Years ago, during a Las Vegas trip, I experienced one of those rare, memorable moments: being approached by a woman at a bar. While my buddy schmoozed at a business convention, I sat at the bar, minding my own business, reading a book on my phone like the party animal I am.
“Mind if I join you?” asked a woman who couldn’t have been older than 24 -- I was in my early 30s. She was a striking brunette with a warm smile, wearing a sleek dress and open-toed heels.
Looking around the bar, I noticed plenty of empty seats, which made her choice of company—me—a bit curious. Then it hit me: she was an escort. A call-girl. A lady-of-the-night. My inner journalist couldn’t help but lean in.
We ended up chatting for what felt like an hour. She was surprisingly open, sharing about her life as an escort. She had a daughter, was taking classes at a community college, and was doing what she could to provide for her family. She was candid about the risks of her job and how her family had no idea. Honestly, she was fascinating—just a regular person with an unconventional job.
Eventually, she asked if I was interested in her services. Out of curiosity (purely journalistic, of course), I asked about her rates. When she explained her "menu," I admitted I was married with and a kid, and therefore, a no-go. Still, she lingered a bit longer, indulging my nosy questions about her weirdest client requests, since I myself am kinky. One tidbit stood out: Steven Seagal had apparently been one of her clients. That threw me for a loop. Teenage-me, Blockbuster-renting-Seagal-movies-me, thought, No way.
As she got up to leave, I handed her a twenty—not for her services, but because I wanted her to have a little less pressure to find her next client. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, adjusted her dress, and disappeared into the casino, leaving me with one heck of a story.
When my buddy returned, I shared the whole thing. He didn’t believe a word of it. But hey, I know it happened, and that’s all that matters.
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