I was only fourteen when I was casually browsing the web. Somehow, I ended up on the weird side of the Internet, and I stumbled upon an article about an escort that was living the dream in lower Manhattan. Less than fifteen minutes later, I was captivated by the glamour, the luxury, the allure of it all.
At that very moment, I was on my new computer, in a stereotypical Asian household, with parents that wanted me to become a doctor—preferably, a neurosurgeon. My teachers expected nothing less than the very best, and they held me to high standards based on their fairly accurate perception of my ability. My family was and still is upper middle class, rich enough to afford figure skating lessons, private ice time, and world class coaches; but the one thing they ingrained in me was that we weren’t rich enough for me to do nothing.
So I went out and did something. Rich, older men, for the most part.
I’m intelligent, scoring at least three standard deviations above the mean on a Stanford-Binet IQ test.
I’m attractive, with perky 32C’s sitting on top of a 25-inch waist and 36-inch hips—thanks to lackluster hours at the gym and an above-average set of chromosomes. I’m ambitious and my strong sense of self leads many to believe I’m more intelligent and more attractive than I actually am, and I know how to play right into their overeager imaginations. Unfortunately, if I reach too far, the branch might break, and I just might tumble all the way down, back to where I started.
I’ve always believed that I was special—better—than everyone else, and it’s led me to take shortcuts in life that are unconventional at best and immoral at worst. It started when I cheated in elementary and middle school. I never got caught, but people definitely had their suspicions. Luckily I realized I was too smart to cheat, as studying wouldn’t take much longer. My brain soaks up everything I read like a sponge, so the risks and the consequences of getting caught just didn’t appear to be worth my while. That was when I started taking “calculated risks”…but unlike a calculator, my brain is a bit harder to calibrate.
Fast forward a few years, and this time, I wasn’t seeking grades, but rather, dollars. I learned this quote by Ayn Rand from a very young age, “Money is only a tool. It will take you wherever you wish, but it will not replace you as the driver.” I had places to go and people to see, and by God, I would not be held back by a lack of money.
My parents were willing to spend a fortune on education, but a candy bar? Hell, no. My mom certainly was not wasting ninety-nine cents to satisfy my cravings for some chocolate-nougat-caramel goodness. The same logic applied when I wanted to buy makeup, clothes, and accessories. I felt deprived…so being the ambitious child that I was, I sought to create my own source of income.
When I was 15 going on 18, I realized I had no problem passing for much older, as long as I could cultivate an aura of maturity and a story to back it up. Although some people questioned my age, I always had a believable story about attending college in the fall just waiting in my back pocket. I “accidentally” left my ID at home, but if they’d like, I could go home and get it? That paired with a few gentle touches and the effect of widening my eyes to appear sincere always resulted in an offhanded laugh about how it wasn’t necessary…how could someone as genuinely sophisticated as me be just a child?
Not only was I missing an ID, I also didn’t have a car, but some breezy remark about my car being in the shop was enough to satisfy most. These men believed me not because my story fit, but because they wanted to.
I wasn’t sure how to get started, but I figured I should poke around on Craigslist, especially after all that I had heard. Being the strategic conspirator that I was, I figured out which tone worked, which information was necessary, and what these men wanted to hear. I took a few sexy pictures, developed the perfect story, and created a template for my responses. It all felt like a game. They wanted me and I wanted their wallet.
I probably exchanged emails with 50 different men before meeting a few and deciding upon one as my first customer. He was a lawyer, too busy for relationships, merely looking to fulfill his physical needs, and simply perfect for me. I didn’t get paid much, only $350, but considering the fact that he only took twenty minutes, it was fine by me. Back then at the age of 16, a few hundred was enough to last me six months.
I budgeted frugally and I promised myself I would only see another man when I needed to. Little did I know that I had just taken the very first step on a downward spiral. With a somewhat flawed rationale, I had quantified my self-worth and cashed it all in for money.
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