As a favorite feminist adage goes: Remember that Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, only backwards and in high heels. But what if Fred wore heels too? Does it make their dance less sexist? Or more sexy, for that matter?

My particular dance always begins with a phone call. And high heels. Him calling me, never me calling him. Even if the phone is nearby, I always answer the phone on the third ring, letting his nervous sexual tension slowly build like a gurgling lava-filled volcano.

“Hello...” I whisper, raising the pitch and tone of my voice, making it breathy just like Marilyn once sang “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”.

“May I speak to Chloe please?” he asks, taking the first step in the dance.

“This is Chloe speaking,” I reply, careful to sound inquisitive, as if I have no idea who he is or why he’s calling, but thrilled to be talking to him nonetheless.

“Hi Chloe. My name is _______. I saw your ad online and I was calling to make an appointment.”

“Great!“ I reply, “Let me tell you a little more about myself just so we’re on the same page: first of all, my booking fee for one “full-service” hour is $300, with every hour thereafter at $200. I am a TV, not a TS, so I’ve never had any surgeries and I don’t take hormones, so my equipment is fully-functional from the beginning to a big finish. I am hung 8” and I am strictly a top. Have you ever been with someone TV or TS before?”

I sail through my memorized speech without interruption and then wait for his response... If he says “No”, I assure him that I am patient and great with first-timers. If he says “Yes”, then I ask him if we’ve met before. Usually I know the answers to all of these questions, but I ask them anyway. It gives me time to assess whether or not he’s serious or just sitting in front of his computer with a hand down his pants and no intention of meeting but every intention of having an orgasm with my Marilyn voice deeply drilling his ear. I also ask him “Where are you calling from?” to see if he’ll tell me the truth. When I first started in this business, 12 years ago, this was a lot easier to discern, but the advent of cellular technology and the subsequent proliferation of personal smartphones has made it much easier for people to lie about their location, and thus their intentions. My own 415 area code pops up much less frequently than others. Many men travel extensively for their jobs and can say they’re in San Francisco, when in fact they’re in Dubuque or Dubai. If they’re calling from a 563 area code and they tell me they’re in town for the night, I smile smugly to myself and simply say, “Perfect! Please call me back on a local number in that case. The one in your hotel room should work just fine!” Click. I hang up and wait. If my phone rings again, then they’re ready to rumba! If it doesn’t, then they can “dance with themselves” as Billy Idol used to sneer.

I know this routine oh-so-well. Through the years, I’ve learned to create hoops for these gentlemen callers to jump through to test their seriousness. I work on a three-call system: after his initial call, if he books an appointment, he will then be asked to call the day of the appointment, no later than noon, to confirm. A third and final time one hour before the appointment is required just to make sure that he’s on schedule. I always tell my clients to call once they’re parked as well. When he calls the last time, he will be given my address and my door code. Only when he calls from the phone at my front door does he receive the last bit of information in this circuitous tango - my apartment number.

As he walks up my stairs or takes the elevator to the third floor, I can feel the nervous sexual tension build again. This time, it’s my own. I’ve discovered in delightful afternoon studies at my lab, also known as my bedroom, that fear and sexual arousal are very close to one another on the emotional response spectrum. The hottest, best sex is always somewhat forbidden, which is what makes it (and keeps it) electric. It is mixed with a dose of fear: fear of getting caught cheating by one’s mate, fear of getting busted by the police, fear of disease, fear of violence, fear of rejection, performance anxiety, fear of loving that which we are taught to despise.

Knock, knock, knock.

Each knock gets lighter, which tells me that he’s as afraid and as excited as I am. The lights are low, the bed is made, yet reinforced with another sheet on top of all the bedding, and my lingerie, stockings and garterbelt have all taken their places for the show to begin. My Louboutins are dangerously high and strike the wooden floors like hits of a hammer while Sade demands to know in her perfectly off-key alto “Is it a crime?”...


--Chloe