By Ursula Brooke

I lived in a residential hotel and received my personal calls on the house phone. It was before the days of the answering machine, so every night I’d unplug the phone. Otherwise, there’d be men calling and hang-ups all night long. Jimmy, my bisexual boyfriend who lived downstairs, used to call me midday on the house phone when I’d often be giving a blowjob or doing it doggie style. Without skipping a beat, I’d grab the handset, telling him breathlessly, “I’m busy, babes. Can I call you back later?” Then I’d get back to the action, no apologies to the guy for the brief interruption. 

My life back then was Boogie Nights, New York style—without the palm trees. During the 1970s and early 1980s, I was a high-priced call girl, porno film actress and roommate/lover of gay men (who were themselves also hookers or being kept). It was 1974, and Gotham’s worst financial crisis ever was in full-force the year I blew into town. Life was grittier, rents were cheaper (though they seemed expensive at the time), and the hardscrabble, graffiti-splattered urban landscape was exhilarating and made us feel like pioneers. You had to be brave and tough to live in New York back in those days—and everyone outside of the city wondered why we were there, including my family. 

I landed in New York from Boston to work in fashion and film, and, although I did work in those respectable fields, I also needed to pay the bills. When the dollars came rolling in, I supported my gay pimp and his friends, and I blew the rest on punked-out getups, glam makeup and nights out in clubs and expensive restaurants. I dyed my hair fuchsia and hung out at the Mudd Club with the B-52’s and partied at Studio 54 seated on the couch next to Andy Warhol, Truman Capote and Liza Minelli. I was dancing under the neon coke spoon on New Year’s Eve 1979 (and no, I wasn’t a druggie—I drank gin).

One of my first day jobs was working in the tumultuous office of Al Goldstein’s magazine, Screw. Al was on the phone with Hugh Hefner and Larry Flynt on a daily basis. Cable TV sex star Robin Byrd and legendary porn actor Ron Jeremy would periodically stop by to say hi. Making my way in this world as a suburban, middle-class, twentysomething girl was like being Moll Flanders in a picaresque novel, although my journey traversed the underbelly of Manhattan. As Lou Reed said, I took a walk on the wild side.

Once AIDS came onto the scene in the early ’80s, I quit the biz and got a regular job. I was sure I’d never go pro again and rationalized that I’d been victimized. But recently, low on cash and thinking it over, I realized it wasn’t all bad. And damn! I was good at it! Maybe it was time to drag the hot pants out of the closet. My blowjobs were prize-winning performances, and my manual technique was guaranteed to get cum spurting to the ceiling; a little convo with me at chez moi would keep the guys smiling for hours. They got a lot of bang for the buck—I was their therapist, mentally and physically. After I quit, former tricks would sometimes stalk me on the street, dying to get down with me again. I always said no, even though my straight job paid so poorly that I was forced to eat PB&J sandwiches for lunch and take the bus for the first time in my life. 

Now that New York City has become unaffordable for everyone but the Trumps of the world, I’ve been in my own financial crisis for the past year or two. I figured, hey, I’m still hot. I had a slammin’ body then, and I have a slammin’ body now. Could I still do the job? Look, I’m so old I actually saw Jim Morrison on stage with the Doors, and half the people my age are bald or strung out in nursing homes. But I’m happy to report that, 25 years later, I’ve still got what it takes, though I’ve only put it to the test a few times when my bank balance went down to zero. 

It’s not my fault I’m always broke. Being a desk drone earning chump change makes it impossible to afford the New York City lifestyle—even as a mature woman with plenty of life lessons behind me. Advertising online makes it easier, but it’s still risky. When I first read about “erotic services” and “casual encounters” online, I posted an ad one night at 2 a.m. just for a goof and awoke at seven in the morning to find over a hundred e-mails in my inbox. Yo, there are a million people out there in the naked city trying to get laid 24/7. Of course, lots of guys claim they’ll be sugar daddies to the young, gorgeous toothpicks. And I’ve met some of them. But most are feeding the girls a line—they’ll throw some dough your way, buy you some expensive rags and pretty panties, but then—on to the next harlot, Jeeves. 

Let’s face it, men like variety, and a lot of the girls answering these ads aren’t full-fledged hoes at all (like me); they just can’t afford to buy Manolo Blahniks and dine at Nobu. Of course, if you read a little Rona Jaffe, it’s always been that way in the big, bad city. But for me, it hasn’t been all that bad, and I’ve had a little fun and made a few bucks in the process.

Give me some sugar, Daddy

The one sugar daddy I acquired was a guy I met on a dating website when I split up with my boyfriend a few years ago. Mr. Sugar’s charming, brainy and gorgeous: tall, muscular body, black hair and soulful green eyes. Sex with him was passionate and wildly physical, but the problem was he began giving me last-minute booty calls and cancellations. Since he’s a multi-millionaire, I told him that I would refuse to see him anymore unless he paid. I was surprised when this hunk, 15 years my junior tucked 800 one-dollar bills in my bra. “That’s what I pay my lawyer by the hour,” he told me, pressing his erection against my leg. Kissing me passionately, he virtually carried me into his candle-lit bedroom where he threw me onto the bed covered in soft Frette linens, wrapped my legs around his neck and proceeded to fuck my brains out. It was always hot between us, but somehow the cash made both of us even more turned on than usual. And he’s still seeking my legal counsel. 

Hair is instrumental 

I met a young, Japanese trombonist from his online posting, where he asked for women with hair. Although I’m not actually hairy since I’m fair skinned, I wasn’t shaving at that time because my boyfriend enjoyed it. The tall dark musician showed up at my place late one night after a gig. Although his English was halting, we drank some Cabernet while he told me about his globetrotting. After we became comfy with each other, I decided to it was time to get down to business. I stripped to my frilly lingerie, he flung off his briefs and handed me a C-note. Without wasting much time, Mr. Horn buried his face in my furry armpit and began to sniff, stroke and lick the hair. He took his dick out, which was hard (although smaller than average). I stood there, watching him kiss my underarm as he jacked off furiously. While I wasn’t getting any action, the thought of the money made up for it, and there was something sexy about having a dark, exotic man get off on my pit.

Too much to bear

The big bear doing the Executive MBA program at Columbia stayed overnight for $500 bucks (OK, I gave him a break) and complained about his wife all night long. He had answered my posting, and after we IMed for a few days, he made an appointment to see me after his Friday night class. (His spouse thought he was staying in the city at a hotel.) I offered him a gin and tonic, but he only wanted water—I hate it when a man won’t drink. He was hairy, tall and built like a football player. After a bit of clumsy foreplay, Mr. Bear snapped on a condom, and it was all over in about three minutes. Lying next to me in the dark, he regaled me with stories about how cruel his wife could be: She’d stopped having sex with him and spent most of her time at the mall buying clothes and decorating their house in Greenwich. I felt like a social worker listening to the big guy’s problems. He was clearly obsessed with his better half even though he was cheating on her. I wasn’t the first woman with whom he’d spent his Friday nights, and he needed a female to try to make sense of it all. Who better to advise him than me? If you want a john to come back for more (and spend more money), let him think he’s boss. Moan and have an orgasm, even when he’s terrible in the sack—if he asks for help, you can teach him. Men love hookers because we’re cheerleaders in bed. We listen to their tales no matter how boring, we never have headaches or periods and there are no screaming kids to ruin the fantasy. For that hour (or however long), they have total attention. The next morning, after Mr. Bear had hogged the sheets and pushed me to the edge of the bed, he hugged me goodbye, looking relieved and refreshed.

Blow it all

The swarthy Latino worked nights in an uptown recording studio. Dying to meet me, saying he loved older women, he text messaged me at all hours, no matter how much I yelled at him. He was a drag because he showed up one night on blow and couldn’t get off at all. He was 30-ish and attractive, but he reeked of cigarette smoke. He immediately started mauling me roughly, feeling me up. Whenever a man’s desperately horny and in a rush, it’s a turn-off. “Sorry, the coke makes it hard to cum,” he told me. His cock never got truly hard, so no happy ending for this dude. He texted me for weeks after that, always after midnight, until I called him and told him to drop it. Thankfully he did.

All good things come to an end

My last was a guy who’d been e-mailing me for months, a CEO in a hedge fund who was very married with kids. But he lived nearby on the Upper East Side, so it was super convenient. One night he phoned unexpectedly: “I’m 10 minutes away. Can you see me?” 

Even though the place was a wreck, and I had no makeup on, I ran around getting ready, and the two of us had 20 minutes of steamy foreplay, finishing off with a creamy mouthful. It earned me $500, and I had a better orgasm than I’ve had with some of my boyfriends. 

“Be careful!” he said when he left. I wasn’t sure why, but I knew he was right: Money was nice, but there was no reason to take more risks. My gut instincts had always been on target,—years ago and now—and I’d been lucky. Fooling around with this guy was fast and fun and his quick approach (unlike the Latino) aroused me. I hoped he’d call me again since I decided not to post any more ads.

In my heyday, the money came fast and easy, and I bought whatever I wanted. We’re talking taxis, Dom Perignon, Yves St. Laurent suits, jaunts to Paris and other not-so-cheap thrills. The rest subsidized my gay roommate who didn’t work, though he aspired to be a photographer.  Nonetheless, I was perpetually in debt. I used to see politicians, actors, publishing execs, firemen, cops, artists, Hassidim, virgins, sexy rock musicians. Many came to see me every week, and we became friends. But when I quit, I changed the phone line, and that was that.

It’s been a head trip to sell my body again, but there’s no way I’d go back to it as a regular thing: It’s too dangerous, and it makes it difficult (if not impossible) to have a boyfriend. The obvious trade-off is the numbers. I’ve fucked literally hundreds, naw, it must be thousands, though it didn’t always involve penetration. Luckily there are plenty of kinksters out there and “sex” can be interpreted in a multitude of ways. After a certain point, it’s hard to keep track, and women don’t like to list the body count: It freaks men out, even when they say it turns them on. 

My ex-husband ripped up my old photographs. Another ex made me burn an old journal I had kept where I wrote about hot times with past customers and boyfriends. Men hate it when another man has already marked his territory.

I don’t like to lie, but I rarely tell anyone, even close friends or boyfriends. Only one man so far has been totally turned on by my sex worker past. He’s Mr. Open Relationship: I joke, “You’d screw a piece of steak … if there was a hole in it.” 

I may have fornicated more times than an entire football team, but I still feel my body is as precious as an ancient, Roman monument that lasted through mighty epochs. Only now, it’s being used to hold some Italian family’s dirty laundry. 

Perhaps having sex with three or four people every day for years, the constant stimulation of erectile tissues, the lubrication and erotic play, builds up to a perpetual afterglow. Maybe that’s why I still get tingly thinking about a beautiful penis, or why I still get off when a man tortures me by playing hard to get. She’s gotta have it—that’s me all the way.