voice kissed by God" almost never disappointed.

Like many Italian men, Pavarotti was a notorious flirt. During his first American tour, he sang La Boheme at the Dallas Civic Opera. I was a local insider from the classical music radio station, and was thrilled to meet the brilliant young tenor. At the reception, the hostess led me by the hand through the gaggle of socialites and hangers-on encircling the beaming artist, who was busy devouring a canape.

"I'd like you to meet one of our very accomplished young ladies who supports the arts," she rather grandly introduced me.

He took one look and thrust his wineglass at a waiter. Before he spoke he held out both hands to take my own.

"This beautiful young lady is a lover of opera? Ah, and to think that I was chosen to sing in her presence!"

Before I could think quite how to reply to this unexpected pronouncement, the burly but appreciative tenor pulled me gently toward him, released my hands to cup my face and kissed me with frank enjoyment.

The bejeweled onlookers gasped, and then giggled nervously. These randy artists, I could see them thinking. You never know what liberties they will take!

In the years that followed, I often thought fondly of that kiss as a moment of ebullient spontaneity in the life of an artist who would later be lionized by the literati and illiterati alike.

In our smaller lives, our occasional brushes with greatness can take on mythic proportions. This was merely a kiss. But I've never forgotten it, or him. And neither will the world.

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.

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.

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.